The Write Way

Chapter 4: Running Blind

   I feel a tide of irritation and confusion wash over me. 

   Nobody visits except my brother and I, and he lives on the east coast. He hasn't been back for years.

   Is he in town? I guess I would know if I answered his letters.

   I try to think of another logical reason but my mind keeps coming up blank. There was no funeral, no newspaper memorial. My father had no friends that I knew of and no partners after Mom left us.

   I set the bottle of whiskey down.

   "Happy Saturday. As promised," I say distractedly. How dare he show up after so much time? And what use did our father have for flowers?

   The bottles of whiskey I leave are always gone when I come back and, as much as I wish it were so, my father isn't drinking them on his own. And that's ok. He loved his whiskey more than Mom, more than his own health, more than his own kids.

   But flowers. Flowers. Our father refused to even buy them for Mom when she was around. Mom planted some in the backyard when I was little and my father hadn't stopped complaining about them until they'd magically died one night.

   He wrote about them in his journals too. How they were a tool to achieving forgiveness. A whitewashing of the realities.

   I like flowers, but I'm not my father.

   "Got to go, Dad. I'll be back soon."

   I pick up the bouquet and toss it angrily into a trashcan as I leave.

_____________

   The phone is ringing as I stumble inside carrying paint buckets and plastic bags with tape, repair putty, sandpaper and paintbrushes. I put them down in the front hall and pick up the receiver in the kitchen.

   "I've got updates for you," Bolarro's voice says from the other end of the line. He sounds out of breath and there's construction sounds in the background. "On both fronts. What do you want first?"

   "Whichever," I say. I'm more interested in hearing about the private investigator and the sort of questions she's asking, but I'm not confident either will help me sleep better tonight.

   That feeling of change is still hanging over me. Anyway I slice it, change won't end well.

   "Ok. The evidence was very comprehensive. Eyewitness accounts, DNA support. Very overwhelming. The case has been completely reopened. Have you got any calls from anyone?"

   "No."

   "They'll be in touch I'm sure. Since you gave a full confession to the crime, they'll want to know more about why." He pauses, the sounds of banging breaking up the silence. "Lark, you've held true to being guilty. But I have to admit, now that the top's been ripped off this thing, there ain't a lot that's sticking up for your story." His voice takes on a bitter tone made sharper by the clanging. "And they're going to question both of us. There's a lot of stuff I overlooked that'll fall back on my lap."

   I lean against the wall, trying to come up with a response. My brain is abnormally quiet. Words feel far, far away.

   "You and I both might need a lawyer in the future," he continues. The construction sounds fade and I hear a car door thump shut. "Help me out here, Lark. I know there's stuff you aren't telling me."

   "I can't t-talk about it. Not right now. L-like this," I stammer, a bead of sweat pricking my hairline. "When can you meet me?"

   "At the usual spot?" He's thinking. He thinks it's a waste of time, but he knows I'm a man of routine. He knows I won't compromise. Then a grunt, "Next Wednesday I can move some stuff around. Say . . . 3pm? Can you get out of bed for that?"