Part 16 (1/2)

”f.u.c.k you, Max. f.u.c.k you for the rest of your s.h.i.+ta.s.s life. f.u.c.k you and Lily and all the lies and everything about you two. You want me to do something for you? You're gonna pay for it. You're going to pay for everything now, c.o.c.ksucker.”

”How do you feel?”

He thought a moment. ”I feel... I feel weird. Like my life, um, has been lived on another planet tillnow and it just landed here. Something along those lines. I'm sure you can understand what I'm saying, Dad .”

”Yes, I understand.”

”I bet. Well, good. I wanted to tell you that, Max. But I don't think I want to inform your wife for a while because, um, one 'parent' at a time's enough.”

I didn't understand what he meant but had no time to ask. A beautiful silver Mercedes pulled up across the street and stopped. The horn honked. Lincoln waved to it. ”Gotta go now. I'll, like, talk to you later, okay?”

”Where are you going?”

”Got some stuff to do with Elvis.”

”Elvis? That's him in the car? He doesn't own a Mercedes.”

”It's a friend's.”

”Lincoln, don't! We have to talk”

”The f.u.c.k we do!” He ran into the street without looking. Yelling over his shoulder, he stopped in the middle of traffic, turned to me, then to the Mercedes, to me. ”Now we do things my way, Daddyo.

Now that I know the big secret . Just today. It's like my friggin' bar mitzvah! Today I became a man !”

He threw up both arms, hands in fists, and, waving them at the sky, howled like a wolf. Cars slowed to look. One driver howled back at him. Another sped away from this raving punk. Elvis honked and honked the horn. I stepped into the street but was stopped short when a motorcycle came zooming by.

On the other side, Lincoln rounded the Mercedes, ducked, disappeared, and the silver car roared off before I heard the pa.s.senger's door close.

Running back into the restaurant, I told Lily I had to go home right now, no explanation why. I had to get to his gun. What might he do on the day he discovered who he was? Maybe go crazy. Or do something crazy. Forget what Mary said. I had to get to that gun before him and put it someplace safe.

Then we would talk. Talk and talk until I'd made things as clear as I could to him.

There was a bad accident on Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard, and the familiar ominous mix of whizzing lights on police cars and ambulances, plus a sputtering orange flare lying on the ground, made the earlyevening scene even more neon and ugly. For the first time in years I remembered a day from childhood. On a summer Sunday before Saul was born, my parents took me to Palisades Park in New Jersey. I was about seven and had never been to an amus.e.m.e.nt park before. The day was a complete success and should have been one of those cherished memories of childhood because I had enough fun and excitement to exhaust ten boys. But fun isn't often as memorable as death.

On the ride home, once across the Tappan Zee Bridge we were immediately stopped by a giant traffic jam. The line went on for miles and was so slow moving that several times my father turned off the engine to keep it from overheating. But there was a baseball game on the radio, my mother had her knitting, and if anyone got hungry there were still a couple of sandwiches left in the picnic basket. We were happy. Dad and I listened to the game for a while, but tired from the day and the sunburn it had given me as a goingaway present, I lay down on the wide back seat and fell asleep.

I don't know how long I was out, but I awoke to the sound of Mom's voice. ”Just don't make any noise and he won't wake up.”

Dad made a long quiet whistle. ”I haven't seen one that bad in years.”

I opened my eyes, but with a child's intuition knew a moment before she turned that Mom was about to check me. When she did, I pretended to be fast asleep.

”Max's all right. Still snoozing. Oh my G.o.d, Stanley! Oh my G.o.d !”

I couldn't stand the mystery. What was happening? It probably wouldn't have made any difference if I had sat up and exclaimed too, because both parents were transfixed by the scene outside. I slid across the seat and, peeking through the window, saw a smoking battlefield of wrecked cars, flas.h.i.+ng lights, fire engines, people running around. Police blue, firemen yellow, doctors white.

There were bodies. First I saw two together covered by a blanket, their feet sticking meekly out.

Next, and most amazing, was the child launched halfway through the winds.h.i.+eld of a car. This was in the time before unbreakable safety gla.s.s was standard in automobile windows. It was a child; I was sure ofthat because despite being almost entirely covered by a coating of s.h.i.+ny blood, the visible part of the body was short and thin. The upper torso stuck up through the winds.h.i.+eld like it had been shot from the back seat but stopped halfway out. A small arm wearing a wrist.w.a.tch hung down. I could see the white watch face. That small spot of white in all the streaked, glaring red. A perfect white circle. The rest was blood and crushed, formless chaos. I absorbed it all in seconds. When my mother began turning around again, I zipped back to my sleeping position and wasn't caught. I was too scared to try for another look, and a short while later we were past the wreck and sped up.

”Roll it up, pal.” Four decades later, a helmeted policeman held a flashlight and waved it across my face. ”You've seen the show. Move on.” I accelerated, thinking about my sevenyearold self in a back seat, the dead child through the winds.h.i.+eld, and my son.

When I got home there were no cars in the driveway or in front of the house. Good, but that didn't mean anything. He could have been dropped off already and could be inside. I parked on the street and, standing next to the car, took several long, deep breaths before moving. What should I say if he was there?

I started for the house, running questions and answers through my mind, readying myself for whatever he might ask. But would anything give him clarity, or comfort, now that he knew?

I was almost to the door when I saw them. The front of our house is a couple of steps up to a large porch and the front door. There are metal chairs on the porch set back a ways where Lily and I often sat in the evening and chatted when she returned from work.

Two little boys were sitting on these chairs. I stopped, startled to see anyone up there, knowing our family was gone.

”Hi, Mr. Fischer!”

”Hey, Mr. Fischer!”

It was two of the Gillcrist boys from down the street. Nice kids, about nine and ten years old. You always saw them hanging around together.

”Hi, guys. What're you doing up there?”

”Edward dared me to come and sit on your porch.”

”What did he dare you?”

”A quarter.”

I reached into my pocket, took out one, and handed it to him.

”How come you're paying? Ed lost!”

”Shut up, Bill! If he wants to pay, he can.”

”Did anyone come into the house since you two've been here?”

”No, sir. We've been around, I don't know, half an hour?”

”You didn't see Lincoln?”

”Nope.”

”Okay. Well, I guess you'd better head on home now. It's getting pretty late.”

Edward got up and gave Bill a shove when his brother was slow in rising. Bill poked him back.

Edward poked ”Hey, guys!”

”He's always starting!”

”'Cause you're stupid!”

”I know you are, but what am I?”