Embrace Me (21 page)

“Where were you?”

“Augustine's really sick. Can you heat up some of this soup and take it over to him?”

“Sure thing.”

“It's chicken soup.” How fitting.

“What were you doing at Shalom?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” I hurry on up to bed.

NINE

DREW: 2003

N
o matter how bad you think your childhood is, there's always somebody who had it way worse. Hermy reminds me of this. It's pretty hard to wallow in your frustration at having the ice king as your father, when the guy sitting next to you landed in the hospital seven times because of his abusive mom. She sounds like a horror, but Hermy's matter-of-fact about it.

“I dunno, Drew. I mean, at least my mom pretty much let me do what I wanted when I wasn't around the house. She couldn't have cared less what my grades were as long as I didn't get in her hair or mess up the house. After a while, I just learned to stay gone.”

It's the next evening, nine o'clock, and we're headed to my father's house. I wanted to make sure he'd be home.

“Shoot, Drew, it sounds like you couldn't do anything right. And you didn't even have your mother around to take some of the steam. We need those kinds of people. I had an aunt like that.”

We pull up in front of the house and walk up the sidewalk, our boots compressing the deicing salt with small pops and crackles.

I knock on the door and Dad's housekeeper, Malena, answers. Her eyes widen. “Hola, Señor Drew.”

“Hi, Malena.”

She swings the door and sweeps us in.

Malena, a very proper woman in sensible pumps, a tweed skirt, and a pale yellow blouse, shuts the door. “Please sit in the living room while I call your father.”

Despite the verbal formality, her eyes drip with friendliness. While I wouldn't say Malena loves me like her own, she's a kind woman who keeps her private life private, values her position as head of my father's household, and holds his privacy in high regard.

When I was younger, sometimes her maternal instincts got the better of her. She'd stow away chocolate in my lunch sack, or hide my college grades until Dad reached the right frame of mind to view them without shaming me for my 3.75 average. Nothing ever went wrong on her watch.

The formal living room walls are shaded a blood red. Yellow silk upholstery in striped and floral patterns cover chairs arranged in conversation groups. Fine artwork glows under the perfect lighting, and beautiful bowls and vases from China rest on mahogany (I think) surfaces. Not one speck of dust sullies the wood floors, and even the fringes on the oriental rugs are combed perfectly.

With my toe, I mess up an edge.

“I hate this house.”

“You grow up here?”

“No. We moved here when I was sixteen. We always lived down south before Mom died, or disappeared, or what have you. My father was a lobbyist for the tobacco industry in those days, so he planted his family in North Carolina. He was gone a lot. His longer and longer stays in DC troubled her, but she never said why.”

“He was cheating on her, I bet.”

“I don't know. That would presuppose he could feel something for somebody.”

“Not necessarily, man.”

“True. I never thought he was about an affair, though. I still don't. She just wasn't the right wife for a man like him. Then again, I don't know who would be.”

Malena reappears. “He's on the phone. Just give him five minutes. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. Why don't you visit with me?”

She shakes her head and walks out of the room. She hesitates at the door but continues on.

“In some ways I couldn't blame my dad. Imagine being married to a woman who called sin
sin
and knew when somebody was in a major state of it. I don't know if she was a prophet or just crazy.”

“Was she ever right about any of the other things she said?”

“Spot on. I just figured, ‘That's Mom for you' like kids seem to do without realizing how odd their childhood actually is. Hopefully she's calmed down a little.”

“I wouldn't bet on that.”

I approach the small writing desk, spring the latch in the middle cubby, and open the false front of the hidden compartment. A fat four-by-six manila envelope is wedged between the sidewalls. I could slip it into my jacket pocket.

But that would give me one more thing to confess to Father Brian.

I shut the compartment.

Hermy whistles. “Man, this reminds me too much of my house. Bad stuff. Bad stuff.”

Finally, my father walks into the living room. Charles Parrish exudes power not only from his personality but from his physical dimensions. He's forced to dip his head slightly when he walks through a conventional doorway. Tailors fashion his clothing. Shoemakers construct shoes for his feet alone.

He's a beast. Perfectly made for what he does.

But even this beast can't hide his shock at my appearance. Who was this young man with the bald, nicked pate? This skinny urchin-like youth who once plied the airwaves?

“Drew. A surprise. You've lost weight.”

“Yes, Dad. I'm taking a road trip. This is Hermy.”

“I see.” Dad shakes Hermy's hand, sizing him up. Hermy's found wanting, for Dad turns right to me without saying anything.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to get Mom's address.”

“This is nonsensical. Your mother's dead.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “Don't keep at this ridiculousness.”

“She called me. I know it was her.”

“I told you this is crazy.”

“She's alive.”

He spreads his feet.

His already dark eyes deepen to the blackness of ink. “You'd do well to stop all this, Son.”

But I've got nothing left to lose.

“So you say. But despite your veiled threat, I'll push this to the end, whatever or wherever that is. I did learn a thing or two from you.”

