Parker 04 - The Fury (6 page)

knapsack and take out a book.

The cover seemed familiar. It was worn, the spine

cracked, color faded. And when I look closer, I under

stood why.

The book's title was
Through the Darkness.
It's

author was Jack O'Donnell. The book was a chronicle

of the rise of crack cocaine and the massive crime wave

it spawned that nearly tore New York apart in the '70s

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47

and '80s. The book was nominated for the Pulitzer

Prize, though it lost out to a book that, as far as I knew,

was no longer in print.
Through the Darkness
was the

very book that officially gave Jack O'Donnell the

moniker of my living hero.

Amanda noticed me staring. She smiled nervously.

"You talk about this book a lot," she said. "I just want

to understand you better. And Jack, too."

"It's a great book," I said. "Holds up like it was

written last year. I really appreciate this."

"Hope you don't mind that I took it from your shelf."

"Are you kidding me? You don't know how happy

this makes me."

"Don't be silly, I wouldn't let you do this alone."

"Not the trip," I said. "The book. It means a lot that

you want to know more about what matters to me."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, confused. "I mean,

we're together right? What kind of relationship would

it be if neither of us cared about what mattered most to

the other?"

I felt silly. I'd never read a book because I thought it

meant a lot to Amanda, and for the most part she didn't

like to talk about her work at home. Working at the

Legal Aid Society, she had to deal with some of the most

horrific cases of child abuse. She saw things that would

stay with you. I didn't blame her for not wanting to

bring that kind of work home with her.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, feeling

somewhat stupid. "You know, to know more about you?

What makes you tick? Does Darcy Lapore have a

memoir out or something?"

Amanda laughed. Darcy Lapore was her coworker,

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Jason Pinter

a professional socialite-in-training. And considering

how much value was inherent in that job title, especially

in New York where the title socialite was practically a

blank check, it was likely only a matter of time before

Darcy's obsession with jewelry, makeup and shoes that

cost more than my rent were bound to find the printed

word, or more likely, a reality series. It was no doubt

that vacuousness and superficiality were the country's

drug of choice, and self-promotion was the new black.

"Tell you what, Darcy's husband has enough money

that they could pay you to ghostwrite it and you

wouldn't have to work at the
Gazette
until your midthir

ties."

"Hmm...that's an intriguing possibility. Provided I

can get past the whole 'crying myself to sleep every

night' problem that would come with that."

"Would leaving your job really do that to do?"

Amanda asked with a mixture of rhetoric and actual cu

riosity.

"I think so," I said. "I mean I believe,
really
believe,

this is what I was meant to do."

"Must be a great feeling to know what you're meant

to do at your age," Amanda said. She reached into her

purse, took out a stick of gum and popped it into her

mouth. The plane began to back up, then we turned and

approached the runway. Amanda began to chew her

gum with a fury rarely seen outside of nature videos

where a gang of lions rip a poor gazelle limb from limb.

She looked at me, saw I was staring. "My ears pop,"

she explained. I nodded, smiling. "Come on, we both

know you snore like a chain saw. We both have our little

things.
"

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49

"I wasn't judging, but thanks for bringing up a sore

subject. You know I got tested for apnea a while back.

It came back negative."

"Maybe you should get a second opinion before I

'accidentally' smother you one night," she said, settling

back into her seat, closing her eyes. "Okay, I'm going

to sleep now. If you're going to snore, it'd be sweet if

you wouldn't mind sitting in the bathroom."

"It's reassuring to know you always have my safety

in mind."

"Oh, come on," Amanda said. She sat up, leaning

over and gave me a long kiss on the lips. I tasted her

ChapStick. Cherry. Delicious.

When she finished we were both smiling. And the

old woman across the aisle was grimacing. "If you two

are even thinking about joining that so-called MileHigh Club," she said, "I'll call the flight attendant and

have you ejected at 30,000 feet. Don't think I won't be

watching you."

We both nodded, embarrassed. Actually, the thought

had crossed my mind, but with Mother Teresa sitting

there I wouldn't want to be banned from the airline

before the trip back.

"Have a good nap, babe," I said, squeezing Amanda's

hand. "See you in Bend."

"I hope we find out more about Stephen Gaines," she

said through a yawn.

I nodded, watching Amanda drift off to sleep, not

knowing just how much there was to learn.

6

We landed in Portland at five o'clock, or eight o'clock

New York time. We'd both slept a good portion of the

flights. While Amanda was awake, she tore through

Jack O'Donnell's book with incredible zeal. It thrilled

me to see that she was clearly enjoying the book. It

brought back memories of the first time I'd read it, in

junior high. I spent the next week plowing through

every O'Donnell book I could find at the Deschutes

County Library. My teachers were less than impressed,

since I'd read the books in lieu of completing my actual

schoolwork. Safe to say O'Donnell's tomes taught me

more about myself and what I wanted to be than years

of school could ever do.

After landing, we rented a car, a nice little compact

that probably got twenty-eight miles to the gallon.

Given how you practically had to sell a kidney to fill up

a tank of gas these days, I would have seriously consid

ered a motorized skateboard if Hertz had one available.

