Authors: Benjamin Whitmer
Cry Father (22 page)
Justin
I haven’t seen Henry since we buried Junior. I never went to visit him again, and he never came by the cabin. Now that the summer’s over, I guess we both know where we stand. I know what Junior was. I probably know it as well as anyone. And Henry’s right, everything wrong with Junior wasn’t his fault. Junior didn’t turn out the way he did because his daddy was a piece of shit. At least not only because of that. There was plenty wrong with Junior that Henry had nothing to do with.
But I ain’t gonna give Henry any kind of justification for what he did. He doesn’t deserve it any more than Court does. Or than I do for what I did to Chase and Mel. Reasons and justifications don’t mean shit.
I went to see your mother one more time, though. Just yesterday, in fact. I drove into Taos for supplies and stopped by her house. She and the boy were sitting in the yard at the picnic table. Every light in
the house was on behind them, and they were eating hamburgers on paper plates, talking over their food and laughing.
I sat in my truck for a long while watching them. I was far enough back that they couldn’t see me, almost all the way around the bend in the road. There was a wind blowing. It was one of those fitful late summer winds, stopping and starting like it might come on strong at any minute, like it just might blow their little dinner party right out of existence. But you wouldn’t have known it from them. Both in short-sleeved shirts, eating and laughing.
Then the wind kicked up a cloud of dust between me and them. It’s been a long, dry summer, and there’s not much left to keep the soil in place. And when the dust cleared, Laney was sitting motionless at the table, her hands in her lap, staring my way. The boy was still talking, still laughing, he hadn’t seen me. But your mother was just staring. Then the boy caught what she was looking at and he stopped talking and just stared, too.
She said something to him and then walked out to me. I rolled down my window and waited for her.
“Hello, stranger,” she said. “I was thinking about that yesterday. That it was getting close to time for you to get back on the road.”
“It is,” I said.
Her nose wrinkled as though she was about to sneeze and she put her hands in the pockets of her jeans, her shoulders shuddering against the early autumn chill. “We’re having dinner,” she said. “You want a burger?”
“I’m all right,” I said. I looked past her at Gabe. He looked like some kind of ghost, caught between the yellowing lamplight and the sinking sun. He was chewing a bite and trying not to watch us, impossibly small against the coming night.
“You don’t have Sancho to look after you,” she said. “You’ll need to be careful by yourself.”
“I will,” I said. “And I’ll be back in a few months. I’m working a short season.”
She didn’t look like she believed me, and I guess I don’t blame her. She just patted me once on my driving arm and withdrew her hand. But I meant it.
“We’ll be here,” is all she said, and I put the truck in gear and pulled away before I could say anything at all.
But I watched them out of my rearview mirror. I drove slow and watched her walk all the way back to Gabe.
The thing is, I can’t barely see Gabe when I look at him. I hope it’s okay that I tell you that. He looks like he might just flicker out of existence at any second, and I can’t help but see you in his place. Looking at him, I know that the gap I’m walking between what I write to you and what I don’t write, it’s getting narrower every year.
I’m not going to sign your mother’s paperwork, either. I called her and told her that not too long after we buried Junior. She’s accepted it, and is moving ahead without me. I told her not to let me know how it turns out. I know what she needs, for your death to have an end, but I don’t want anything to do with it.
She likes to think of grieving as a journey, your mother. A mappable line that begins with loss and ends with resolution. Or, as she put it, a hole that we’re trying to fill with our conspiracy theories up here on the mesa. Something that we could heal if we just would. It’s the same thing Dr. Court would like to believe, I’ll bet. I’m pretty sure he’s the only person happier about the lawsuit than her.
I know better. If I didn’t before, I learned it from Junior. Nothing ends, ever. And nothing heals because there’s nothing to heal. Losing you is my life now. There’s no resolution to it. The main kick may fade some. Hell, it already has. Like I wrote this spring, returning to the mesa doesn’t hurt like it did. But you’re still there, everywhere. When
I sit on the porch, you’re out there behind the Blanca Massif. When I sit in the cabin, you’re what I can’t see in the darkness through the window. You’re in everything I see and don’t see. Nobody gets to resolve that. We’re all everything we’ve lost. Just as my fuckups as a father came, in part, from losses before you. Nothing ends, nothing heals.
Not that I’d have it any other way.
acknowledgments
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all the folks who read
Cry Father
during the many stages of revision and were kind enough to say nice things. Their support was the only thing that kept me upright when everything about it seemed to be going wrong. They include Frank Bill, Ward Churchill, Christa Faust, Sophie Littlefield, Natsu Saito, and Charlie Stella.
Likewise, without the discernment and guidance of Gary Heidt, Oliver Gallmeister, and Adam Wilson, there’s no doubt in my mind but that I’d still be wrestling with it, and with no end in sight. Nobody’d be reading it without them, that’s for sure.
On the same lines, this book would have died in its infancy without my brother, Stephen Whitmer, who took a much-needed scouting expedition to the San Luis Valley with me, armed with nothing but Townes Van Zandt and a tent. It also couldn’t have been written without David Staub, who, besides putting in countless hours talking
about it on my back porch, took time out of his life to wander the Superfund sites and dive bars of North Denver. I also have to thank Joshua Mork, who, poor bastard, has probably heard me talk about it more than anybody. And I can’t forget Kim and Robert Garcia, who I owe for the loan of their dog.
Which brings me to the one person who is, more than any other, responsible for this book: Lucas Bogan. Not only for all of the tree-trimming stories he let me steal, but for all the hiking, driving, story swapping, and daydreaming. In other words, for a lifetime of friendship. I owe you this one, man.
Lastly, I’ve been blessed with four parents and two children who I’ve done nothing to deserve. There’s no excuse for how lucky I’ve been to have these six people in my life. I wake up thankful for them every day, which I hope they know.
about the author
Photograph by Joshua Mork
Benjamin Whitmer is the author of
Pike
, which was nominated for the 2013 Grand Prix de Littérature Policier,
and coauthor (with Charlie Louvin) of
Satan is Real
, a
New York Times
’ Critics’ Choice book.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
authors.simonandschuster.com/Benjamin-Whitmer
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Benjamin Whitmer
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First Gallery Books hardcover edition June 2014
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Interior design by Jaime Putorti
Jacket design and illustration by Lisa Litwack
Author photograph by Joshua Mork
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-3435-4
ISBN 978-1-4767-3437-8 (ebook)
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