nice.”
“Nice night.”
“Yes. Very.”
“Nice parking job,” he said, eyeing Felix’s car.
She couldn’t help it. She laughed, breaking the awkward what-to-talk-about-next tension between them. “I only know your father by sight,” she said, watching as he opened the car door for her. “I didn’t know he was famous.”
“I didn’t either.” She looked startled, then confused, so he explained. “I mean, I didn’t know the extent of his fame until I moved into his house here. I’d seen some of his pictures and knew he was well known, just not how well known.”
“Oh.”
He could see she was still bewildered as he swung the door closed and circled the car to get in on the other side. He wasn’t used to having a father, much less talking about him, and the idea of discussing their relationship made him even more uncomfortable. Still, this woman was different; what he felt for her was different. Maybe he should treat her differently. Maybe he should make an effort to explain himself and his life to her. Open up a little. Be uncomfortable for a change, and not keep trying to avoid it.
He got into the car and fastened his seat belt, then turned toward her.
“I didn’t grow up around my father. I hardly know him.”
“Oh,” she said sadly. “I’m sorry.” She would have left it to his discretion to say more, if she were still too nice. However ... “Were your parents divorced, then?”
“Yes,” he said. Unable to simply sit and talk about it, he distracted himself by starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “He was gone before I was a year old. I didn’t see him after that till I was six, when my mother died.” He took a deep breath. “I can count on one hand the times I saw him after that.”
Then who had raised him? Where had he grown up? These questions kept her silent for a minute. She decided to take a giant leap forward and work her way back.
“Until now.”
He nodded. “Until now. Now I see him every day, and we still don’t speak to each other.” He smiled at the irony.
“What sort of photographer was he?” she asked, fully aware that a great deal more had happened between them since he was six. She could hear it in his voice, tight and tempered. She’d blundered into an open wound and, too nice or not, couldn’t bring herself to cause him any further pain. “Would I have seen any of his photographs?”
“Maybe. ... There’s only one Italian restaurant in town, on Glover; I checked. Is that where we’re going?”
“Yes.” He checked? Standard procedure for a mercenary-CIA-FBI-spy guy? What had she gotten herself into?
“If you’ve done much reading or research on the Vietnam War or the civil rights movement in the seventies, the riots and all,” he was saying, turning into a busy intersection, “then you’ve no doubt seen several of his photographs. He has a wall full of photojournalism awards from the sixties and seventies and a couple from the early eighties. Forty of them maybe. Gruesome photographs. But you can tell he was good.” He hesitated. “You can tell that he loved his work.”
She mulled this over. “Is that when he moved to Quincey? When all the unrest died down?” Another thought. “Why Quincey?”
“I don’t know for sure when he moved here,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “We’d lost all contact by then. The records on the shop only go back to 1990. He must have been doing something. ...” His voice trailed off. “But I do know why he moved to Quincey,” he said brightly, thinking it a real trick that he knew anything at all about him. “He inherited his house and the lease on the shop from a man named Levy Gunther. I found that out from his lawyer—who, by the way, didn’t even know I existed. He didn’t know the whole story either, but it seems this Levy Gunther was the father of some kid my father photographed and then later saved in a bombing or something. I guess this kid came home from Vietnam and
“Nice night.”
“Yes. Very.”
“Nice parking job,” he said, eyeing Felix’s car.
She couldn’t help it. She laughed, breaking the awkward what-to-talk-about-next tension between them. “I only know your father by sight,” she said, watching as he opened the car door for her. “I didn’t know he was famous.”
“I didn’t either.” She looked startled, then confused, so he explained. “I mean, I didn’t know the extent of his fame until I moved into his house here. I’d seen some of his pictures and knew he was well known, just not how well known.”
“Oh.”
He could see she was still bewildered as he swung the door closed and circled the car to get in on the other side. He wasn’t used to having a father, much less talking about him, and the idea of discussing their relationship made him even more uncomfortable. Still, this woman was different; what he felt for her was different. Maybe he should treat her differently. Maybe he should make an effort to explain himself and his life to her. Open up a little. Be uncomfortable for a change, and not keep trying to avoid it.
He got into the car and fastened his seat belt, then turned toward her.
“I didn’t grow up around my father. I hardly know him.”
“Oh,” she said sadly. “I’m sorry.” She would have left it to his discretion to say more, if she were still too nice. However ... “Were your parents divorced, then?”
“Yes,” he said. Unable to simply sit and talk about it, he distracted himself by starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “He was gone before I was a year old. I didn’t see him after that till I was six, when my mother died.” He took a deep breath. “I can count on one hand the times I saw him after that.”
Then who had raised him? Where had he grown up? These questions kept her silent for a minute. She decided to take a giant leap forward and work her way back.
“Until now.”
He nodded. “Until now. Now I see him every day, and we still don’t speak to each other.” He smiled at the irony.
“What sort of photographer was he?” she asked, fully aware that a great deal more had happened between them since he was six. She could hear it in his voice, tight and tempered. She’d blundered into an open wound and, too nice or not, couldn’t bring herself to cause him any further pain. “Would I have seen any of his photographs?”
“Maybe. ... There’s only one Italian restaurant in town, on Glover; I checked. Is that where we’re going?”
“Yes.” He checked? Standard procedure for a mercenary-CIA-FBI-spy guy? What had she gotten herself into?
“If you’ve done much reading or research on the Vietnam War or the civil rights movement in the seventies, the riots and all,” he was saying, turning into a busy intersection, “then you’ve no doubt seen several of his photographs. He has a wall full of photojournalism awards from the sixties and seventies and a couple from the early eighties. Forty of them maybe. Gruesome photographs. But you can tell he was good.” He hesitated. “You can tell that he loved his work.”
She mulled this over. “Is that when he moved to Quincey? When all the unrest died down?” Another thought. “Why Quincey?”
“I don’t know for sure when he moved here,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “We’d lost all contact by then. The records on the shop only go back to 1990. He must have been doing something. ...” His voice trailed off. “But I do know why he moved to Quincey,” he said brightly, thinking it a real trick that he knew anything at all about him. “He inherited his house and the lease on the shop from a man named Levy Gunther. I found that out from his lawyer—who, by the way, didn’t even know I existed. He didn’t know the whole story either, but it seems this Levy Gunther was the father of some kid my father photographed and then later saved in a bombing or something. I guess this kid came home from Vietnam and
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