“There was a man.”
My throat was dry and I was clutching my phone in my hand, prepared to call 911. Sofia Fetucci’s earlier warning kept playing in my head.
Roxie’s barking died down and she let out one final soft growl before sitting on her back haunches and looking at me as if to say, “I swear there was something out there.”
It took a fair amount of my courage to approach the door and push the curtain aside to peer through the glass panel. There was nothing out there.
Roxie nudged my hand with her wet nose.
“Good girl,” I praised her, scratching behind her ears. I watched for another few minutes but did not see or hear anything to be alarmed about. The dog’s senses were far more acute and in all likelihood she had sensed some passing night creature. A coyote, or maybe a flock of bats.
Roxie yawned and I checked the lock on the kitchen door before retreating. I offered the dog a biscuit from the box Nash kept in the pantry and she chewed happily. There was no noise from upstairs so apparently Roxie’s brief outburst had not awakened Colin or Emma.
All the doors and windows were checked one more time. Roxie returned to her bed and watched me with sleepy eyes. I patted her head once more before heading upstairs.
All was silent except for the soft noise of Colin’s crib mobile. The kids were both sound asleep. A sudden weariness overcame me and I raided my overnight bag, quickly changing and brushing my teeth. Nash’s room was tidy, his bed neatly made. He’d finally stopped living out of his suitcases and placed his clothes in the closet and chest of drawers. I slipped between the cool sheets, inhaling the spicy and familiar scent of Nash’s aftershave that clung to the sheets. It was like inhaling the scent of sex itself and my hand traveled between my legs as I thought of him, wishing he was here doing the things that I was doing to myself.
Sleep came quickly after that although my dreams were a puzzling collage of past events that left me feeling disturbed in the morning.
Two months. That’s how much time had elapsed since I last got behind the wheel intending to drive straight through several states to get to Hawk Valley.
Back then I’d only known that tragedy had found me for the second time in my life. I didn’t know that once I reached Hawk Valley it would be impossible to leave.
The ten foot van I rented was larger than what I ended up needing. There wasn’t too much I wanted to take with me. Most of the furniture was unnecessary since I didn’t feel like finding a place for it in my dad’s house.
Dad’s house.
When I was a kid, being told I was going to ‘Dad’s house’ would often be met with a groan and a complaint. I preferred my mother’s small Phoenix condo to the sprawling old Victorian house with a view of the mountains. My father was never abusive. Just perpetually exasperated. And openly relieved when it came time to return me to my mother. It must have been a shock for him to go from part time dad to round the clock caretaker of a troubled teen.
Sometimes even now just before I dozed off I would jerk awake and bolt upright, positive that someone was shaking my shoulder in the darkness. There was never anyone there because it was only a memory. On that night, the night my world shattered, my father had awakened me shortly after two a.m. and the most shocking thing was that he was crying.
“Nash. Wake up, son. Something’s happened.”
The moments after that have been blocked out of my mind. I remembered seeing broken things around the house and hearing that I was responsible because after I heard my mother had been killed by her husband I began screaming and running around the house shattering everything I could get my hands on until my dad managed to physically restrain me. By that time I had to go to the hospital to sew up the hand I’d sliced open on a smashed window pane.
Chris Ryan didn’t know what to do with me. Our time together had always amounted to less than two months a year. Now suddenly he was a full time father to an incredibly angry kid. In the beginning he tried. He dragged me to a therapist. He encouraged me to make friends, to go out for sports. I found that I liked sports, that slamming into big guys on a football field or running around on a basketball court helped channel my aggression into something that didn’t involve blood. But friends were an enigma to me. Plenty of people wanted my company and it seemed like the more uncooperative I was the more they sought me out. Especially girls. I couldn’t be proud of the way I’d treated girls back then. I was a jackass.
But that didn’t mean I was willing to accept criticism from a man who’d kicked my own mother to the curb and then entertained a revolving door of girlfriends ever since I could walk. Chris Ryan could howl over my bad behavior all he wanted. I didn’t give a shit.
When I was sixteen he came barreling into my room after taking a furious phone call from a city councilman. The man’s teenage daughter had been sobbing in her room for three days because I’d told her I was both bored with her and screwing her best friend.
“Damn it, kid,” my father roared, throwing the door open so hard it left a dent in the wall. “Who the fuck ever told you it was okay to treat females like disposable objects?”
“Like father, like son,” I replied coldly.
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t go through life acting like a selfish piece of shit.”
“Why not? It’s always worked for you.”
