Sliver of Truth

24

The woods behind my parents’ house were just as I remembered them. It was cold, and as usual I wasn’t dressed for it. Another hour and the sun would be rising. Already I could see a silvery lightening of the horizon. As a child, I’d been frightened by these woods at night, my imagination turning slim black trees into witches, rocks into goblins, bushes into bogeymen. Tonight nothing scared me as I made my way through the thin tree cover. I could see the lights from the neighbor’s porch as I stepped over the creek bed, which was always dry in winter.

It was still there, just as we left it a lifetime ago, when it was the center of all our imaginary play. The fort that Ace and I had built seemed so small as I came to stand beside it. I was surprised at how tiny it was; I always remembered it large, as big as a car. Instead it was more like the size of a refrigerator box, maybe a little bigger. But for its size, the unstable little structure seemed solid and righteous. It had a place in these woods and in my memory; it would always be there.

Ridley, go home.

I climbed inside and sat on the cool dirt of the ground. It was just barely big enough for me. I had to scrunch up a little to fit. Outside, I could almost hear the sounds of my childhood summers: crickets chirping, the sparrows waking with the rising sun, off in the distance the sound of the trains going to and from the city. But this winter night was silent. And I felt profoundly how far I was from my childhood, from the girl who hid herself so that she could be sought after, found, and brought home.

It glowed, the whiteness of the envelope stuck between the rotting slats of wood. The paper was still clean and fresh; it hadn’t been there long. On its surface my name had been scrawled. I plucked it from its place, ripped the seal, and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

Hey, kid,

What a mess, huh? I wonder what you think of me as you read this…Do you hate me? Do you fear me? I guess I don’t know. I like to think your memories of me are enough to keep you from despising me. But maybe not.

All I’m going to say is: Don’t believe everything you hear.

I should have done better by you. I know that. Though I’m sure you agree that you would have been better off never knowing I was your father. Ben is the better man, by far. A better man and father than I could ever be. I stand by that decision. You come from ugly, kid. Ugly people, an ugly past. I tried to spare you the knowledge of that. And I was right…because you’re a bright light, Ridley. I’ve told you that before. Don’t let what you know about me and your grandparents change that about you. It doesn’t have to.

I know you well enough to know that you’re looking for answers. You always were a kid that wanted a begin- ning, a middle, and a happy ending. Remember how mad you got when we watched Gone With the Wind? You couldn’t believe that Rhett would leave Scarlett after all of that. Or how you chased Ace for years. He was a junkie, using you, destroying himself, but still you met him, gave him money, tried to help. (You thought I didn’t know? There’s not much I don’t know about you.) You always want to fix the broken things, make the wrong thing right. You always believed you could be the one to do that. That stubborn confidence is part of what makes you who you are, and I love you for it. But you can’t do that here. I’m too far gone…have been since before you were born.

I’m not going to get into a catalog of the things I’ve done and haven’t done. Some of the things they say about me are true, some of them aren’t. I’ll tell you that I have never been a good man, though I have done some good with my life. But I went bad, like unredeemable, early on. The only one who ever saw any good in me was Ben, and later you. I’ve always been grateful for that, even though now I suppose you think I was undeserving of your love. And probably it’s true.

By the time you read this, if you ever do, I’ll be gone. I’ll ask you to remember only one thing about me: that whatever I’ve done, whoever I am, whatever you have come to think of me, I have always loved you more than my own life. I am your father and nothing can change that. Even if you killed me, I’d still be that.

A long time ago, we sat in this spot together and I told you: There’s a golden chain from my heart to yours. I’ll always find you. It’s as true today as it ever was.

Anyway, kid, sorry for all of this. Pick up the pieces of your life and move forward. Don’t lie around worrying about the past and where you come from. Just move on.

And be nice to your parents. They love you.

Yours always,

Max

I sat there holding the letter for a while, thinking how predictable I must be for him to know that one day I’d come back to this place. Or how connected we were that he knew he could leave a note for me here and I would find it. Ridley, go home. He’d meant for me to come here. Not my home. Not his. But the home of my childhood, where he had always been my beloved uncle Max. He meant for me to come home to the place where I had loved him. And a sad homecoming it was.

I heard some movement in the brush outside then, and I held my breath, tried to make myself small. The movements grew louder, moved closer. Then:

“Ridley, is that you?”

“Dad?”

I looked out the small window to see Ben standing there. He had on sneakers below his pajamas and robe.

“I was awake,” he said, squatting down near me. “I heard your car and saw you walk across the back lawn. What in the world are you doing here?”

“I had a feeling I’d find something I was looking for here.”

He reached a hand in and touched my face, looked at me strangely, as if he thought I might be losing my mind.

“Did you find it?”

“I found something.”

I handed him the letter and waited as he read it in the growing light of morning. I told him what had happened to me since Dylan Grace first stopped me on the street. I told him about Potter’s Field and how I saw Max. I didn’t tell him how a dark and secret part of myself had sought to kill him that night, and how I’d done reckless and stupid things to make that possible.

“Why did you give me that key?” I asked. “Did you know what was in that drawer?”

He shrugged. “He told me you needed it, that you’d know what to do with it. That everything had been lost, and you and I were in trouble for the things he’d done. He said it was our ‘Get out of jail free’ card.”

I told him what was in that drawer, and what turning it over to the CIA had accomplished. He didn’t seem upset or even surprised. “Max is always one step ahead,” he said. “He’s a street fighter, always has been. Me, I play by the rules. He’s a berserker. Nobody beats Max Smiley.”

There was unadulterated admiration in my father’s voice. I was wondering if he’d lost his mind.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Dad? Do you understand who he was?”

“I understand what they think he is. But like the letter says, ‘Don’t believe everything you hear.’”

“He provided proof, Dad.”

“He gave them what they wanted to keep them off his back. That’s not the same thing.”

When that cloak of denial wrapped around my father, there was no way through it. He had chosen to see only one sliver of Max, one thin shred of who he was, and he clung to that. He didn’t care to see the whole man. Maybe he was afraid.

“What does he have on you, Dad? How has he held you in his thrall all these years?”

“He has the same thing on me that you do, Ridley. That your mother does. Even Ace. Love.”

I guess I had expected people to change. I had expected Max to own the things he’d done. I had expected Ben to acknowledge who Max truly was and the impact all their myriad lies had had on me. I had expected Ace to get clean, to live a decent life. Maybe expect is not the right word. Hope is better, however equally pointless. But you cannot hope for change in others, you can only work toward it in yourself. And that’s hard work.

I left my father in the woods and crossed the back lawn. I felt the dew soak through my boots as the rising sun painted the windows of my parents’ house golden. The air was frigid and the sky was pink. I saw my mother standing in the master bedroom window, looking down at me, just as she had a year ago. Since then, nothing had changed here—except for me. I guess that’s what they mean when they say you can’t go home again.