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Jack gave his brother an incredulous look. “Really? Seems pretty damn obvious to me.”
“I never killed a kid before.”
“That ‘kid’ was going to murder another person if you hadn’t stopped him.”
Jeff rubbed his jaw and glanced away. “Christine and Gordon gave Sam the money to get the treatment in Switzerland. He’s been over there for the last month. Sounds like he might get a few more years of living out of it.”
“Good. And Momma and Daddy?”
“Out in the garage.”
The desks, file cabinets, and chalkboard were long gone. His father was working on another engine for another neighbor, for cash. They had bought the dishwasher with the proceeds of the other motor rebuild. Hilly was handing him the tools he needed. The recliner and TV were gone. His father was not smoking and it seemed that his breathing had eased some.
The sign, though, was still up on the wall.
Jack glanced at it: DUBOSE AND LEE.
His mother carefully embraced him, and his father shook his son’s hand, but did so gently.
“I talked to your doctor and he said you’re almost eighty percent,” Hilly said.
“I guess.” He looked at the engine. “You should open up your own shop. With Daddy’s mechanical know-how and your energy and attention to detail, Momma, you two could make a real go of it.”
“What I told her,” said Frank as he went back to fiddling with the carburetor.
Hilly looked steadfastly at her oldest son. “You still planning on heading out?”
Jack had already communicated this intention to them. “I am. It feels right.”
His mother wrapped her sweater around herself more tightly and said, “Well, for what it’s worth, I think so, too.”
“It’s actually worth a lot, Momma.”
“Think you’ll ever come back, son?” asked his father.
“I never say never, at least not anymore.”
Hilly said, “With the way the world is right now, what’s the point?”
CHAPTER 93
JACK HAD NEVER BEEN ON a plane before, and he found it equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. When it landed, he picked up his suitcase, hoisted his briefcase, and grabbed a taxi outside the bustling airport.
He hadn’t written, or called. He just wanted to show up. He thought it might be best. But it also could be a disaster. He had come amply prepared for both, he hoped.
The taxi ride was long and carried him to a section of the city where children played stickball in the street and vendors sold their wares from little carts. The air was colder than in Virginia and the breeze brisk. He had seen the body of water they had flown over that looked as big as the whole of the Chesapeake Bay. But the passenger seated next to Jack had told him it was merely a lake.
“Lake Michigan,” she had said.
“Calling that thing a lake doesn’t do it justice,” Jack had replied.
He paid the taxi driver and got out at his destination. He took a moment to adjust his tie and shirt cuffs. He picked up his bag and briefcase and took a deep breath. The building had no elevator, so he trudged up the four floors. His body ached some and probably always would, the surgeon had told him.
“Grazed your subclavian artery and tore up some bone and muscle. If that artery had been severed, you wouldn’t be here. You’re a very lucky young man.”
“I feel lucky,” Jack had said. “And also very unlucky.”
“And if that bullet hadn’t passed through the other man first...?” The doctor shook his head and looked grim.
