The Impossible Knife of Memory (23 page)

pistol, a new one.)

In the last second of the game, the refs blew the call that would have given Seattle the winning touchdown. Dad exploded, throwing his glass across the room, leaping to his feet, and yelling at the screen. As the official review dragged on, he acted like they were doing it on purpose just to piss him off. He cursed, his face red and sweaty. He stomped his boots on the floor. I wanted to tell him it was only a game and we didn’t like either team, anyway, but I didn’t open my mouth because I didn’t want him screaming at me. The station went to commercial. He paced—back and forth, back and forth—muttering things that didn’t make any sense, almost like he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing.

The commercials ended. The camera focused in tight on the ref. Dad sat at the end of the bed.
“The ruling on the field stands,” announced the ref.
He never got a chance to declare the game over because Dad grabbed the pistol and shot the television in the guts. Then he picked it up and heaved it against the wall and sent a table lamp flying after it. I sat, paralyzed, while he raged, until finally he slid down the wall, crying, his right hand a bleeding mess.
I wrapped a towel around his hand and packed our stuff in the truck. By the time I was done he’d pulled himself together enough to drive, which was good because we needed to get out of there fast. After a while, he made me drive, telling me when to push on the clutch and shifting the gears with his left hand.
We found a town with an urgent care center that took his insurance. The doctor who stitched Dad up was a Seattle fan whose brother was shot in the Korengal Valley. He understood everything. He prescribed a new pill (the seventh new pill? the eighth?) that he promised would mummify Dad’s memories and keep the crazy in its cage, even when Veterans Day approached or the moon was full.
Dad never filled the prescription.

That morning, I was tired and angry and late. The only cereal left in the cupboard had been purchased by Trish and was “healthy,” which was another word for “tasteless.” My clothes all looked like they’d been bought at Goodwill and my hair lay flat on my head like a dead jellyfish drying in the sun. Dad knocked on my door, said something about how he wasn’t going to work. My head was in the closet, trying to find something to wear that didn’t make me look like a refugee.

I wasn’t thinking about the date.

A few minutes later, Dad knocked again and asked if he could come in and I grunted and he opened the door.
He said, “Breakfast,” set a plate with toast on it on my desk, and left.
The crusts had been cut off the toast. He’d spread a little butter and a lot of honey.
“Thanks,” I said. “What are you going to do today?” But he was already gone.
Trish paused at my door like it was an ordinary morning, like she might remind me about a dentist appointment or tell me I had clean clothes in the dryer. The sight of her filling up my doorway, as if she belonged there, as if everything was fine, we were all just fine in the morning—it chased me out the door without a jacket, without my books, without a bite of toast.

Finn’s car had no windshield wiper fluid and we were surrounded by trucks without mud flaps spraying road gunk on the windshield, plus his wipers were worthless. We had a stupid argument and I made him pull into the gas station and buy a gallon. When I realized he didn’t know where to pour it, I yelled at him and did it myself. And then he yelled at me and said I should chill, but I knew he was upset about the stupid newspaper so I didn’t let it bother me too much.

We were so late we missed first-period lunch. I went to the library, grabbed a book from the new fiction table, and read in during class for the rest of the day. If anyone said anything to me, I didn’t hear it.

After the last bell rang, the final injustice was that I had to ride the bus home again because Finn had to lifeguard. It seemed to me that anyone who needed a lifeguard to make sure they didn’t drown shouldn’t be allowed on a swim team, but when I said that to Finn, he gave me the “whatever” look and stalked away.

* * *

The driveway was empty and the house was still when I got home. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept more than a couple of hours at a time, and the sun had warmed the living room and the next thing I knew I’d been asleep for hours and the house was dark and I was hungry. I stumbled to the kitchen, opened a can of chicken noodle soup, and put it on the stove. Someone had taken the fossilized toast out of my room and put it on the kitchen table, right below the calendar that hung on the wall, still showing the month of September. I threw out the toast, untacked the calendar, and flipped it to November.

That’s when it finally dawned on me that the shitty day I’d endured was the day before Veterans Day. I looked around and realized that I did not know where my father was. I turned off the stove.

