After Silence

Lincoln could.

If he had torched the Meier house without ever having spoken to them, what would he do to Lily? Now that Lincoln knew Anwen Meier was not his mother, he would leave her alone. But he wouldn’t leave Lily alone, that was sure. One way or another, now or later, Lily and me… And possibly even—the thought was so horrendous and terrifying my mind almost wouldn’t process it: What might he do to his little sister?

I could have stayed and talked to Brendan, but what would it accomplish? Further prove what I already knew? Brendan’s story was simply too astonishing not to be believed. He had been kidnapped but was found and returned to his parents years later. How maddeningly unfair and ironic that must have been for Lincoln to hear! I pictured the two boys on the Meier front lawn early that morning. Was it light yet? Two boys with histories no human being deserved. One shirtless, in tattered clothes and a porcupine haircut, the other just out of bed in still-warm pajamas (such an endearing image—a teenage boy in his pajamas), talking together on the lawn. What did they say? How had their conversation gone? Walking back to my rented car, I went through half a dozen scenarios of what they’d said to each other in the short period before Lincoln, in an enlightened rage, attacked Brendan and kicked him in the groin. That was his style—kick ‘em in the balls, keep a gun behind your dresser, drive off in a stolen Mercedes. Our son. My son.

When he was young and bored, Lincoln would wander into my room with an expectant look on. Checking to see if I was busy, he’d come over and ask, “So, what’s going on, Max?”

“Not much, sport. What’s up with you?”

“Nothin’. You wa

I made time; I loved knowing this little boy liked to hang around with me.

I thought about that, racing out of Somerset for the second time in my life. It made me smile. Many of those good memories came during the ride back to New York, making it even more painful. It reminded me of driving away from a funeral. The fine memories of the times you spent with the dead one. All gone.

I had decided what to do by the time I reached the turnpike. At the next rest area I would pull off, find a telephone book, and start calling different airlines. When was their next plane to Los Angeles? What airport did it leave from? I had no doubt Lincoln would go home now. His anger at the Meiers had boomeranged on him in the most shocking, unexpected way. What else could he do but punish Lily a double dose now? First make her tell him who his real parents were so he could try to find them. And then… But Lily didn’t know. I was sure of that. Didn’t even remember where on the road she’d kidnapped him. That information could have easily been found by contacting the police in the area, but neither of us did it. Why? Because she didn’t want to know and neither did I, having decided to keep her secret all those years ago for my own selfish reasons.

I despaired, thinking of how great a head start he had on me. He was probably at an airport now, if not already on a plane heading home. I’d ask the airlines that too—how long ago did your last flight to L.A. leave? Would it be possible to find out if a certain Lincoln Fischer was on board? Would they tell you that over the phone? No.

I had to call Lily too. Call and warn her to get out of our house, our life, take our baby girl, run as fast as she could from our son, who was coming because he knew. And he knew because it was my fault. It was all my fault. Everything bad now I made, I caused. Looking too hard two thousand days ago, I should have left it alone and trusted my love and not my suspicions. My fault. Raising this lovely boy all wrong, not giving him what he needed to grow up a good soul. My fault. Giving him all the wrong directions to the right path. My fault. And taking notes!? Keeping a record of my life as a sinful man? Why? Why had I done these things? You did what you could. You did what you thought was right. No, you did what you thought would save you and Lily and fuck the rest of the world. That was the truth, wasn’t it? Fuck the rest of the world. My fault.

Passing trucks and buses, I sped down the fast lane way over the speed limit, thinking how to phrase this impossible phone call to my wife. Lily, he knows. It’s my fault. He knows and he’s coming to get you. Maybe Greer too. Blame me. No one else but me.

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw an Audi driving up fast behind. Moving over to let him pass, I slid right back into the lane and tagged along behind him a couple of miles. Lily, Lincoln found out about the Meiers and flew to New Jersey. He read my diary—Another car appeared in the rearview. I pulled over again. It pounded by, followed by another right after it. Lily, pack a bag for you and Greer… I rolled the window down. Pack bags for you and Greer—

I was phrasing that one out when the sound came up on my left. Did I recognize it? Maybe, maybe some part of me did. A whining and clattering of metal that could only be a car with fatal problems sailing too fast down the road toward blowup land or collapse any minute.

Lily, I kept this diary—

“Hey!” The car was next to me, inches outside my window. “Hey, fuckhead!”

I snapped a look and there was Lincoln at the wheel of the junker, smiling, pointing a gun at me.

“Remember this?” His gun exploded.

I jammed the wheel to the right and braked. My car slewed wildly—too many things to do at once. I tried to correct it, but it wouldn’t go. A long overpass loomed. I skidded under it going much too fast. Steering wheel still pulled to the right, I smacked into a cement wall and scraped down along it forever. The evil sound of stone tearing metal on and on. Dark. The dark of a tu

I stopped. Finally it stopped. The car was still under the overpass in complete shadow. The smell of damp stone and hot rubber. I was all right. Safe!

Before my head cleared beyond that wonder, Lincoln’s face was inches away and yelling. “Get out of the fucking car, Daddy boy!” He must have opened my door because, still confused and terrified by a moment ago, the next thing I knew I felt myself falling out of the car onto the road. My hands hit gravel or glass. Very sharp and painful, it gouged deep. I tried to stand up. The close sound of traffic in a tu

“C’mere, you fucking hump!” He took me by the ear and marched me forward toward the light. The morning sun was blinding. Totally disoriented, I didn’t try to free myself from his hold even though he was much shorter than me. He kept pinching my ear and, once we’d left the overpass, pushed me off the shoulder of the road to the grass embankment behind. The two of us slid-stumbled down it till the road was high above us and we were crouched among sticks and wet earth. The traffic noise was all up there.

“Lincoln—”

He had the gun in his hand and I recognized it was like the one at home. He had two guns? What was the name? Clock? Crock? I wanted to know the name. It was important to know the name.

He punched me on the temple. Pain and dizziness splashed my face like water. I couldn’t believe he’d done it. No one had ever hit anyone in our family. Never.

“Shut up. Remember that day, asshole? Remember that crazy guy driving up next to you and shooting? Remember telling me that story? I love that story! I loved when you told it to me! I was your son and it was one of my father’s great stories!” He hit himself on the chest with his gun. Thump thump thump. After the last, he punched me on the jaw with his other fist. Pain. The whomp of a big truck going by overhead and then an angry long car horn. Lincoln’s face up so close.

Through my panic and pain, I realized something for the first time. “But there were bullets in his gun that day, weren’t there? And you protected me, didn’t you, Lincoln? You stopped it from happening. You were too young to know what was going on, but you still saved me! My God! I never knew till now!”