Jeremy knew he’d pushed his luck as far it would go. His father remained on the couch, looking whipped and eager to finish what was in his bottle, but he could change in a split second. Jeremy needed to get out of the house before the alcohol made Don any meaner than he already was.
He started to go. He wanted to run away, like he’d planned for so long. But he didn’t have any of his gear. He didn’t even have his car keys. They were on the side table next to his father. He was afraid to get them for fear his father would grab his hand.
He needed those keys. Didn’t want to walk. Couldn’t walk. The cemetery lay between him and anywhere he’d want to go, except the bait-and-tackle shop where he’d used the pay phone to warn Isaac that Claire might not be safe. Why hadn’t Isaac looked out for her?
Someone had broken into her house. He’d heard about that, too. And now she was gone…?.
The hatred he felt toward his father distilled into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach. If she was hurt, Don was to blame. Don had too many secrets to let her keep digging up the past. He said that over and over. Or maybe he’d hired Les Weaver. Like before. Les had killed David. Jeremy would never forget the call his father had received the day David was shot. “It’s done,” he’d heard when he accidentally picked up the extension at the same time his father answered.
Gathering his courage, Jeremy turned around to confront Don again. “She’s dead, like her mother. Isn’t she?”
Eyebrows jerking together like furry caterpillars, his father started to laugh.
Jeremy couldn’t figure out how to react to that. His father never laughed anymore. He was acting strange. “What’s so funny?”
With a pained sigh, he leaned back. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do. I want to know what’s going on. Is it Tug? You saw him again. You were with Joe, too. I heard you talking to them on the phone before you left.”
“You think I should explain?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Fine. This is what’s going on. I’m sitting here wondering what I ever did to deserve you. How is it that I married a no-good woman who bears a retarded son, then divorces me and refuses to take responsibility for the kid we created? How is it that I get falsely accused at the gun shop and lose my job? That I hurt my back? It’s funny, isn’t it? Here I am, with nothing, nothing but you—the one thing I don’t want.”
Jeremy felt his lip come out. “That’s not nice. I’m not…retarded. That’s a bad word. You’re not supposed to say it.”
“I’ll say it if I want to!” His face beamed scarlet as he jumped to his feet. “You’re not right in the head. I should’ve done what George did to Lennie. Lord knows I’ve thought about it often enough.”
Who was this George and Lennie his father kept talking about? George and Lennie and sometimes Curly’s wife. You have to shoot your own dog, he’d mutter, mostly when he was drunk.
But they didn’t have a dog. Neither did they know a George, or a Lennie, or even a Curly. Jeremy hated hearing about those people. If they were friends of his father’s, Jeremy had never seen them, but whoever they were, they were always on his father’s side.
“I don’t want to hear about Lennie anymore.” The words weren’t very loud. They sort of squeaked out, but Jeremy was proud of himself for speaking at all. He’d never stood up to his father before. “No more about shooting dogs, either. You’re the one who’s not right in the head.”
Look what he’d done to Alana…?. Jeremy had proof in the crawl space, didn’t he? How would his father like it if he pulled that suitcase out?
He didn’t have a chance to ask. His father lunged forward, baring his yellow teeth. “Maybe it’s not too late. No, it’s not too late. Why not do it now?” Steadying himself with one hand on the wall, he gestured toward the kitchen. “Get my gun.”
Jeremy leaped back, out of the way, and nearly peed his pants again. What did his father want with a gun? He shouldn’t have a gun. Not when he was drinking. Even a car was dangerous. Drunk Driving Kills. Jeremy had seen those bumper stickers. But he wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk his father out of what he had planned. Don suddenly looked like someone who was a stranger to him, probably because he seemed almost sober. That scared Jeremy more than knowing he was saying those things when he wasn’t thinking straight.
“I won’t.” Jeremy refused to go anywhere near him, not even to scoot past and reach the kitchen, and the gun, before him. “It—it’s not safe.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? It’s time to shoot my own damn dog.” Letting go of the wall, he staggered into the other room. “Everyone feels so sorry for you,” he ranted as he went. “Everyone thinks I’m such an ogre, that I should be nicer to poor Jeremy. But what would they do if they were me? I don’t see anyone stepping up to help. You’re my responsibility. Mine alone.”
Jeremy’s hands curled into fists as he found his voice and set it free. “Why would they?” he yelled. The anger had broken through, seemed to be filling his whole body, and he doubted he’d ever be able to put it back. This was the end of one or both of them. He and his father couldn’t live in the same house anymore. “They’re my friends but…they’re not family. They’re not blood.”
“How much is a father expected to do?”
Since this came from the kitchen, Jeremy could barely hear it. His father wasn’t yelling anymore. He wasn’t asking as if he expected an answer. Jeremy could tell by his tone that his eyes had returned to the blank stare that had felt so strange a moment earlier. Don had slipped inside himself and was seeing only he knew what—maybe his imaginary friends—Curly’s wife or…or Lennie.
“I’ve done my best to look after you,” he continued to mumble, “but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t even take care of myself these days. It’s better if you go this way.”
Jeremy heard a cupboard open and close, knew which one it would be. His father was getting his gun from above the fridge.
“I’ve tried to take care of you, too,” Jeremy pointed out, but he’d spoken barely loud enough for those words to reach his own ears. It didn’t matter what he said. His father was going to kill him. He had to leave now.