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Yet as I drove through my lovely neighborhood, I now felt the exact pang of nostalgia the development’s designers intended. The entire scene was so lovely and rich with meaning that it thickened my throat. Every fertilized stretch of lawn, every strip of vinyl siding, I was seeing it all with new eyes, the eyes of the exile. For my hours at Patriots Landing were now numbered. This place had been my life, my refuge and my sweet revenge, but whatever it had been, it could be no longer. Augie’s murder had seen to that.

Hard by the river, a stone’s throw from the development’s harbor and in sight of the imposing golf clubhouse, I pulled into a circular driveway before a well-maintained George Washington. My George Washington. The wide lawn was mowed, the wooden pillars holding up the porch roof were freshly painted, all was as neat and well-ordered as the feathers on a duck serenely floating on the wide James River as, beneath the surface, webbed feet pedaled hysterically against the inexorable current. I hopped out of the Beemer, grabbed my briefcase from the trunk, jogged up the steps, and patted one of the wide pillars, so warm and solid, on my way to the red front door.

“I’m home,” I called out once inside the center hallway, with its huge mirror and wonderfully pretentious French furnishings.

Silence echoed.

Suddenly the assurance from all my precautions flitted away like a charm of flighty finches. I had visions of my family tied and gagged by a bunch of bruisers. I dropped my briefcase and ran to the soaring stairwell.

“Anyone?” I yelled up, my voice echoing off the marble floor and domed ceiling. “Someone?”

W
HY ARE YOU
shouting?”

A voice, cold and sneering, like a hardened terrorist’s. My daughter, Shelby, leaning on the door to the kitchen to my left, stared at me with her customary air of disdain. Short black hair, too much eyeliner, tight T-shirt, pierced nose, short shorts, cell phone in her hand. I was so relieved I almost ran right over and gave her a hug. But I restrained myself. Shelby didn’t let me hug her anymore. I have to admit here that no matter how much those thugs in Vegas terrified me, in her way this small and pretty sixteen-year-old with her punk black hair and tragic eyeliner terrified me more.

“I was just wondering where everyone was,” I said, trying to sound as if everything was normal.

“What are you wearing?”

I looked down and checked out my garb anew, the baggy jeans, the faded T-shirt, so unlike anything she had seen me in before. “You don’t like it?”

“And what’s with that hat?”

“I bought it at the airport for your brother.”

“It’s all white, Dad, like Eric would ever wear something that G. You look like a pathetic middle-aged wannabe.”

“How sweet, Shelby, that’s just what I was going for. Especially the
pathetic
part.”

“You’re the one who’s dressed like a creep.”

“Here, take it,” I said as I took off the hat and tossed it at her. She avoided it as if it were Oddjob’s bowler as it spun onto the kitchen floor. “Where’s your mother?”

Looking down now, speaking as she texted, “At Eric’s game.”

“Who are you texting?”

“Mom’s mighty pissed at you, you know.”

“What’s new?”

“You were supposed to be home yesterday morning.”

“I got hung up.”

“And your phone wasn’t on.”

“The battery went dead.”

“And you didn’t call.”

“Yeah, well, stuff happens.” I glanced around, tried to pick out if anything was out of place. “Was anyone asking for me?”

She looked up from her phone, tilted her head. “You mean, like, a friend?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You don’t have any friends. But if you keep dressing like that, you can maybe find some in Jackson Ward.”

“Cute.”

This was normally Shelby’s cue to spin and stalk away. She had been my sweet little girl, but something had come between us a few years ago. I liked to attribute it to the general moodiness of the American teen, but I worried it was something darker. No one can look through you like your teenage daughter and I feared that was what she had done, looked right through me and not liked what she had seen. And it felt exactly like that right now as she stared at me without stalking away, stared at her father as if she was staring at a goggle-eyed alien.

“How are things, Shelby?” I said, suddenly realizing this might be one of the last times I ever saw my daughter.

“They suck.”

“I mean really.”

“They really suck.”

“Are you and Luke still—”

“We’re not talking about Luke.”

“I was just trying to—”

“What’s going on with you, Dad? You’re kind of freaking me out in those clothes and with your sudden concern for my emotional welfare.”

“I love you.”

“So? What’s that got to do with anything? You’re still acting like a weirdball.”

“I had a tough weekend.”

“What, the strippers in Las Vegas had a hard time unhooking their bras?”

“How did you know I was in Vegas?”

“Mom.”

“It was business, not pleasure, not that I go to strip clubs for pleasure. I mean…I don’t…”

“Whatever,” she said. “The whole idea is gross. Middle-aged men with tongues hanging out for half-naked skanky teens.”

“Half?”

She gave me one of those disgusted eye squints that were her specialty. “You’re a bigger whore than Luke.”

“Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere. Can I give you some advice?”

“Please don’t. Please please please don’t.”

But I would—it might be my last chance to impart fatherly wisdom to my daughter, it might be one of her last memories of me. What to say? What gift of wisdom to leave her with?

“You know, Shelby, men are pricks. Don’t trust a one of them.”

“Us.”

“You?”

“No, you. It’s an us. Don’t trust any of us.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

She stared at me as if I had just pleaded guilty to an indictment I didn’t know had been handed down. “I’m going out tonight,” she said, her attention back to her phone, her thumb dancing on the keyboard like Baryshnikov. “I need money.”

“Who are you going out with?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Micki and Pam. We’re meeting up at Doug’s.”

“Who’s Doug?”

“Doug. Doug. I’ve only gone to school with him since fifth grade.”

“Oh, that Doug,” I said, still having no idea who Doug was. “Talk to your mom.”

“What, you left all your cash inside some G-string?”

