The Five Times I Met Myself (23 page)

When they reached Tyson’s floor, all of them went through
security one by one. As Brock waited, he felt like he was on a river shooting him toward Tyson, and now that the moment was here, a large part of him wanted to head for the shoreline.

A few minutes later, Brock sat at the end of a gray, cafeteria-style table and fixed his eyes on the door the guard said Tyson would come through. A few minutes later, a stream of inmates meandered through the door. Only a few of them looked like they wanted to be there.

And then in a flash, Tyson stood on the other side of the table staring down at him. “Long time no see, Dad.”

“Tyson.” Brock stood, stepped around the table, and reached out to take Tyson in his arms, but his son yanked himself out of Brock’s grip.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Tyson scowled at him.

His voice was strained and matched the look in his eyes. Tyson’s face was gaunt, and it didn’t look like his gray jumpsuit had been washed in a week. A smattering of three-day growth lined his chin and upper lip, and his hair was long and matted.

“I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to fix this.”

“Oh you are, huh?” Tyson leaned forward and scoffed. “You and what army?”

“I promise you—”

“What are you doing here?” Tyson squinted at him. “Why’d you come?”

“I had to see you.”

“Why?” Tyson glanced around the room as if looking for a way to escape.

Brock stared at his son and tried to imagine the type of father he must have been in this time line. Part of him wanted to rail against the thought that he could have ignored his son. But the
truth won, and Brock admitted there were dark places inside of him capable of even worse things.

“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re going through.”

“Why do you care?”

“Please?”

Tyson shrugged and sat down. He picked at a stain on the table top. “I’m making it. I’m meeting all kinds of interesting people. Good mix of inmates, you know? Lots of experience here. Different crimes, different ages, races. It’s a fascinating microcosm of society.”

His son glanced up, and for a moment Brock saw pain in his eyes, but then Tyson’s mask slid back on and he focused again on the table.

“The thing about having killed someone is it gave me respect when I arrived. But the part that blows is every metalhead in here wants to test it. See if I’m really as tough as the rumors say.” He unbuttoned his cuff and pulled up his sleeve. “This is my best souvenir so far.”

A deep red scar ran from Tyson’s wrist up past his bicep. Brock sucked in a quick breath.

“Impressive, huh?” His son flexed his arm and the scar turned white. “You like it?”

Brock swallowed and tried to speak.

“No?” He pulled his shirt back over the scar. “Can’t move the arm so good, but the doctor says in another six months I should get eighty percent mobility back.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“The fight. The things I said.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Tyson’s words didn’t match the rancor on his face.

“I pushed you. If I hadn’t—”

“I said don’t sweat it. I’m learning lots of stuff in here, know what I mean? Mad skills.” Tyson gave a mirthless sideways grin that told Brock more than he wanted to know.

“You can’t let this place take you over.”

“Sorry, already done.” Tyson made a check mark on the table.

If the eyes were the window to the soul, then lights had gone out inside of his son.

“You have to fight it.”

“Fight what?”

“What do you mean fight what?” Brock motioned at the room. “This place is suffocating.”

“Oh really?” Tyson gave a mocking smile.

“They allow you a Bible in here, right?”

“Grow up, Dad. Kind of done with fantasyland.”

“I can’t explain this in any way that is rational, but I’m going to change this.”

“Shut up about fixing things. You fixed it that night. You destroyed my life.” Tyson smacked his hands on the table and leaned forward close enough for Brock to smell his rancid breath. “And killing a guy in here earned me unlimited nights in my six-by-six mansion. I don’t need you to try to make me think about the outside world or give me stupid promises about fixing things. Got it?”

Brock tried to mute the sorrow that welled up inside. Karissa was right, he and Tyson had no relationship.

“Do you ever see your mom?”

“She drops by, yeah.” Tyson stared at his hands. Dirt was wedged under his fingernails.

“How is she doing?”

“Ask her yourself.”

“I saw her, but she’s not exactly forthcoming about her life.” Brock stared at his hands. “I’m not her favorite person.”

