Daddy's Gone a Hunting

49

Forty-two-year-old Skip Hotchkiss owned five delicatessens in Irvington and Tarrytown, New York. Both towns were suburbs in Westchester County, located less than an hour’s drive from Manhattan. From the time he had been a child, he had often gone after school to the delicatessen on Staten Island where his mother had worked after his father disappeared.

The understanding owner, a kindly German immigrant, Hans Schaeffer, had made the young boy welcome. Skip had done his homework in the back office of the deli and, as he got older, he began to stock the shelves and make deliveries.

The homemade salads and cold cuts and apple strudel that the Schaeffers prepared were delicious and often Skip would sit with Mrs. Schaeffer as she did the cooking and baking. Soon he was helping her to make the food. He had plenty of friends at school and was an excellent student but he was never much for sports. The delicatessen was where he wanted to be.

At six o’clock, he and his mother would walk home together. She had never left the small house she had shared with his father. “Never think he abandoned us, Skip,” she would say. “He loved both of us so much but he came back from the war damaged and frightened. Something happened that I’m sure he never talked about, even when the doctors tried to help him. Look at all the medals he earned in Vietnam. He paid a great price for them.”

“Too great a price?” Skip remembered asking.

He had never forgotten his mother’s wistful smile. “I guess it was.”

After high school, Skip went on a scholarship to Virginia Tech, where he enrolled in the culinary school. For two years after graduation, he worked as a sous-chef in a restaurant in New York. By then, old Mr. Schaeffer was ready to retire and he turned over the deli to Skip. He sold it to him without requiring a down payment, only a ten-year payout. “People tell me I’m crazy,” he said at that time. “I’m not crazy. I know you. You’ll have the whole thing paid off in five years.”

Which was exactly the way it turned out to be. At that point, Skip, married with two small sons, decided that he wanted to move to Westchester County. He sold the deli and opened the first new one in Irvington. Now, fifteen years later, he was a prosperous, well-liked member of the community. None of his four sons was named Clyde. He often thought that his father had nicknamed him Skip because he didn’t like the name, either.

His mother, Peggy, had remained on Staten Island. “All my friends are here,” she had told him. “It’s not that far so you’ll see plenty enough of me.” Now in her late sixties, she was an active volunteer in her parish and in local charities. Donald Scanlon, a widower and longtime neighbor who had been a New York City detective, would have given anything to marry Peggy but Skip knew it wouldn’t happen. Peggy had never stopped believing that her husband was still alive.

On Tuesday evening, Skip finished making the rounds of his stores and got home at quarter of six. With his four sons now ranging in age from ten to sixteen, he had never allowed his flourishing businesses to distract him from his roles as husband and father. Sometimes you learn by lack of example, was the rueful thought that occasionally crossed his mind.

When he opened his front door, it was to hear his two middle sons in a heated argument. One look from him settled it quickly. “I suggest you both need a little time in your rooms to cool off,” he said, his voice level but unmistakably firm.

“But, Dad…” The protests ended and the boys went upstairs, heavy footsteps indicating their displeasure at the banishment. When they were gone, his wife, Lisa, sighed, “I don’t know how any woman raises kids alone.” She kissed him. “Welcome to the battlefield.”

“What was it about this time?”

“Ryan dropped Billy’s cell phone in the toilet.”

“By mistake, I hope,” Skip said quickly.

“Yes, I do believe that. And it even seems to be working okay now. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Let’s have a glass of wine and watch the news.”

“Sounds good to me. What time are Jerry and Luke getting home?”

“The usual. Practice will be over pretty soon.”

As she walked ahead of him into the family room, Skip Hotchkiss reflected on what a lucky man he was. He and Lisa had met at Virginia Tech. There had never been anyone else for either one of them.

Like my mother felt about my father, was his unexpected thought as he poured the wine from the bar in the family room, touched Lisa’s glass with his, and settled down next to her on the sofa.

The CBS news was on. “Stunning new development in the explosion at the Connelly furniture complex that took one life and gravely injured Kate Connelly, the daughter of the owner,” Dana Tyler, the coanchor, was saying. “It has been learned that a homeless person had been living in a wrecked van on the property and may have been there the night of the explosion. A picture found in the van may help the police to trace that person. Take a look at it now.”

Skip had only been mildly interested in the story, more concerned with the fact that his thirteen- and fourteen-year-old sons were always arguing about something. But then he inhaled sharply. “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh my God.”

“Skip, what is it?” Lisa’s voice was panicky.

“That picture. Look at it. Where have you seen it before?”

Lisa stared. “It’s the one your mother has on the mantel. Oh, Skip, is it possible that the homeless man is your father?”