The drive to Bend took just about three hours. Once

we merged onto US-20, I began to feel my stomach

rumbling and beginning to churn. I wasn't quite sure

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51

what to expect. I hadn't set foot in Bend in nearly ten

years. The same amount of time had passed since I'd

last seen my parents. And while some children might

find a hole in their heart, in their soul, due to this

absence, mine was finally able to fill up.

I wondered if coming back here was a good idea,

whether it was best to let dead dogs lie. Yet that image

of Stephen Gaines lying on an examining table, his

head nearly blown apart, made this trip a necessity.

Anger had driven me away from my home. Now the

same was leading me back.

As we approached the city limits, I could immedi

ately tell that the last eight years had changed my

hometown a great deal. And all the changes looked to

be for the better.

To the west, the spectacular beauty of the Cascade

Mountain Range. The lush green foliage was tipped

with hints of snow from winter. I could make out the

magnificent peak of Mount Bachelor, rising to a snowcapped point. I rolled down the window to breathe in

the fresh air. It was warm, dry and clean. For a moment

I considered what I'd given up. Part of me missed the

air, the scenery. Being able to see for miles, the horizons

rising blue and bold above the skyline. For everything

I loved about New York--the hustle and bustle, the

thriving heart of media and business, the diversity of its

inhabitants--I missed the open world.

By seven-thirty, we were approaching Eastview

Drive, the street in the northeast section of Bend where

James and Eve Parker had lived for nearly thirty years.

I still didn't have the timeline sketched out completely,

so I wondered if my father had had his affair with Helen

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Jason Pinter

Gaines in the very house I'd grown up in. Perhaps a

quickie in the room that later became my bedroom.

Every moment spent thinking about it made me more

angry. I'd have to restrain myself once I saw him in

person.

I turned the car onto Eastview Drive tentatively,

slowing the car down as my old house came into view.

The first eighteen years of my life forgotten and now

remembered. A bad dream interrupting a peaceful sleep.

The dark green paint hadn't been refreshed in years.

The two-car garage was still surely filled with old

records, antiques my parents had grown weary of and

empty photo albums. A black 1994 Chevy C/K 1500

flatbed truck was parked outside the left garage. The

paint was scratched and faded, but I had no doubt the

old truck still purred like a kitten. The grass was fairly

short, so as least they cared about some sense of

decorum, and the cobblestone walkway leading up to

the front door was still there like the day I left. Much

had changed in Bend over the last decade, and it seemed

as if my parents had resisted that change as much as

possible.

I steered the car into the driveway, parking next to the

flatbed, then turned off the engine and sat there in

silence. Amanda did as well. Neither of us said a word

for a long time. Finally Amanda said, "Henry, do you

want to do this? We can go to a hotel, wait until you're

ready."

"I'm ready," I said. "Or at least I need to be."

I opened the car door, cautiously stepped out as

though expecting the driveway to swallow me whole.

Amanda climbed out, and we walked up the cobble

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53

stone path to the front door. A faded yellow button

popped out like a pimple to the right of the front door.

I could see a faint glow from inside one of the windows.

Somebody was definitely home.

I looked at Amanda, smiled weakly, tried to gather

my strength and rang the doorbell. The bell startled me

for some reason, like I wasn't ready to accept that there

was actually a person who lived here.

I hadn't phoned ahead because I didn't want him to

know I was coming. Didn't want to give him a chance

to think, to make up excuses. I wanted him face-to

face. To see how he reacted. If he did at all.

I heard footsteps, someone mumbling under his

breath. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to

forget the resentment I had toward this man. Knowing

the pain he'd put us all through. Knowing there was a

young man lying in New York with two bullets in his

head, a man who my father could, like me, call his

blood.

The front door opened with a creak. A man stood in

front of me, rubbing his eyes. He looked older than I

remembered, lines creasing his face like small ditches,

a thin coat of gray stubble covering the worn skin.

When his eyes came into focus and he saw me, the

man's mouth opened slightly, his reflexes working

faster than his mind was able to keep up with. He shook

his head slightly, unsure.

I took a step forward and said, "Hi, Dad. It's been a

while. It's Henry. Your son who's still alive."

7

We sat there in his living room. James in an easy

chair, me and Amanda on a faded, stained, uncomfort

able brown couch. It was probably uncomfortable

because nobody ever sat in it, nobody ever told James

the springs bit your legs. My father wasn't exactly

someone who entertained. James Parker was wearing a

tattered light blue bathrobe, the same one he used to

wear years ago. It was worn. Threads hung out, waiting

to be yanked free. The robe looked as if it was now worn

out of convenience rather than comfort. A skin that

couldn't be shed.

Though it had been eight years since I'd seen my

father, it felt like longer. He looked as though he'd aged

twenty. The brown hair--the same color hair I'd inher

ited--was streaked with gray. The skin around his neck

had begun to sag into full-on jowls, and whatever was left

of the muscle tone in his forearms had turned soft. His

eyes were lined, as though tired of keeping up the appear

ance of the rebel he'd long considered himself to be.

Maybe thirty years ago James Parker was a man to

be feared and possibly even desired. Now, though, he

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55

was just an angry old man with a distant wife and an es

tranged son. A man whose indifference to any life but

his own had driven away everyone who'd ever cared for

him, driven him to the point where his very voice

brought up anger inside of me.

When I was hidden in a dingy building and needed

to hear something, anything, to keep me going, I called

my father. I'd spent much of my adult life trying to