I turn to him and force a smile.
Somehow, even that hurts.
“Hey, it’s like Taylor says,” I tell him. “I was always going places.”
It happens then.
As we’re walking toward Vince’s car, I can see my father standing alone in the distance at the end of the trees, the way he used to stand by himself at my football games, like he was standing guard over the whole day, taking it all in.
I don’t say anything to Vince about it, just keep my mind on the past.
My father would never show me anything when I’d look over athim during my games. Never tell me at the dinner table that night what he thought about how I played. He’d wait for me to tell him.
After I did, and because I didn’t play many bad games even then, it would be a private joke between us, him talking country to me. Just a little North Cackalacky between the two of us.
“Son,” he’d say. “Can’t lie. You were good as gravy today.”
And we’d both laugh.
I don’t feel like laughing now.
No lie.
NINE
I’M DISCHARGED FROM the rehabilitation center and wheeled out of the place over my objections.
I’m not driving a red Porsche today.
Taylor had been nice enough to drive the F-150 that had belonged to my father, one EJ had refused to sell after he passed, over to Chapel Hill.
The truck is beat up pretty good by now but still functioning, if not nearly as well as it once had.
Like me.
Burt has followed Taylor in his Crown Vic, so they’re both waiting for me, just as they’d sworn to EJ.
Taylor asks if I’d like company for the ride.
But I tell her that after the nonstop company in this place, I’ll be happy to be alone for a couple of hours.
“Just don’t make a habit of it,” she says.
“Habit of what?”
“Alone,” she says. “It’s not good for you. And it sure isn’t healthy.”
I take my time heading back, in no rush, resolved never to drive any vehicle fast ever again.
I think about making a stop at Blue Yonder, knowing that in the late afternoon Gideon’s dad will be there, fixing to open the place up. Mitchell Garland, already looking ten years older than he had the night of the party, had come to see me just the one time in the hospital. A few awkward minutes after he sat down, I realized that when he left that day that the idea we were still family was walking right out that door with him.
When I’m out on the open road, Wilco comes on the truck’s radio, singing a song called “The Late Greats.”
The best song will never get sung…
I roll down the windows, the way OST—the Original Silas Tucker—had when he was behind the wheel of this truck, when he was the one with the radio blaring, and he was so often singing along, even when I was with him and would make a show of covering my ears to try to get him to stop.
So good, you won’t ever know…