I won’t get upset
, I thought.
That would be silly. Maybe he went to the grocery store for milk
. There was no reason to worry. Maybe the truck needed a new oil filter. Maybe he decided to drive into the Hudson River. Or he offered to take Trish to work and drove them both into the Hudson River. Maybe he went for a walk and flashbacked and he was lost somewhere walking point on a patrol through a valley of insurgents.

I shook the thought out of my head.
No, no, no. He went for milk
.
Still, I checked. The guns were locked in the safe. Ammo locked in its own storage box.

I sat on the couch with Spock. One deep breath. Another. Shadows were trying to turn into monsters. One more breath.
We’re fine. He’s fine.
The furnace kicked on, blowing the smell of stale cigarette smoke out of the curtains and across the room. I’d give it an hour; one minute past and I’d call the police, though I wasn’t sure what I’d say to them.

Fifty-five minutes later, the front door opened. Trish walked in first, her face pale and eyes red. Dad followed a few seconds later. He glanced at me, then turned his face away, but not fast enough. He walked down the hall to his bedroom without a word.

“What happened to your eye?” I called after him. He slammed his door.
“What did you do to him?” I asked.
“He did it to himself.” She sat in the recliner and hugged

her knees to her chest. “It was supposed to be a date.”

I fought the urge to throw her out the door. “Did you punch him in the face?”
“No, the bartender did.”
“You took him to a bar, tonight of all nights?”
“Can I tell you what happened before you start with the accusations?”
I nodded once.
“We were supposed to meet at Chiarelli’s at five,” she said. “I was only half an hour late. He’d gotten there three hours early. By the time I walked in, he’d bonded with a couple of losers over the Giants defense and bourbon. He didn’t want to eat in the restaurant anymore. I ordered pizza, but he said he wasn’t hungry.”
My stomach started to hurt.
Trish sighed. “The bar got crowded. Andy’s new friends left and he went quiet, not wanting to talk, but determined to stay there. It was the first time I’d been in a bar since I joined AA. I must have drunk a gallon of ginger ale.” She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “Anyway. I left to use the restroom. Everything was fine when I walked out.”
“And when you got back?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“The bartender had him in a headlock on the floor. Andy thought some guy was staring at him, insulting him. They got into it and the bartender tried to break it up. Andy turned on the bartender, who was half his age and twice his size. By the time the police got there—”
“They called the cops?” I interrupted.
“This wasn’t a biker bar at two in the morning, Hayley. This was a nice restaurant, filled with families who wanted dinner, not a show. Yes, they called the cops.”
“Did they arrest him?”
She shook her head. “I smoothed it over, gave them the background. God, how many times have I done that before?”
I was thinking the same thing.
“I paid for his tab and our meals. They won’t press charges as long as he stays away.”
We sat without talking for a long time, the clock ticking against the wall.
“Has he ever hurt you?” Trish finally asked. “I know he’d never do it on purpose, but . . .”
“Of course not,” I lied as the scene in front of the bonfire and the confrontation on Halloween night played out in my mind. “He wasn’t this bad before you got here. I think you should leave, go back to Texas.”
She stood up. “You could be right.”

After a long shower, I got into bed and texted:
not going to school tomorw
Finn didn’t answer.

_
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69
_
*
_

A sharp knock woke me up.
“What’s-his-name is going to be here soon,” Dad said
through the closed door.
“I’m not going,” I said with a groan. “And his name is
Finn. Why are you up so early?”
“Are you sick?” he asked.
This was the day he’d normally stay in bed past noon,
resting up so he could drink himself blind by midnight.
“Have you been up all night?” I asked.
“Are you sick?” he repeated. “Honest now.”
“No, but the bus has already left,” I said. “I told Finn not
to pick me up.”
“Trish can take you.”
“I’d rather crawl over broken glass.”
Silence.
“Can I borrow your truck?” I asked.
He sighed loudly.
“I’ll come straight home after school, I promise.” “No,” he said firmly. “I’ll drive you. Be ready in ten.”

Five minutes later, I was ready. Dad was still in the shower so I headed to the kitchen. Trish was pouring water into the coffeepot, wearing a robe and slippers.

