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“Right. I’m not sure how to explain it, Brock. I’ve told you about Uncle Bryce’s father. About what a psychopath he was. I was there when Tom Simpson ended his life. I was the last person who saw him alive. I’m the one who had to tell Bryce that his father was dead. And I’m the one who had to tell Bryce…who his father truly was.”
I gulp.
“Tom Simpson was a good father to Bryce. So this was hell for him.”
“What about Aunt Ruby? Her father was one of the three as well.”
“Right, but that was different. Aunt Ruby never had a good relationship with her father. It’s a long story, but he tried to molest her when she was only fourteen or fifteen. Aunt Ruby ran away. She lived on the streets for years.”
Oh God. I’m really going to puke now.
“The good news is that Aunt Ruby’s father didn’t actually complete the deed. She got away. But Aunt Ruby always knew who her father was. Bryce did not.”
My bowels clench. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Believe me, Brock. I’ve been there and then some.”
I can’t say anything. If I do, puke might spew out of my mouth.
“My point is,” Dad continues, “Uncle Bryce and I have a bond that in some ways is closer than the bond I share with my brothers. Tom Simpson was like a father to me as well. And my own father… Damn. My own father did not molest children. He did not kill people. He was a better man than Tom Simpson.”
My father stares straight ahead now, straight to the mountains through the front window of the truck.
Is he trying to convince himself more than me?
“Obviously my grandfather did some bad things, but at least they didn’t include abusing children.”
“Tom Simpson did more than abuse children, Brock. He killed children. He killed his own nephew.”
God. Bowels clenching. Stomach churning. I swallow. Swallow again. “His nephew?”
“Yes, his nephew on his wife’s side. The little boy’s name was… Damn. What was his name? How ridiculously comfortable have I gotten in my fucking life that I can’t remember a tortured little boy’s name?”
I’m starting to feel sympathy for my father, but I’m feeling anger as much as anything. Anger that he kept all of this from us, left us unable to deal with it, and now everything’s creeping back.
“Luke. That was his name. Luke Walker. He was Bryce’s cousin on his mother’s side.” Dad rubs his temples.
“Dad…”
“Yeah?”
“What does all this mean? You, Uncle Bryce…”
“Uncle Bryce and I have an understanding. We… We had a friend. Well, he wasn’t really a friend. He was a kid in school who got bullied. Uncle Bryce and I hated bullies, so we came to his defense. We tried to befriend him, and we invited him on one of our camping trips with Bryce’s father.”
Oh God. Already I know this story isn’t going to end well.
Dad pauses, and just when I’m convinced he’s not going to share anything more—
“The kid… He died on that camping trip. Or so Bryce and I were led to believe. It wasn’t until later, nearly thirty years later, that we learned what actually happened.”
“Do I want to know?”
“If you’re old enough to ask the questions, son, you’re old enough to hear the answers. I’ve told you this before.”
I swallow. Swallow back the nausea that threatens to erupt out of my throat like freaking Mount Vesuvius.
Do I want to know? Is it even important to what’s happening now? Only Dad can tell me.