We glared at each other. My fist clenched. If he came at me I was prepared to hit him. I didn’t want to. But I would. However, my father wasn’t a violent man. He was arrogant, thick-headed, rude and stubborn but not violent. Another fundamental difference between us.
“Figure out your own fucking dinner,” he said wearily and retreated from my doorway. “I’m going out.”
By my senior year I had plans. They didn’t involve remaining in Hawk Valley and struggling to sell shitty souvenirs. I had good grades and I was a decent athlete. A small college in Oregon had given me a scholarship. As my high school career drew to a close I was biding my time, aware that my father was both disappointed and relieved that I’d be leaving Hawk Valley behind. I just needed to keep from getting expelled for fighting in the meantime.
Meanwhile, the front office of the high school gained a pretty new employee when Heather Molloy started sitting at the reception desk. The guys all talked shit about what they’d do to that blonde pussy if they got close but Heather wasn’t really on my radar. I was juggling enough options as it was and she was older, in her mid twenties. But it was nice how she would always smile when she saw me coming.
“Oh no, what did you do this time, Nash?”
“Nothing I’m sorry for.”
She laughed. “What are we going to do with you?”
Then came a morning in early spring when I witnessed the neurotic tie-wearing class president shove his girlfriend into a locker so hard she cried out. I couldn’t take it. I clocked the guy, broke his nose. It was supposed to be my last straw. But Heather Molloy happened to be walking by and spoke up about the circumstances prompting my outburst. And so I was given a reprieve for stepping in to defend a fellow classmate. Thanking anyone for anything was never easy for me but I thanked Heather. In halting, awkward words I told her how much I appreciated her intervention. Heather smiled at me and touched my hand.
And that’s how it started.
We’d meet at the Hawk Valley State Park, five miles outside town. It wasn’t real popular with the locals. If people wanted to go hiking, fishing or sightseeing they’d drive up into the mountains, not picnic on a shallow hill beside a stagnant stream. Technically we weren’t breaking any laws but the situation wouldn’t mean good things for Heather if we were seen together. In the beginning we just talked. Most of the girls I knew saw me as some kind of wounded walking tragedy, something they aspired to fix. But Heather never pushed me to answer questions. That’s probably why I chose to open up to her.
My throat was dry and I was clutching my phone in my hand, prepared to call 911. Sofia Fetucci’s earlier warning kept playing in my head.
Roxie’s barking died down and she let out one final soft growl before sitting on her back haunches and looking at me as if to say, “I swear there was something out there.”
It took a fair amount of my courage to approach the door and push the curtain aside to peer through the glass panel. There was nothing out there.
Roxie nudged my hand with her wet nose.
“Good girl,” I praised her, scratching behind her ears. I watched for another few minutes but did not see or hear anything to be alarmed about. The dog’s senses were far more acute and in all likelihood she had sensed some passing night creature. A coyote, or maybe a flock of bats.
Roxie yawned and I checked the lock on the kitchen door before retreating. I offered the dog a biscuit from the box Nash kept in the pantry and she chewed happily. There was no noise from upstairs so apparently Roxie’s brief outburst had not awakened Colin or Emma.
All the doors and windows were checked one more time. Roxie returned to her bed and watched me with sleepy eyes. I patted her head once more before heading upstairs.
All was silent except for the soft noise of Colin’s crib mobile. The kids were both sound asleep. A sudden weariness overcame me and I raided my overnight bag, quickly changing and brushing my teeth. Nash’s room was tidy, his bed neatly made. He’d finally stopped living out of his suitcases and placed his clothes in the closet and chest of drawers. I slipped between the cool sheets, inhaling the spicy and familiar scent of Nash’s aftershave that clung to the sheets. It was like inhaling the scent of sex itself and my hand traveled between my legs as I thought of him, wishing he was here doing the things that I was doing to myself.
Sleep came quickly after that although my dreams were a puzzling collage of past events that left me feeling disturbed in the morning.
Two months. That’s how much time had elapsed since I last got behind the wheel intending to drive straight through several states to get to Hawk Valley.
Back then I’d only known that tragedy had found me for the second time in my life. I didn’t know that once I reached Hawk Valley it would be impossible to leave.
The ten foot van I rented was larger than what I ended up needing. There wasn’t too much I wanted to take with me. Most of the furniture was unnecessary since I didn’t feel like finding a place for it in my dad’s house.
Dad’s house.