Man, I hope that feeds his ego. Please, God.

He relaxes. “Are you going a little crazy, Son? You know, your mother was a bit touched. We think that's why she crashed the car.”

And this is the moment I've been waiting for. The man has blood on his hands and crap on his shoes. What he's done is a mystery,
why
isn't so hard to guess. But I venture forward, surfacing a resentment that undergirds me.

I square my chest. “All I'm asking is to see my mother. You give me that address and I am out of your life forever. I won't drag you through the mud; I won't even breathe your air. You'll never have to call me on Sundays or put a little extra into my bank account. I will disappear from you like—” And here I take an enormous chance, shrugging with a knowing look on my face. At least I hope it's knowing. I mean, people disappear from Washington every so often.

“Like who?”

Who, not what.

“Like mail workers at the five o'clock whistle.”

“Wait just a minute.” He walks toward the doorway, then turns. “She needed to be put away, Son. I only did it to protect you. You and a lot of other people. It was better if you thought she was dead.” He leaves the room.

It's funny how easily you can spot an act when you're so good at giving one yourself.

Hermy looks up. “He's one cold man.”

Malena clicks back into the room and hands me a sheet of paper. “Your father had another call come in. Here's the address you requested, ‘as per your agreement,' he said. I'll see you to the door now.” She ushers us into the foyer and pulls an envelope from the waistband of her sweater.

Grabbing my hand and placing the parcel into my palm, she whispers, “God protect you, Drew. If you know what is best, you'll never come back here.” She crosses herself.

“Is this address a mental institution?”

“I'm not saying anything.”

“Malena, why did she disappear?”

“It wasn't her choice. Your mother, she loved you.”

“Was she really crazy?”

Malena crosses her arms and rubs them with her hands. “Go on now. Go!”

In the chill of a DC night, Hermy and I drive away.

As per your agreement
, Malena said.

We ride by the memorials, Lincoln and Jefferson. The illumined Washington Monument points into the darkened sky from which a light, icy rain begins to descend and the dome of the capital seems to light up the city blocks around it.

I will never come back here again.

Out of the city, off of Route 66, I pull into a Shell station. “I gotta make a call.”

Hermy decides to get some beef jerky. “Want a soda, man?”

“Sure.”

I dial St. Mary's rectory and Father Brian answers.

“I did it. I confronted my father.”

“What happened?”

“He gave me the address for my mother.”

“How was he?”

“The same. I told him I'd never see him again if he'd give me the address.”

“And he took you up on that?”

“In so many words.”

“Looks like you've only got one place left to go.”

“A year ago I thought I had a full life and a really bright future. And now all I've got is my friend Hermy and an address.”

“Well, at least you can only go up from here.”

For some reason this strikes me as humorous. “Oh, I don't know. I imagine there's always a bigger bag of tricks.”

I watch Hermy climb back into the car. I'd better end this call.

“I should go, Brian.”

“Did you leave your church voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I finally began to see myself in a real mirror, the way I really looked.”

“Did you have good intentions, though?”

“Does that actually matter when you're leading people astray?”

“Hard to say.”

“I'll get back in touch after I meet her.”

“I'm still praying.”

Sure you are, Father Brian. You're good at what you do.

Hermy and I decide to camp for the night. We drive on I-70 an hour out of DC, pull off a small exit, and set ourselves up in a grove of trees at the side of the road, just outside a farmer's fence. We'll be out of here early.

Inside the tent I reexamine the address, flashlight highlighting the words Slade, Kentucky.

Hermy sets up the lantern. “You ever been there?”

“No. Have you?” He looks light purple, a little eerie in the battery powered light,

“Yeah. It's near Natural Bridge. Was into rock climbing in college. Great place.”

Hermy in college? “How far away?”

“Eight or so hours.”

He nabs a book out of his rucksack. I fold up the paper and shove it back into my pocket.

“So what did your old man do that was so bad?” He unrolls his sleeping bag.

I follow suit, untying the laces that hold the bedroll together. “I have no idea what he did.”

Hermy's face splits apart and out charges a stampede of laughter like I've never heard before. I swear, if I didn't think the guy was nuts before this, I'd think it now. “You got the stuff, man.”

“Thanks.”

He slips into his bag as I venture into my own backpack and pull out a small book of Shakespeare's sonnets.

Hermy looks over. “Ah, the bard hisself.”

I didn't realize people actually called him “the bard.” Huh.

“A friend gave it to me for Christmas one year. She's disappeared. I guess I keep in touch with her this way.”

Hermy lays his book facedown on his chest. “Did you love her?”

“Somewhat. Yes and no.”

“That's not a hard question. You either do or you don't.”

“I don't have an answer for you.”

“Do you love her now?”

“In a way.”

“Did she love you?”

“Yeah. Yeah she did. Big-time.” I grab my notebook then slide into my sleeping bag. “But that seems like years and years ago now.”