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“It’s only a matter of time before they find out she’s a prostitute, Darren,” he continues. Rausch moves closer, looming over me. “You fuck prostitutes, Darren. You don’t marry them.”
I storm out of the living room and back down the hall towards the office, but Rausch stops me.
“This,” he points towards the front door, “is not something you can run or hide from forever, Darren. Whether you like it or not, your parents were prominent figures in Washington. Your mother served on many charity boards that still need to be handled.” He walks into my father’s office and stretches his arms out. “You wanted to run the estate? Well, this is running it. Grow the fuck up!”
I knew Rausch was so tangled up in my parents' business that it would be hard to cut him from the brambles, but I never thought of a scenario where I would be willing to wait to cut him free. I need him right now, and he knows it.
“Their staff can handle all of this,” I say, punting responsibility elsewhere because I don’t want it.
“You really don’t understand how things work,” Rausch growls and leans so far over the desk that I can smell his breath. He might be right about that, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.
“I don’t care how it used to work,” I retort and shake my head.
“Your mother raised money for domestic violence victims. She created the Abigail Pershing Foundation, which provides safe houses for women.” Rausch steps back from the desk and turns to look at the bookshelf while he rubs his neck. “Are you going to let them down?” His voice changes, becoming lower, more cautious, and full of emotion.
I can’t see his face, but I know he can feel my father in this room just as much as I do. He’s everywhere; in the spines of each book, molded into the carvings in the corners of the wood door frames, and reflected back at me in the windowpane that looks out to the side yard. It occurs to me how much Rausch has been a part of my parents' lives, even before my father ran for office.
“Were you in love with my mother?”
“Why would you ask me such a question?” His blue eyes flare with anger.
“Were you?” I press further.
He takes a moment before answering as if choosing his words carefully.
“I loved both of your parents,” he says with conviction and rare emotion. “I don’t want to see their legacies die with them.”
I don’t know whether I believe him or not, but he is right about one thing, at least; I don’t want my mother to be forgotten. Rausch might be an asshole, but he’d never steered my father wrong, and he was always there for my mother.
“You can hate your father all you want, Darren, but you can never escape being his son.”
His words land like a heavy crown placed upon my head, the weight almost crippling. The responsibility is something I’ve been running from my whole life. “I didn’t ask to be his son.”
“But you are, and the sooner you accept it, the easier it will be.”
The mention of fathers and sons reminds me of something. “I will take responsibility for my mother’s charity.”
Rausch gives me an approving nod.
“But in return, you will tell me about my grandfather.”
Wet leaves cling to the grass, even as the sun shines through a few stubborn clouds. I used to like fall, the way the leaves changed colors, a signal of the impending holiday seasons. Evangeline hands me a jacket as she sits down on the bench next to me. She doesn’t say anything, just watches the birds in the tree. She’s very good at knowing when to sit in the silence, and when not to.
“Halloween was my favorite holiday as a kid,” I say without looking at her. “It was the one holiday that was actually fun.” I smile at the memory of our street transforming with decorations and groups walking house to house. “It was the one time when the other kids were excited to visit our house, not because of who my father was, but because he wore the best Dracula costume and scared the crap out of everyone,” I laugh.
“I can’t even imagine,” she laughs, pressing a fist to her mouth.
“Yeah, well, this was before he became too serious.”
I push my arms through the sleeves of the jacket, pulling it tight around my body against the chilly air. “Thanksgiving and Christmas were full of obligations, and stuffy parties I was invited to so my parents could show off how well I played the piano,” I continue.
“You do play beautifully,” she says, the pink in her cheeks darkening.
I nod, looking down at the wet stones surrounding the bench. “I wanted to make my mother happy. The better I got, the more attention I got.” I laugh. “It’s stupid, I know,” I say.
“I think it’s normal that every kid wants to make their parents proud,” she says, placing a comforting hand on my thigh, and I can feel the misery in her touch. It seeps through my jeans and right into my thigh, burrowing itself deep into my bones. Like calls to like, and I have no doubt she understands, but I’m too fucking selfish to ask her about it, not that I think she’d tell me anyway. I’d rather be alone in my misery right now.
Instead, I snort. “Well, I wasn’t very good at making my parents proud,” I say, shifting my position on the bench to face her. “Fuckup after fuckup.”