When I was a kid, being told I was going to ‘Dad’s house’ would often be met with a groan and a complaint. I preferred my mother’s small Phoenix condo to the sprawling old Victorian house with a view of the mountains. My father was never abusive. Just perpetually exasperated. And openly relieved when it came time to return me to my mother. It must have been a shock for him to go from part time dad to round the clock caretaker of a troubled teen.
Sometimes even now just before I dozed off I would jerk awake and bolt upright, positive that someone was shaking my shoulder in the darkness. There was never anyone there because it was only a memory. On that night, the night my world shattered, my father had awakened me shortly after two a.m. and the most shocking thing was that he was crying.
“Nash. Wake up, son. Something’s happened.”
The moments after that have been blocked out of my mind. I remembered seeing broken things around the house and hearing that I was responsible because after I heard my mother had been killed by her husband I began screaming and running around the house shattering everything I could get my hands on until my dad managed to physically restrain me. By that time I had to go to the hospital to sew up the hand I’d sliced open on a smashed window pane.
Chris Ryan didn’t know what to do with me. Our time together had always amounted to less than two months a year. Now suddenly he was a full time father to an incredibly angry kid. In the beginning he tried. He dragged me to a therapist. He encouraged me to make friends, to go out for sports. I found that I liked sports, that slamming into big guys on a football field or running around on a basketball court helped channel my aggression into something that didn’t involve blood. But friends were an enigma to me. Plenty of people wanted my company and it seemed like the more uncooperative I was the more they sought me out. Especially girls. I couldn’t be proud of the way I’d treated girls back then. I was a jackass.
But that didn’t mean I was willing to accept criticism from a man who’d kicked my own mother to the curb and then entertained a revolving door of girlfriends ever since I could walk. Chris Ryan could howl over my bad behavior all he wanted. I didn’t give a shit.
When I was sixteen he came barreling into my room after taking a furious phone call from a city councilman. The man’s teenage daughter had been sobbing in her room for three days because I’d told her I was both bored with her and screwing her best friend.
“Damn it, kid,” my father roared, throwing the door open so hard it left a dent in the wall. “Who the fuck ever told you it was okay to treat females like disposable objects?”
“Like father, like son,” I replied coldly.
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t go through life acting like a selfish piece of shit.”
“Why not? It’s always worked for you.”
We glared at each other. My fist clenched. If he came at me I was prepared to hit him. I didn’t want to. But I would. However, my father wasn’t a violent man. He was arrogant, thick-headed, rude and stubborn but not violent. Another fundamental difference between us.
“Figure out your own fucking dinner,” he said wearily and retreated from my doorway. “I’m going out.”
By my senior year I had plans. They didn’t involve remaining in Hawk Valley and struggling to sell shitty souvenirs. I had good grades and I was a decent athlete. A small college in Oregon had given me a scholarship. As my high school career drew to a close I was biding my time, aware that my father was both disappointed and relieved that I’d be leaving Hawk Valley behind. I just needed to keep from getting expelled for fighting in the meantime.
Meanwhile, the front office of the high school gained a pretty new employee when Heather Molloy started sitting at the reception desk. The guys all talked shit about what they’d do to that blonde pussy if they got close but Heather wasn’t really on my radar. I was juggling enough options as it was and she was older, in her mid twenties. But it was nice how she would always smile when she saw me coming.
“Oh no, what did you do this time, Nash?”
“Nothing I’m sorry for.”
She laughed. “What are we going to do with you?”
Then came a morning in early spring when I witnessed the neurotic tie-wearing class president shove his girlfriend into a locker so hard she cried out. I couldn’t take it. I clocked the guy, broke his nose. It was supposed to be my last straw. But Heather Molloy happened to be walking by and spoke up about the circumstances prompting my outburst. And so I was given a reprieve for stepping in to defend a fellow classmate. Thanking anyone for anything was never easy for me but I thanked Heather. In halting, awkward words I told her how much I appreciated her intervention. Heather smiled at me and touched my hand.
And that’s how it started.
We’d meet at the Hawk Valley State Park, five miles outside town. It wasn’t real popular with the locals. If people wanted to go hiking, fishing or sightseeing they’d drive up into the mountains, not picnic on a shallow hill beside a stagnant stream. Technically we weren’t breaking any laws but the situation wouldn’t mean good things for Heather if we were seen together. In the beginning we just talked. Most of the girls I knew saw me as some kind of wounded walking tragedy, something they aspired to fix. But Heather never pushed me to answer questions. That’s probably why I chose to open up to her.
