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I reeled a fraction. “Me? Oh, I’m fine, Mr. Dubois. You don’t need to worry about me.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean it. I know what happened. Ben told me everything. I want to make sure he didn’t scare you. That you understand what he’s going through. When someone holds on to a secret like that, I know it can harm others.”
Ah, I see what this is. “I understand and believe me, I know why he didn’t say anything. The only thing that hurts is knowing what he went through and that I wasn’t there to help.”
“That son of a bitch did more than just hurt my son’s body. He hurt his mind.” His stare fell into the distance, as if he could see something beyond us. “I swear to god, if he were in front of me now…”
I moved, putting my eyes right in his line of sight. “Mr. Dubois, you should know that I like your son. Very, very much. The last thing I will ever do is hurt him. Physically or mentally.”
Rapid blinking. The Dubois boys’ signature tell.
“You’re a good man, Connor. My son likes you, as well. Very, very much, as you said. You know he called me after the emergency with your mother? ‘Hey Dad, you’ll never guess who is back in town,’ he said. Ha!”
I blushed and lowered my face to hide it. Walt smiled.
“I get my boy back when he’s around you,” Walt said.
“How do you mean?”
“Before we left Virginia, before the accident with his mother, my boy was so full of life. Always smiling. Always joking. He had a spark. His mother took that from him and then thatbastardmade it worse. But when he’s around you? Well. My little Ben-boy and all his smiling comes right back.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I stared, opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. My heart swelled at Walt’s sentiment, as if the canyon of time between Bennett and me flooded with all the ways in which we enriched our lives together, past, present, and future. To know you can make someone feel like himself is a singular gift worthy of all the riches in the world.
Bennett came up the stairs. “Is it okay to come out now? Are you two done chatting about me?”
Walt chuckled, clapped me on the back, and waved at Bennett.
We left shortly after. Walt walked us to the door, gave us both a hug, and told us to drive safely. We piled into my car and backed down the driveway. Night had fallen and the streetlamps shed light on a few cars parked along the road. As I cut the wheel to swing out into an empty street, my eyes caught a particularly dark car with tinted windows.
Jersey plates, I realized.
I drove off and kept my eyes in the rearview. The headlights of the car turned on in a fancy way, a string of blue-white LEDs running in a line before the lamps kicked on. The car followed us for only a single street before driving off.
Odd.
I cast it from my mind. Too many years spent playing Agent Mercer made me think I was something I was most certainly not.
We got back to Bennett’s place and I stayed as late as I could.
And yes, I did sit on my hands. I submitted myself to Bennett’s direction. We kissed and kissed until all I could taste was him long after I left.
I slept like a rock that night.
ChapterEleven
MYFATHER’S1962 Thunderbird waited for me as I finished paying the inspection mechanic the next day. Cream-colored and shaped like a bullet, the vehicle stood out amongst the various models parked beside her. The spring sun hit her just right, making the red leather interior really pop. The mechanic had complimented me, something I sent immediately up into the sky to my dad, wherever he was.
That’s for you, Pop. He died not too long after I had been born. I found solace in that he had the chance to hold me. A father-sized hole remained in my heart, and I filled it with knowing that he, at least, had a chance to know me. If only just a little.
My mother may have always stood adjacent to her role as my provider and caretaker. She did, however, dedicate herself to acquainting me with the persona of Darren Clarke. Just for me, she wrote two plays that captured my father’s image, character, and morality.The Journal Entries of Darren Clarkeand its sequel,My Father’s Ghost.
The first of these delved into Darren's formative years. She wrote of his transition through adolescence, how they met, and the culminating event, the year of my birth. She narrated the story through the pages of a cherished diary. The second creation showed the exploration of every significant milestone in my life until the tender age of sixteen. Cordelia wrote this one through my father’s point of view, where he lived beyond the pale.
Oh, how my mother reacted when I told her I was signing up for service. She rattled off no less than twenty reasons why I should go to college instead. I responded the easiest way I knew how, by flipping to the second act inThe Journal Entriesand showing her the scene she wrote about my father joining the army.Because I want to be like him,my actions said. She didn’t put up an argument after that.
I had no living memory of my father, but through my mother’s words and emulating him, I had come to know Darren Clarke as well as she had.
I pulled the heavy door open and sank onto the ample red cushion, the carpeting a shade lighter. A silver inlay ran along the side panels. Two buckets in the front, a bench in the back that, to my knowledge, had only ever been used for one thing by two people. The interior still smelled the same, something between old leather and fresh soap. When I had backed it out of the garage earlier that day, the scent alone sent me way, way back to my summer of love.