“You know, Shelby, there’s more to do in Vegas than go to strip bars.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s an Applebee’s,” I said.

Shelby used to like my jokes, but all I got now was a stone face as she turned and headed back to the kitchen, her attention all the while on her phone.

I thought of going after her, of tossing her phone at a wall and wrapping her in my arms, telling her again that I loved her and this time making it stick. But from prior experience I knew that would only make things worse. Life with Shelby had become an emotional minefield, which left me doubting that I ever said or did the right thing. My life in microcosm. The only solution was time, waiting for her to grow out of whatever she had grown into, but time with Shelby was the one thing I no longer had.

I stood in the hallway, feeling helpless and hapless, and then beat my own retreat up the stairs. Seeing the way I looked in my daughter’s eyes made me feel like a clown in a costume. As soon as I hit my bedroom, the pants and T-shirt hit the hardwood
floor. I took a moment in the shower to gather my thoughts. Back in the bedroom, my hair still soaked and a towel around my waist, I made a call.

“It’s Harry,” came a voice over the phone, rough hewn and salty, like an old piece of salt cod. “I’m not here now. Leave a message.”

“Harry?” I said.

“Just leave that there message.”

“Harry? Why are you pretending to be an answering machine?”

“Who’s this, Johnny?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh, Johnny. How you doing there, son? I don’t owe you nothing, do I?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t need to leave no message.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve been getting calls. You know.”

“How much do you owe?”

“Not too much. But the bastards have been threatening to take the
Left Hook
. Can you believe it?”

“But you own your boat outright.”

“Yes I do. Or I did. But remember when my engine went on the fritz?”

“You mean when it blew up.”

“And then I got those twin 120s.”

“I told you that was too much power.”

“Oh, Johnny, engines is like tits: there’s no such thing as too big or too many.”

“Three would be too many.”

“I knew a girl in Fresno once that—”

“Harry?”

“But I only got the two there, Johnny. And they were offering a sweet little loan. What was I going to say? No?”

“Exactly. That’s my new advice for anyone being offered a sweet little loan.”

“You’re going to put yourself out of business.”

“I’ve been out of business for a year. You busy tonight?”

“I got plans, sure. I’m getting drunk at Schooners with the Koreans.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“If something works, Johnny, stick with it, I always say.”

“Why don’t I join you there, say, about ten-ish?”

“No good. Too much running, I was never no good at running.”

“Not tennis, ten-ish. Ten o’clock. I need to talk to you. Remember that thing we worked out a couple years ago?”

“What thing?”

“That thing.”

“That thing?”

“Yeah.”

Pause. “What the hell’s happened to you?”

“Let’s just say I have creditors of my own. We’ll talk about it tonight at Schooners. And if we move, we’re going to have to move fast, all right?” I thought about the scare I had felt at the front door. “I think I may be going fishing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“There’s no reason to wait.”

“Good thing I got them twins, then, isn’t it?”

“This goes through, I’ll clear up those calls for you, Harry.”

“I’d rather stick around and dodge the damn calls.”

“Me, too, but what are you going to do?”

I hung up and sat on my bed with that towel around my waist and let a wave of fear flow through me. It wasn’t going to work, I could feel it. I had a plan, and it might have been a pretty good plan, too, if it didn’t depend on Harry. But what other option did I have? This was the life I had chosen all those years ago in Pitchford, even if I hadn’t known it then. I sat on the bed a
moment longer, my legs crossed, my body propped up with one arm as I stared at the paisley swirls on the bedcover. I loved those paisley swirls, their jaunty richness. How was it that a paisley pattern my wife had picked out at the Macy’s in Newport News could suddenly send tears to my eyes? And then I thought of Augie, lying dead in his own bed. Lucky bastard.

When I looked up, Shelby was staring at me from the doorway.

“Are you okay, Dad?” she said.

It took me a moment to snap back to the present, and my presence in the bedroom. “Yeah, sure,” I said. As I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, I added a false note of heartiness to my voice. “Good as gold.”

“You left these,” she said, raising my briefcase and the white hat into the air.

“Thanks, princess.”

“What did you do in Las Vegas, Daddy?”

“Nothing much. Just business.”

“Okay,” she said, but there was something in her face, something different than her default hostility, something frightened.

I glanced down at the towel to make sure I was covered.

“I’ll just put them here.” She put the hat on the bureau, placed the briefcase beside it, gingerly, as if it contained a bomb, and turned to leave the room.

“While I was in Vegas, I said good-bye to a friend.”

She turned around again. “Where’s he going?”

“He died.”

“Was he a good friend?”

“The best I ever had,” I said.

“Did we know him?”

“No. He never came and visited us here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll go now.”

“Okay,” I said. “How much money do you need for tonight?”

“I’m fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m glad.”

When she left I sat there a moment longer. I wanted to slip under these paisley covers, to put my head beneath a pillow and disappear into sleep, to Rip Van Winkle it and wake up when everything had passed. But it wasn’t going to pass. I needed to keep my cover, for one day more; I needed it to look like everything was normal in my normal suburban life, for one day more. I had been pretending for so long now, what was one day more? So I resisted the urge to hide and instead rose from the bed and put on my usual—khaki shorts, golf shirt, shiny brown loafers—stuck the horrid white hat safely in the briefcase, hid the briefcase in the basement, and went off to see my son fail miserably at Little League.

And the whole time I dressed and drove I couldn’t stop thinking about how I had let my life spiral so out of control. There is always a moment when the course is set, always a moment after which the journey toward disaster is as inevitable as death or laundry. When I looked back, I realized maybe I was wrong to always blame my father, maybe I should have blamed my dog.