When I Found You (18 page)

Nat slouched into the visiting room as he did every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. He scanned the room for The Man, but saw only some other guy’s parents and an old woman.

When he looked more closely at the old woman, she looked up.

It was his grandmother.

Nat looked over at Roger, who glanced away. He wanted to catch Roger’s eye. To ask, without words, why Roger hadn’t said anything. Why he hadn’t favored Nat with a warning. But that appeared to be a game Roger was unwilling to play.

Nat stood in front of her table for quite a long time. Until Roger came up behind him, placed a hand on each of Nat’s shoulders, and sat him firmly in the chair.

“Hello, Nat,” the old woman said.

Nat said nothing.

“So. Still not speaking to me after all these years?”

“Where’s the man who found me in the woods?” Nat asked. Feeling awkward about the phrasing, but not being sure what else to call him. Nathan? Mr. McCann? The guy who, unlike you, is
supposed
to be here?

“He agreed to stay out in the waiting room until we were done talking.”

“If you ask my opinion,” Nat said, “we
are
done talking.”

“Well,
I
have a few things to say.”

Nat frowned and slumped deeply into his chair. His impulse was to walk away, but he resisted it, knowing Roger would only reseat him.

“First of all,” she said, “I have a question to ask you. And the question is this: what was I to do? Was I supposed to tell you, when you were just a little slip of a boy, that your mother did such a horrible thing to you? Would that have been the thing to do?”

Nat looked her straight in the eye for the first time, and she predictably averted her gaze.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “That would have been the thing to do.”

“Why? Would you care to tell me why that would have been a good way to handle things?”

“Sure,” Nat said. “Happy to. Because then I would have known that my mother was a rotten piece of crap who didn’t give a shit about me—” Nat felt her rise to object to his language, but he raised a hand and she retreated again. In his peripheral vision he saw Roger take a step forward, then just freeze and wait. “No. I’m not done. I would have known all that about
her
. But I would have known I could trust
you
. And then I would have had one person in my life I knew I could trust.”

They both stared at the table for an awkward space of time.

“Well, I’m not sure I agree with you,” she said. “But let’s say you’re right. I’m human and we all make mistakes. Right or wrong, I did what I thought best. You can forgive me for that. Right?”

Nat didn’t answer. Because he did not forgive her.

“After everything you gave me to forgive?” she asked.

It’s news to me if you ever forgave me for anything, Nat thought. But he said nothing.

“And the other thing I came to say to you. I know you’re getting out next week. When you turn eighteen. And if you really have learned your lesson now … and I can only hope you have … if you will absolutely
promise
me that there will be no more violence and no more stealing and lying, and that you’ll get a job and walk a straight road … you can come back home. And we can try it again.”

Nat had just opened his mouth to tell her where she could stick her patronizing little offer when he remembered that Roger, the rudeness police, was standing within hearing distance.

“No thank you.”

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“You heard me. I said no thank you.”

“So where are you going to go?”

“Back to Nathan McCann’s house.”

“Are you trying to tell me that man has actually welcomed you back? After everything you’ve done? That sounds like a pipe dream to me. I would think he’d have washed his hands of you long ago.”

“He will never wash his hands of me!” Nat shouted, slamming the table with the heel of one hand. Out of the corner of his eye Nat saw the other guy and his parents jump. Roger gave him a stern look of warning. “If he washed his hands of me, why is he out in the waiting room right now?” Nat asked, still quite agitated. “You go ask him if I’m welcome with him. And while you’re at it, tell him to come in now. And you go home. And don’t ever come back here again. This conversation is over.”

At first, nothing. No movement. No reply.

Then the old woman sighed deeply. Rose heavily to her feet with a grunt.

Nathan purposely did not watch as she walked out of the room.

“Hell of a way to talk to your own grandmother,” Roger said.

“You stay out of this,” Nat snapped back.

Surprisingly, Roger returned no comment.

Nat looked up again to see Nathan McCann lower himself into the chair across from him.

“So,” the old man said. “Did you and your grandmother have a good talk?”

“No,” Nat said. “It sucked. But at least it was our
last
talk. That was the only good thing about it.”

“You know, she calls me. Every week. To see if you’re OK.”

“No,” Nat said. “I didn’t know that. You never told me that.”

“I’m telling you now,” the old man said.

3 October 1978   

Nat stood outside — behind no walls of any kind — in the cool afternoon, next to the old man’s station wagon. He waited for the old guy to open the passenger-side door. The guy had gotten a new station wagon, but it was just like the old one. Same make and model of Chevrolet, just a few years more recent. It was even the same dull color of root-beer brown. Nat briefly wondered what it would feel like to enjoy that level of sameness.

Especially today, when everything was changing.

Nat resisted the temptation to squint his eyes against the sun, because, he told himself, the urge was silly and unreal. After all, that same sun had shone into the exercise yard for three years. Yet it seemed different somehow, outside the horrible walls.

Probably only his imagination.

The old man reached over from inside the car and lifted the lock button. Nat opened the door and climbed in. Stared through the windshield of a car for the first time in three years.

It took him a minute to wonder why the old guy wasn’t shifting into gear and driving.

Nat glanced over at him.

“As soon as you get your seat belt secured, we’ll go home,” the old man said.

Nat had to admit, if only to himself, that the word “home” had a nice ring to it. Even if he’d only ever lived there for a couple of days. Even if some lady he’d only met once lived there, too.

He put on his seat belt. The man shifted the car into gear and they were off, travelling at a speed Nat had only vaguely remembered in his dreams. In prison you go only as fast as your feet can carry you.

