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“Well, then, Cooper,” I say.
“Cooper is busy with his latest case,” Dad says. “So I’m afraid it’s just you and me. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, of course, but I took a chance. Have a seat. There’s a bottle of wine there. I hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I’m sticking with soda these days.”
Shocked, I pull out a chair and sink down into it, as much because I’m not sure I can stand up anymore as because he asked me to.
“Dad,” I say, looking at the carefully set table, “you don’t have to cook di
“It’s the least I can do,” Dad says. He takes the steaks out of the pan and sets them on two plates, along with the mushrooms and onions. “I’ll just let these sit a minute,” he explains. “They’re better that way. Juicier. So.” He pulls out the chair across from mine and sits down in it. “How was your day?”
I stare at him for a minute. I’m tempted actually to tell him,Well, Dad, not so good, actually. We found out what they did with the rest of Lindsay Combs, and it wasn’t pretty. Then I manhandled a student and when the higher-ups find out about it, I’ll probably be fired.
But instead I say, “It was fine, I guess. How was your day?” Because I really don’t want to get into it.
“Fine, fine,” Dad says. “Cooper had me follow a man from his office to his lunch appointment, then back to his office.”
My eyebrows go up. Way up. I can’t believe I’m finally learning something about what Cooper does all day.
“Really? Who hired him to follow the guy? What’s the guy supposed to have done?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you any of that,” Dad says pleasantly. “Here.” Dad pours me a glass of red wine and hands it to me.
“But I work for the company,” I say. “Client-detective privilege should extend to me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Cooper was quite explicit about me not telling you anything.”
“But that’s not fair!” I cry.
“He said you’d say that. I’m sorry, honey. But he seems really to prefer that you don’t know. I think it’s due to your tendency to get yourself involved in situations you really ought to stay out of. Like this murder at your dorm. I think the steaks are ready now.”
Dad pops up to get them. I sip my wine, scowling into the candle flames.
“Residence hall,” I say, as he plops a plate filled with perfectly cooked steak down in front of me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a residence hall,” I say. “Not a dorm. Saying dorm does not foster a warm sense of community, which is what we’re aiming for. Well, aside from all the senseless killing.” I cut off a piece of meat and chew. Heaven. Marinated to perfection.
“I see,” Dad says. “That’s very like how we called Eglin a camp and not what it was—prison.”
“Right,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “Made you forget about the shivs, and concentrate on all the lavalieres.”
“Oh, no one had a shiv,” Dad says, with a chuckle. “How do you like your steak?”
“It’s great,” I say, swallowing another bite. “Okay, so as long as we’re exchanging pleasantries about our places of work—or incarceration—what’s the deal? Why are you here, Dad? It’s not really because you have nowhere else to go, because I know you’ve got plenty of rich friends you could be shacking up with instead of me. And this getting-to-know-your-daughter-better thing—sorry, I’m not buying it. So level with me. What’s the scam? And please keep in mind that I’m pretty sure I outweigh you.”
Dad puts down his fork and lets out a sigh. Then he takes a sip of Diet Coke and says, “You’re so like your mother, it’s unca
I feel the usual bubble of animosity that pops up every time he says this. But this time, I tamp it down.
“Yeah, I think we’ve established that you believe that,” I say. “So let’s move on. Why were you looking for Mom’s number in my apartment today?”
“Because,” Dad says, “for some years now, I’ve been working a sort of… program. It has certain steps that its practitioners must follow if, by the end, they hope to achieve spiritual enlightenment. And one of the steps is that they must make amends with those they have harmed. That is why I wanted to phone your mother. To try to make amends.”
“Dad,” I say. “Mom left you. Don’t you think she’s the one who needs to be making amends? With both of us?”
Dad shakes his head. “I promised your mother when I married her that I would love and support her. That didn’t just mean emotionally. I promised to support her financially, as well, especially while she stayed home and raised you. When I went to prison, I was forced to renege on my part of that bargain. It’s my fault, really, that your mother had to take you out on the road in order to support you both.”
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “She couldn’t just get a job as a receptionist in a doctor’s office somewhere. She had to parade her freakishly musical kid around in front of the masses at various malls.”
Dad makes a tsk-tsking sound.
“Now, Heather,” he says. “Don’t try to rewrite history. You loved performing. We couldn’t keep you off the stage. Believe me, I tried. Your mother only did what she felt she had to… and you certainly never complained.”
I lay down my fork. “Dad. I was eleven. Do you really think that was the kind of decision that should have been left to me?”
Dad looks down at his food. “Well, that’s an issue you’re going to have to work out with your mother. I’m afraid by that time, I was no longer in a position to be actively involved in your parenting.”
“True,” I say. And fat chance of me ever having an opportunity to “work out” my issues with Mom. That’s something that’s a little hard to do over the phone. Though Dad seemed perfectly willing to try. “So. Did you find the number?”
“Yes,” Dad says. “It was in your address book. Some of the addresses in there are quite old, you know. You should think about getting a new book. If you want, I could do that for you tomorrow.”
I ignore this offer.
“Did you call her?”
“I did,” Dad says.
“And did you make amends?”
“I tried to,” Dad says. “But your mother can, as you know, be very difficult. She refused to admit that I had hurt her in any way. In fact, she reminded me—as you did, just now—that it was she who leftme, and that if anyone should be making amends, it’s her. But that she doesn’t care to, because, according to her, I deserve everything I got.”
I nod. “Yeah, that sounds like Mom, all right. It really sucks when you say I’m like her, by the way. If you tried to make amends with me, I’d be much more receptive.”
“Well,” Dad says. “That’s good, because you’re next on my list.”
I shrug. “Amends accepted.”
“I haven’t even made them yet.”
“Yeah, you have,” I say. “This di
“This di
“Well,” I say, “now that you’re living here, maybe you can cure it with multiple steak di
“Heather,” Dad says, sounding sad. “Food can’t serve as a balm for all the harm I’ve caused you. I understand that, of all the people I hurt when I broke the law, you are the one who suffered the most. Leaving you alone with your mother, who then put you on that mall tour. Even if you did enjoy it, that’s no way for anyone to spend her childhood, living in a trailer and traveling from mall to mall, being exploited by the one person who should have been looking out for your best interests.”
“It was more fun than going to school,” I point out. “And, like you said—it was hard to get me off the stage back then.”
“But you were deprived of the normal joys of childhood. And I can’t help but feel that that deprivation is partially responsible for the way you are today.”