The Returning (22 page)

John hesitated to admit even to himself why he had put off fishing till now. For all his love of the lake, he didn’t like being too far from shore. Swimming from the dock was one thing, going out in a boat where only a thin layer of wood separated you from the murky water below—well, that was something else altogether. An hour earlier, when they’d packed up the boat, John told Billy not to take them out too far, saying he wanted to steer clear of the other traffic—the larger motorboats, the jet skis, the water-skiers. After all, the lake was a busy place on Sunday afternoons, with vessels zigzagging all over the place. So Billy had pointed the boat due north and hugged the shoreline until he reached a spot where he thought the fish might be biting. Then he’d cut the motor, dropped anchor, and baited the poles with the worms he’d bought at the bait shop earlier that afternoon.

Phoebe reeled in her line now, saw the remnants of a worm dangling on an otherwise empty hook, and said, “Aw, I thought I had one.” She reeled the line in almost up to the bobber and prepared to cast again.

“Careful, Phoeb,” Billy said. “Don’t hook me like you did last summer.”

“I know how to do it,” Phoebe insisted. She drew back, swung the rod, pushed the release button, and watched her bait drop into the water a few feet from the boat. “There. See?”

John smiled. This was better than he’d imagined all those times he’d dreamed about coming home and being with his kids. In those dreams Billy was still a boy and Phoebe didn’t have a face—not one that was clear to him, anyway. He knew it would be good to be home, but in his dreams he couldn’t feel the pride he now felt for his son, couldn’t feel the love he now felt for his daughter, and he couldn’t feel the overwhelming sense of freedom that came with looking up at an unimpeded view of the sky.

It was all better than he had hoped. Except for one thing. When he’d dreamed about coming home to his family, there’d been no shadow of infidelity darkening the picture, not even one hint of it anywhere in his mind. The way he had pictured it, things were going to be different this time. He was a different person, and he was supposed to live a better life, one that didn’t include his past mistakes.

One month. One month home and he’d already drifted back to the old way of life.

As he thought about it, though, he had to admit one thing
was
different now. This time around he felt something he hadn’t felt before. Shame. From the minute he woke up in the morning until the minute he fell asleep at night, the shame was there, waxing and waning but ever present. Mostly it was a heavy emotion, pulling the heart all out of shape.

John looked at Phoebe, sitting there in the center seat of the boat, watching the bobber intently while willing a fish to bite. Then at Billy, at the far end, one hand holding his fishing pole, the other on top of the motor as though to protect it. Billy must have sensed his gaze, because he turned and smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dad.”

John nodded. “Me too, Billy.”

He had to nip this thing with Pamela in the bud. So he’d messed up once—okay, that didn’t mean he had to keep messing up. He’d draw the line right here, resolve to do the right thing from now on, for the sake of these kids, if nothing else.

The trick was, he was going to have to be stronger than his own desires.

Phoebe fidgeted, scratched one leg, tugged at the uppermost strap of her life jacket. “You know, Daddy,” Phoebe said, “if you weren’t here, me and Billy couldn’t be out here fishing.”

“Billy and I,” John corrected. “And no, you couldn’t be out here by yourselves.”

“But we’re not scared,” she countered. Her small face looked determined beneath the baseball cap that shielded her eyes from the sun.

“I know you’re not,” John said. “Still, you need to have an adult with you when you come out on the water.”

“But I’m an adult now, Dad.” Billy’s protest was pained, his voice almost a whine. “I’m eighteen now, and that makes me a grown-up.”

John wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally he said, “Give yourself some time, son. You’ll get there.”

“No.” Billy shook his head. “I can drive the boat, but not alone. And Mom thinks I’ll never drive a car. I tell her, some people with Downs drive a car, but she still says no. I’ll never be independent the way Beka is.”

What Billy said was true, John reflected. Though Billy was far more competent than many people with Down syndrome, he would still never be completely independent. But John decided to let the subject drop. He didn’t want worries for the future infringing on the afternoon.

“Hey, Billy,” he said, “hand me some water out of the cooler, will you?”

Billy dug into the small cooler with one hand and pulled out a bottle of water. He handed it to Phoebe, who handed it to John.

John wedged the bottle between his feet while he reeled in his line. “Well, the fish aren’t biting, so I think I’ll just enjoy the ride for a while.”

“But we aren’t going anywhere, Daddy,” Phoebe said.

“Exactly.” John unscrewed the bottle top and took a long cold swallow. “You kids need to be drinking some water too. It’s hot out here.”

“It’s even hotter when you’re wearing a life jacket,” Billy noted, pulling at the padded orange canvas around his neck.

“Yeah, Dad. Can we take them off?” Phoebe asked.

“Not a chance,” John said. “You keep them on.”

“You know it’s no use asking, Phoeb,” Billy said. “You know what Mom always says. She says everyone has to have one on, no matter what.”

“Smart lady,” John said, nodding.

“But I’m a good swimmer,” Billy went on. “Better than you even, Dad.”

John thought of the Special Olympics medals lined up on the windowsill in Billy’s room. “Can’t argue with you there. Still, let’s not take any chances.”

Billy frowned. He appeared to be in thought. Finally he said with a shrug, “Okay. Mom says it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“That’s right, son. Anyway, it’ll cool down as the sun begins to set. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Billy handed a bottle of water to Phoebe and got one out for himself. John watched the kids fish quietly for a while before a passing motorboat jogged his memory of Billy’s struggle to get their own outboard motor started. “Hey, Billy?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“You always have trouble starting the motor?”