“Just admit it’s time to ram a Sherlock hat down on your head, Dad.”

“What?”

“Hello? Follow the clues.” Tyson gave him the wide-eyed why-are-you-so-stupid look, then drew out each word. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you because she hates you. After what you’ve done to her, can you blame her?”

Despair like a boulder pressed down on Brock.

“I love you, Tyson.”

Tyson’s eyes widened, and then he started laughing. The mocking peals from his throat grew louder and louder and didn’t stop till the guard called out, “Times up! Let’s go!”

As Brock left the jail he knew what his next stop needed to be. Ron’s house. It couldn’t be worse than his encounter with Tyson. But something in his stomach said it would be.

Chapter 33

W
hen Ron’s wife Shelly answered the door that afternoon, the look on her face said she didn’t want him there.

“Hello, Brock.”

“Is he here, Shelly?”

Shelly stepped onto the patio and shut the door behind her. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to talk to him right now.”

“Why?”

“What do you need to tell him?”

A breeze came up and the wind chimes sounded, as if to announce Brock’s request.

“I need to find out what happened between Ron and me.”

She studied his face as if trying to understand and fighting against an anger just below the surface.

“Is he here?”

“You’re not going away, are you?” She pulled her arms across her chest.

“Not till I talk to him.”

“Call him.”

“I’ve been trying.”

She opened the front door and nodded, as if accepting the fact he wouldn’t leave till he talked to his brother.

“He’s out on the dock fishing.”

She walked through the house and he followed.

“Fishing? I thought for sure you’d say putting green.”

The same confused look rose to her face, this time definitely laced with anger. She pushed through the French doors onto the deck overlooking Ron’s large lawn, which gently sloped down to the lake. Shelly glanced over the deck to the right and then glared at Brock.

He looked down on the spot where Ron had once built his three-tiered putting green dotted with eight flags. It was Brock’s turn to feel confused. The flags were gone, and the grass had grown so thick it was hard to tell where the green used to be. Weeds filled the green, along with brown splotches that made the green look like a mutated cow. It was the same with the three par-three holes Ron had built. The pristine mini-course had become a pasture.

“What happened to the green and the golf holes?”

Once more, Shelly glared at him, then turned and strode away. “Whatever you have to say, get it over with fast.”

Brock eased down the steps, onto the lawn, and toward his brother. When he reached the long dock Ron sat at the end of, Brock took one step onto the walkway and stopped. Not that taking another minute would help him find a perfect intro to discovering the accident Beth had told him about, but it might help him craft a better opening sentence than, “Hey, bro, did I do something bad?”

When he was halfway down the dock his brother turned, glanced at Brock, then turned back to the lake. At least his brother
didn’t tell him to leave. Brock eased up next to him and waited a minute before speaking.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here.” Brock glanced behind him. “Why’d you let the putting green grow over and the par-threes go to seed?”

“If that’s your attempt at humor it’s not even close to working.”

Ron cast with his left hand. His right hand was stuffed into the pocket of his windbreaker.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“Making peace with whatever war is going on between us.”

Brock stuck out his hand—hoping it could be the start of a goodwill offering—but the scorn on Ron’s face told him his brother’s hand wouldn’t be offered in return.

“Are you drunk? Returned to hitting the bottle on a regular basis?”

“What?” Brock jerked his head back. He’d been drunk twice in his life. Once in college and once in his early thirties. He continued to hold his hand out to Ron. “I don’t drink.”

Ron glanced at Brock’s hand, then into his eyes. There was venom in his brother’s gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Brock lowered his hand. “Nothing. I was just—”

“You’re sick, you know that?” Ron gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Peace? You go after peace with a grenade?”

“I’m only trying to—”

“What? Tick me off even more? Drive the rift between us deeper? We still have to at least pretend to work together.”

Brock’s temperature rose. “Knock it off, Ron. I was just offering to shake your hand.”

“Oh yeah? That’s all? Just a little handshake between brothers?”
Ron lurched up from the dock and let out a bitter laugh. “Great idea, love it. Let’s make it into a photo op for Black Fedora. Yeah!”