At first, silence.

Then the old guy said, “How does it feel to be a free man?”

“Hmm,” Nat said. “I thought it would feel great. And it sort of does. But it also … it feels like a lot of things at once.”

In the brief silence that followed, it struck Nat that he had just been called a man. He had only been eighteen for a few days, and no one had taken the time to congratulate him on his new status. It added another whole layer to the complicated web of what he was feeling.

“Most big life events are like that. You think they’ll be emotionally one-sided, but when you actually get into them, it’s always more complex.”

“I didn’t know that,” Nat said. He really meant he hadn’t known other people experienced life in a way he would recognize. That his responses were shared by other human beings. But he couldn’t find the words for all that, so he didn’t elaborate. “I thought maybe you’d bring Feathers,” Nat said instead, glancing into the back seat as though he might just have missed seeing him.

“I thought of it. But then Maggie would have insisted on coming, and I thought it might be too chaotic.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll see him as soon as we get home.”

“OK.”

Silence. For a mile or more.

They were out on the Interstate now, and Nat watched the farmland flash by, and had a sudden vivid memory of seeing the world through a gap in the door of a freight wagon. It wasn’t only the world that seemed to match that memory, but the feeling associated with it. Freedom.

When the feeling had faded some and he’d grown tired of watching, Nat said, “I also thought maybe you’d bring … I’m sorry. What’s her name again? Your wife.”

“Eleanor.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“She’s home making dinner. She thought you might want a really good home-cooked meal on your first night home. I told her what you said about the food you’ve been eating. She’s making a baked ham with all the trimmings.”

“Really? That was nice of her. Especially after I was such a …” He chose not to finish the thought. “So … Um … What do I call her?”

“Eleanor will do.”

“OK.” Another long pause. “Well, then … what do I call
you
?”

“How about Nathan? After all, it’s my name.”

Another long silence. Two or three miles’ worth.

Nat said, “It’s kind of weird. Isn’t it? That I’ve seen you three times a week for the past three years, and I’m going home to live with you, and I just now got around to asking what I’m supposed to call you? It just seems weird.”

The old man mulled that over for a moment, then said, “There are some differences … some … complications … inherent in our odd situation.”

“I don’t know what that word means.”

“Inherent?”

“Yeah.”

“It means built in.”

“Oh. Sorry to sound stupid.”

“You didn’t. Not at all. It’s a sign of intelligence to ask the meaning of a word if you don’t know it.”

“Oh,” Nat said. “I didn’t know that.” Then he immediately felt stupid again. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you. But I …” He stumbled, floundered. Restarted. “Not that I’m complaining if the answer is yes, but … am I going to have to, like, sleep on the couch or something?”

“No, you’ll get your same room back.”

“Oh. Good.”

Nat breathed a sigh. Sat back and watched the world some more. It hadn’t changed. Long stands of trees. Plowed fields. Black and white cows grazing.

Then he said, “So you two sleep in the same room.”

The old man didn’t answer, but shot Nat a sideways glance that showed he was displeased. It said, as clearly as if in words, “Go no further.”

“You know what? I really, really, really didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I absolutely was not trying to pry into your personal stuff. Really. I didn’t mean it that way at all. It’s none of my business. All I meant was … well, I know I was a real jerk about it when you first told me. But all I’m trying to say is, it sounds like you’re happy. That very first day when I came to your house, and you told me about you and your other wife, and how she had her own room, it sounded sad. But this sounds happier. And I was just trying to say … if that’s true … and you’re happy … then I’m glad. That you’re happy.”

“My goodness,” the old man said. “I think that’s more words than you’ve said to me in the past three years all put together.”

Well, Nat thought, today there’s more to say. What was there to talk about day after day in that hole? Besides, he was excited and a little scared. And his excitement was spilling out in words. But he couldn’t quite put a voice to that.

So he just said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chatter.”

“It wasn’t a complaint,” the old man said. “Thank you for your thoughtful congratulations on my marriage. I
am
happy. And I appreciate that you can be happy for me.”

That seemed like a good opening, but it wasn’t. It struck Nat that this unusually successful exchange could be a jumping-off point for almost anything. But the jump felt too hugely intimidating. In fact, that’s just what it felt like. A jump. Like standing at the edge of a several-thousand-foot cliff, preparing to take a step.

It alarmed Nat so completely that he clammed up and said nothing more for the rest of the drive.

•  •  •

The old guy opened the dog run and let both dogs out into the yard.

Nat waited for Feathers to run greet him. But he never did. He just circled around and around the old man, jumping straight up into the air, but never hitting him with his paws.

“Hey, Feathers!” Nat called out. “Feathers, old boy. You’re my dog. I’m your person. Come say hi.”

The old man led both dogs over. Maggie licked Nat’s hand enthusiastically, but Feathers just sniffed it once and then stood close to the old man, partly hidden behind his legs.

“He doesn’t like me,” Nat said.

“You have to give him time.
I
know he’s your dog, and
you
know it, but
he
doesn’t know that yet. How can he know? I’ve been the one taking care of him for three years.”

“So he really isn’t my dog.”

“Of course he is.”

“Not according to him.”

“Give him time, Nat. Play with him. Take him for walks. And you should be the one to feed him from this point on. He’ll get the idea.”

“Can I bring him inside?”

“Only until dinner is served. And keep a low profile. Eleanor has mixed feelings about dogs in the house. I bring them in at least once every day. But just make sure everybody’s on his best behavior.”