“Not always. Sometimes she starts right up. Sometimes, like today, it takes a while. When Uncle Owen gave us the boat, he told us the engine was finicky.”

“Yeah,” John muttered, “no wonder Owen got rid of it.”

“What’s that, Dad?”

“Nothing. Listen, when we can afford it, we’ll buy a new motor, all right? No, we’ll buy a whole new boat.”

“Really, Dad?”

“Really.”

“All right!” Billy slapped his knee and laughed happily.

“Someday,” John continued, “we’ll have a whole new everything. New boat, new cars, new house.”

“Yeah!” Billy agreed. “A house with more than one bathroom.”

“Right.”

“And where the toilet doesn’t always get clogged up,” Phoebe added.

“Yeah, that too.”

And nothing, John added to himself, nothing they owned would be from Owen. Not one thing. John was home now and these were his kids, and he was going to take care of them without the help of his brother-in-law.

After a moment John said, “Hey, Billy? Phoebe?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“What, Daddy?”

John pushed the words past the ache in his throat. “I love you guys.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

“Love you, Daddy.”

John nodded. It was all sweeter than he had dared to dream.

Thirty minutes passed as they floated on the surface of the lake, the boat a cradle, the breeze a lullaby. They caught no fish and John was glad; it would have broken the serenity. If this was it, John thought, if this moment was the whole of his life, he would be satisfied.

It was starting to get dark, and clouds rolled in over the lake, casting shadows on the water, letting loose small drops of rain.

“Let’s head back,” John said. “We don’t want to get caught out here in a storm.”

Billy nodded and reeled in his line. “Mom says, first sign of rain to get out of the water. She says it can get bad pretty fast, and you sure don’t want to be in an aluminum boat like this if there’s lightning.”

“That’s right, Billy. I think your mom has taught you well.”

John helped Phoebe lay the fishing rods on the floor of the boat while Billy pulled up anchor. He watched as Billy stood, opened the fuel valve on the motor, and pulled the starter cord. The motor roared to life on the first try.

“I did it!” Billy yelled excitedly, waving a fist in the air.

John gave him a nod and a thumbs-up.

Billy smiled broadly, then hollered over the roar of the motor, “Last one home’s a rotten egg!”

He steered the boat around to the south and headed toward home.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

Rebekah slapped
the steering wheel with both hands, then pulled the key out of the ignition and stormed back into the cottage. The place was deserted. In the few minutes she’d spent in the Jetta talking on her cell to David, everyone had disappeared. She’d been late already when he called. Now Lena and Aunt Jo were going to start wondering where she was.

“Dad!”

“Upstairs, Beka,” he hollered.

Just as he answered, she spotted her mother standing on the dock, watching Billy and Phoebe swim. For a moment she forgot her anger, forgot everything as she watched her mother clap for Phoebe, who had just dived like a champion off the end of the dock. Rebekah remembered her mother cheering her on once, just like that. But that was a long time ago, when she was a child.

She let out a breath, then stomped up the stairs with an exaggerated heaviness, her sandals slapping against the bare wood. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered.

“What’s the matter?” her father asked.

He was sitting in that tattered old chair by the window, the one with the antimacassar draped over the back. The granny chair, she called it. Her dad looked kind of silly in it, sunk down as he was in the cushioned seat, an open book in his lap. He must have thought so too, judging by the look in his eyes. You’d think he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

“Beka?” he prodded.

“My car won’t start,” she told him.

He nodded slightly, almost smiled. “You mean that old rattletrap from Uncle Owen?”

She frowned at his comment, shook her head. “Well, yeah, whatever. It won’t start.”

“What’s it sound like?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you turn the key, what’s it sound like?”

“It doesn’t sound like anything. Nothing happens.”

“Must be the battery, then.”

“Oh great.”

“Did you leave an overhead light on or something?”

“No. I don’t know. I mean, I was sitting in the front seat with the door open for a few minutes, if that’s a problem.”

“All right, Beka, don’t worry. We’ll give you a jump. You going to work already?”

Rebekah shook her head. “I’m off today. I’m going over to a friend’s house.”

“Oh? Hey, you know, I’ve been home for weeks, and I haven’t met any of your friends yet. Why don’t you bring them over here?”

Rebekah thought she might explode. The last thing she wanted was to introduce her friends to her father. The only thing she wanted right now was to get out of here. “Listen, Dad,” she said, “can you just give me a jump or whatever so I can get going? I’m already late.”

He gazed at her a moment—a little sadly, she thought—then closed the book in his lap. She noticed for the first time what it was. And yet she asked anyway. “What are you reading?”

“Well—” He looked down at the book, as though he had to check for himself. “It’s a Bible I was given while I—”

“Why are you reading that?” Her words sounded sharper than she had meant.

“Well, actually, Beka,” he said quietly, “I’ve been thinking I should tell you about—you know, what happened to me in prison. I haven’t been very good about sharing all these things with you and Billy and Phoebe. I haven’t even been very good about reading the Bible since . . .”

He seemed to realize then that she wasn’t really listening, because he stopped talking. Silence fell over the room. Rebekah was aware only of the giant weight of fear in the pit of her stomach.

“Dad?” she whispered. “What is it, Beka?”

“Do you think there’s evil in the world?”

He seemed to wince at that, as though it pained him to answer. “I know there’s evil in the world.”

“But there isn’t supposed to be. There’s . . .” She didn’t know how to go on. Aunt Jo had explained it all, had told her and Lena how evil was only an illusion and not really there at all. Everything was one, and it was all good, but beyond that Rebekah couldn’t remember how Aunt Jo had explained the part about evil.