“Coffee will only take a minute,” she said.

I took an apple out of the fridge. “Thought you were leaving.”
“Never did like mornings much, did you?”
I took the keys off the nail by the back door and went out through the garage. The truck started on the first try, and the cab was toasty warm by the time I’d finished my apple. Ten minutes had come and gone. I turned on the radio and watched the front door, fearing the steadily increasing chance that Trish was going to come through it and say that Dad had changed his mind. I put my foot on the brake and shifted into reverse. The second she showed her face, I’d take off.
The front door opened.
A soldier stepped into the cold sunshine, an army captain in full-dress uniform: polished black boots, regulation-creased pants, blindingly white shirt, and black tie under a blue wool jacket decorated with captain’s bars, Ranger tab on his left shoulder, Purple Heart, Bronze Star, oak leaf clusters, and the fruit salad of ribbons and hardware that meant he had led troops into battle and tried his best to bring them all home.
I turned off the radio.
He walked slowly toward the truck, his eyes on me the whole way, black beret tilted at exactly the right angle on his head. The swelling around his eye had gone down. The plum-colored bruise looked painful.
I put the truck in park, opened the door, and got out.
“Well?” he asked.
One side of my heart
tha-thump
ed like I was a little kid and he’d just come home and I could run across the hangar floor when the order releasing the troops was shouted, and Daddy would pick me up so I could hug him around the neck and, nose to nose, look into his sky-colored eyes and tell him that I missed him so much. The other side of my heart froze in panic because now I was old enough to understand where he got that limp and why he screamed in his sleep and that something inside him was broken. I didn’t know how to fix it or if it could be fixed.
He tugged at the bottom of his jacket. “There’s some stupid assembly at your school. I never promised your counselor that I’d go. I might change my mind in five minutes, just warning you.”
I nodded, speechless.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Is this a good idea?” I asked.
“Figured it was worth a shot.”
I nodded again.
He wiped away the tears rolling down my face. “What’s all this about?”
I cleared my throat. “Sun’s in my eyes, Daddy.”
“Bullshit, princess.”
“A llergies.”
He kissed my forehead. “You drive.”

_
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70
_
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After signing in at the office, I took Dad to Ms. Benedetti’s office. She melted a little, the way a lot of women do when my dad is more-or-less sober, cleaned up, and in uniform. They chatted about her brother and a few wild things Dad had never mentioned he did in high school. Benedetti did not ask about the shiner. She explained how the assembly was going to be run: boring speeches, a short video, more boring speeches, and then each veteran onstage would be presented with a bouquet of flowers and a Belmont High Machinists stadium blanket.

A muscle twitched below Dad’s ear. He clenched his jaw. “The vets will be onstage for the whole thing?” I asked. “Absolutely! We want our veterans to know how much

we appreciate their sacrifice.”
“How many in the audience?” Dad asked.
“Eight hundred or so.”
He blinked like she’d just slapped him.
“How many vets?” I asked.
“Thirty-two,” Benedetti said proudly.
“That’s a lot of guys to crowd on the stage,” Dad said. “Four of them are women,” Benedetti said.
She did not point out that thirty-two people were not

going to crowd the stage. They wouldn’t even fill a corner of it. Just when I thought she was being deliberately dense, she added, “You’re probably sick of these things, aren’t you? I imagine they get a little repetitive after a while.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Dad said. “Plus, I’m not real fond of crowds.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You could hang out with me in the cafeteria,” I suggested. “If you want.”
“Great idea!” Benedetti’s enthusiasm returned. “Wait until you see the changes in there.” She scribbled me a pass. “Hayley could take you on a tour of the building during second period, after the halls have cleared.” She shook Dad’s hand again. “Thanks, Andy. It’s really nice to have you here again.”

Dad paused at the door to the cafeteria and scanned the nearly empty room. Most of the students who belonged there were at the assembly. Two dozen kids were scattered in small groups, the floor was abnormally clean and the aides were eating sticky buns and joking with the server ladies. I knew he was assessing the space: no visible threat, clear line of sight, and quick access to all exits. He should have been cool with it, but he didn’t move.