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Daddy nodded.
"Should I come with you. Daddy?" I asked him. "No, it's not necessary," he said.
"Maybe she should. Isaac," Mommy said. The
worry in his eyes made him reconsider.
"Okay, sure," he said. "He's probably still up in
the west field."
"Hopefully, coming to his senses," Mommy
said.
Daddy nodded, and he and I left.
"Was it true that Uncle Peter never knew any of
this. Daddy?" I asked as we walked over the field. "Sometimes I felt he did, that he knew
instinctively. He never asked any questions or made
any statements. and I never brought it up with him.
Peter was Grandad's only window on happiness and
light. I couldn't find it in my heart to close that
window. You remember how Grandad would chastise
him but do it relatively gently. I never saw him take a
strap to him or ever strike him.
"I suppose Peter was some sort of salvation,
some sort of redemption to him."
"But Daddy. Grandad accused me of doing
sordid things with Uncle Peter."
"Only after Peter's death. Whatever hope or
strain of kindness lingered in my father died with Peter that day, and of course. Grandad assumed it was God's way of imposing additional punishment. He blamed himself. He blamed you. He blamed us all. It's as though he believes we're all infected with the
disease of his own sins.
"I know you hate him for what he did to Uncle
Simon's garden and the things he's been saving to you,
but you don't hate him half as much as he hates
himself, Honey. Just remember that if you can, and
maybe you can find some part of yourself that will
