IF DAD HADN'T FOUND out while he was at work, he'd certainly figured it out when he got home. With our ratty old scrub brush and a dented metal pail, he was trying to wash the spray paint off the garage door. So far he'd only managed to blur the letter F in FAGGOT. Smudged, it looked more like an "E." A minivan drove by our house and I pictured the kid in the backseat: "Mommy, what's an 'Eaggot?"
Dad stopped scrubbing as soon as I walked up the driveway, but he didn't turn around. I stood behind him for a long while. What was I supposed to say?
A lump caught in my throat every time I tried to say even a word. I knew this wouldn't be easy, but I wasn't prepared for what he did next.
He stood up with the bucket, swung it above his head, and slammed it into the driveway with such force that the metal pail shattered into bits.
He walked inside, both his good and bad hands shaking. I noticed a deep cut on his good hand. I couldn't tell if it was from the pail shattering, or maybe he'd cut it at work, fixing a faulty gear or crank, or maybe I didn't want to know where the gash came from.
He couldn't even look at me.
My chest felt hollow. I didn't think I could ever feel worse.
I looked down at my shirt, stained with the sudsy paint lather sprayed from the bucket. I gave Dad a few minutes and then I crept inside, careful not to make a noise.
All I could think about in that moment was to get clean. I took my stained shirt off in the laundry room and dropped it in the washing machine with Dad's foreman uniform. He hadn't run it yet, so I filled a cup with dry detergent. I looked in the washing machine and was puzzled by what I saw.
I pulled out his uniform and took a closer look. It was perfectly clean.
I stared at the tiny pebbles of detergent caught in the crisp folds of the uniform and wondered why he was going to such great lengths to make me think he'd been wearing it. And the cut on his hand—it would have been a common enough injury when he was working the lines, but not now that he was a foreman. He was lying to me about something.
I remembered what Justice had asked me, and I stared at the uniform for an answer.
Where has your father been lately? * * *
Ruth called and offered me the couch at her place, and I would have been happy to accept the invitation. Dad hadn't exactly left suitcases in my room as a hint, but obviously he would be happier not to see me for a while. Still, I turned down her offer. I told Ruth I wasn't going to run. I was done with hiding who I was—that was the old me.
I lay on my bed and fought off the urge to cry. I watched the moon move above the horizon and thought long and hard about what my life would be like from now on. Anyone I'd meet would know me from the news—would know my biggest secret. It would taint everything, from going to school, to picking up food at the grocery store, to getting a job. I'd experienced a taste of the public's disdain from watching Dad over the years, but I had a feeling that wouldn't hold a candle to being the target of contempt myself.
Finally I willed myself to head for the attic to get my suitcase. Maybe I wasn't as brave as I thought. Maybe Mom had the right idea about running away, after all. I walked down the hall, and I was certain Dad would be able to hear me move across the floorboards. His door was closed, his light off. I stopped in front of the door and
raised my hand to knock.
I wanted to talk to him so bad, to hear him tell me it was all going to be okay, that he knew what it was like to have everyone think so poorly of you, but that life goes on, and there are good things ahead. I wanted him to split a beer with me and talk about it. It was probably way too soon, but he had to know his son was suffering, that I needed him more than anything else.
Against my better judgment, I knocked. I waited a beat and held my ear to the space at the bottom of the door. With one ear on the fuzzy carpet, I listened. I felt cool air from the fan against my ear as it poured out from the other side. A couple of seconds went by, and I told myself he was probably just thinking about the right thing to say. Then a minute went by, and still no response. I thought maybe I'd knocked too lightly, maybe he hadn't heard it, so I knocked again. Nothing.
Still no response. Hell, maybe he wasn't even in there. I could have checked the driveway for his car, but I didn't. Instead I reached up and yanked the cord dangling from the ceiling and pulled down the stairs to the attic. I climbed up the rickety wooden steps, the springs groaning under my weight. I grabbed a dusty suitcase.
Back in my room I unzipped the suitcase on my bed and started to pack. I stuffed my socks in the corners of the case, a space-saving technique Dad had taught me. Suddenly I felt cold and dug around for a sweatshirt to put on. Then I realized that the window was wide open. This struck me as strange because I was almost positive that I hadn't opened it.
The air from outside was chilly and fresh. I took a deep breath and it smelled good, like the garden my mom used to keep. It reminded me of helping her pick weeds in the summers.
The gardenia bush was Mom's favorite, and she taught me to take special care of it. On warm summer days, I still had vivid memories of lying on the carpet in the family room, the fresh-cut gardenias floating in tiny glass bowls of water, their scent wafting into my nostrils. The smell always made me sleepy, at peace, and some days Dad would come home from work and stop short of tripping over me in a deep sleep on the floor.
The first time I'd been old enough to save enough money from doing chores around the house and yard, I bought my mother a special birthday gift, a vial of drugstore perfume, gardenia scented. Mom unwrapped the lumpy paper, delighted at what she saw. (I think Dad had given her a waffle iron that year.) She hugged me and wrapped her pinky around mine, our secret shake. She sprayed a thin mist into the air and stepped through it. She'd worn only that brand ever since.
"Thorn?"
I turned around and thought I was imagining things. Maybe I'd finally lost it. I'd been through so much that day, it wouldn't have been such a stretch to start hallucinating. I couldn't remember when I'd last had something to eat or drink.
I turned back to the suitcase and began laying my underwear in neatly stacked piles. "Thorn?" the voice called again.
This time I knew I wasn't hallucinating. I felt her hand on my cheek. I knew that voice. And I knew the smell of that perfume.