Ron glanced over Brock’s shoulder and waved as if welcoming a group of reporters to join them. “Over here guys, we’re not only brothers forced to be in business together, we are absolutely the best of pals! And we’re so excited about revisiting the incident that made us best buds forever!”

Ron looked down at his hand still stuffed inside his jacket and pointed his left hand at it. “Look, watch the magic, boys and girls.”

The fabric bulged. Then with a flourish, Ron pulled his hand out of the jacket and shoved it at Brock with a sick grin. Only Ron’s hand wasn’t there. Just a blotched purple stub that ended at his wrist.

“Put ’er there, bro!”

Brock swallowed and staggered back a step.

“Come on, Brock, ol’ pal, shake the stump. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ron wiggled it. “Come on, come on, come on now, you’ve never done it. Never taken hold of it and felt the nub. You’ve always wanted to, haven’t you? I know you have.”

A twisted grin was splayed on Ron’s face as he stepped toward Brock.

“Your hand . . . what happened?”

“I don’t believe this.” Ron shoved the end of his arm back in his jacket pocket, reached down and snatched his fishing pole off the dock, and pushed past Brock. A few strides down the walkway he spun. “I thought we’d moved beyond this. Put it behind us to the point where we could at least function together.”

Brock knew he should shut up and figure out another way to answer the question that pounded through his brain, but the words spilled out a third time before he could stop them. “What happened?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You think playing an idiot is
going to solve anything?” Ron spat to his side into the water. “We are so not ever talking about that. Ever again. You hear me? You have a serious screw loose if you want to resurrect that nightmare.” The pain etched into Ron’s face seemed to deepen, and his gaze flitted to his right as if he struggled not to look at his missing hand. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Brock’s breaths came rapid fire as he stared at his brother. “I’m going to fix this. I’m going to get this whole thing straightened out. All of it.”

“What?”

“I haven’t dreamed for the past two nights, but I will again soon. I know it. And when I do you’ll have your hand back to the way it was. I promise you that. And Karissa and I will be back together, and Tyson will be out of jail.”

But what if he couldn’t dream again?

“You’re delusional.” Ron turned, strode down the walkway, and left Brock staring after him.

Brock turned and staggered back over the dock, across the lawn, and finally around the side of the house. It was obvious Ron wasn’t going to be his source of information. As he rounded the corner of the house onto the front lawn, Shelly’s voice called out from the front porch. He stopped and whirled toward her.

“Looked like you had a wonderful conversation.”

“Not so much.”

She opened her hands and scowled. “What is wrong with your tiny little brain?”

“Tell me what happened.” Brock took a step forward. “What happened to his hand?”

She stared at Brock like he’d just suggested finding a Glock and trying to pick off all the neighborhood kittens.

“Help me, Shelly.” He clenched his fists. “Something is going on with me that I can’t talk about. I truly don’t recall what happened. I can’t tell you anything more than that I’ve lost parts of my memory and can’t get them back. And I’ve obviously lost the ones tied to Ron’s hand.”

“Selective amnesia.”

“Believe me, I’m not the one who made the selections.”

Shelly took long breaths in and out through her nose. No fire in her breathing, but definitely in her eyes. “Golf was his life.”

“I know that. Which is why I have to be told about the accident.”

Shelly stared at him as if frozen to the front porch. “Accident? Is that what you call it?”

“I don’t know!” Brock popped his fists together. “I don’t know what to call it because I don’t know anything. Please, believe me.”

Shelly’s face softened, if only minutely.

“Was I there? Did I see it happen? Please, Shelly, it might help.” He took another step toward her.

“If you truly don’t know what you did, it won’t put you in a better frame of mind to find out what happened.”

“Please?”

“Trust me, Brock, you don’t want to know.”

“Please.”

“Okay.” Shelly marched into the house and returned less than a minute later holding a VHS tape. She clipped down the porch steps, marched over to him, and waggled it in front of his face. “I don’t know why Ron’s held onto this after all these years. Not the kind of home movie that stirs up the giggles.”