The First Counsel

* * *

Pulling off at the Ashland exit, it doesn't take long for us to hit horse country. One minute we're tracing the double-yellow lines of Route One; a left turn later we're riding up and down the peaks and valleys of Virginia's most picturesque rolling roads. Traffic lights become green trees and yellow stalks. Parking lots become lush open fields. The sky's still cloudy, but the sweet smell of the outdoors . . . it's suddenly the sunniest of days.

"Not to be an ingrate, but where the hell is this place?" Nora asks.

I don't answer. I want her to see for herself.

Up ahead, the grounds of the facility are located next to a family-owned farm. It wasn't the farmer's first choice for neighbors, but the possibilities for cheap labor quickly changed his mind. When we pass the farm and its corn-stalk-covered fields, I make a sharp left through the gate in an unmarked log fence. The car bounces along a dirt road that weaves its way to the front entrance.

As we pull to a stop, I half expect Nora to race out of the car. Instead, she stays where she is. "You ready?" I ask.

She nods.

Somewhat satisfied, I get out of the car and slam the door. For perhaps the first time in her life, Nora follows.

The facility is a one-story 1950s ranch house with a propped-open screen door. So much for security. Inside, it's a normal house, except for the walls, where fire escape routes and state licenses are posted right as you walk in. In the kitchen, a heavy, nappy-haired man is leaning forward on the counter, newspaper stretched out in front of him. "Michael, Michael, Michael," he sings in his deep Cajun accent.

"The world-famous Marlon."

"Momma only made but one." He takes a quick look at Nora, then does an immediate double-take. He's too smart for the baseball cap. Here we go.

"Mmmm-mmm--lookit dat. What you doing this far south?"

"Same thing that Creole accent's doing this far north," she shoots back with a grin.

Marlon lets out a thundering laugh. "Good for you, sister. 'Bout time someone didn't say it was Cajun."

I clear my throat, begging for attention. "Um . . . about my father . . ."

"Been asking about you all morning," Marlon says. "And just so you know, I been lookin' out since you called, but there's nothing to worry about. Whole place hasn't had a visitor since Thursday."

"Who came on Thur--"

"Let it go," Nora says, leaning in over my shoulder. "Just for a few hours."

She's right. Today's supposed to be for family.

"He's waiting for you," Marlon adds. "In his room."

Nora takes the first step. "All set?" she asks.

My fists are clenched and I'm frozen. I shouldn't have let her come.

"It's okay," she says. Prying my fingers open, she takes me by the hand.

"You don't know him. He isn't . . ."

"Stop worrying about it," she adds as she lifts my chin. "I'm going to love him. Really."

Warmed by the confidence in her voice, I hesitantly head for the door.

Chapter 17

Knock, knock," I announce as I enter the small room. There's a bed on my left and a single dresser on my right. My dad's sitting at a desk along the far wall. "Anyone here?"

"Mikey!" my dad shouts with a smile that's all teeth. Jumping out of his seat, he knocks a can of Magic Markers from his desk. It doesn't even register. All he sees is me.

He grabs me in a tight bear hug and tries to lift me off the ground.

"Careful, Dad. I'm heavier now."

"Never too heavy for . . . this!" He picks me up and spins around, planting me in the center of the room. "You are heavy," he says with a slight nasal slur. "Tired-looking too."

With his back to the door, he doesn't see Nora standing on the threshold. I bend over and start picking up the markers from the floor. Noticing the newspaper on his desk, I ask, "What're you working on?"

"Crossword puzzle."

"Really? Let me see." He picks up the paper and hands it to me. My dad's version of a finished crossword puzzle--he's colored every blank square a different color.

"What d'you think?"

"Great," I tell him, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Your best one yet."

"For real?" he asks, unleashing his smile. It's a bright white grin that lights up the room. With all five fingers extended, he hooks the space between his thumb and pointer finger behind his ear, then folds the top of his ear down and lets it flap up again. When I was little, it reminded me of a cat giving itself a bath. I loved it.

"Will you put in letters?" he asks.

"Not now, Dad," I interrupt. Patting him on the back, I tuck in the tag of his shirt. Over his shoulder, I read the look on Nora's face. She's finally starting to get the picture. Now she knows where my childhood ends. "Dad, there's someone I want you to meet." Pointing to the door, I add, "This is my friend Nora."

He turns around and they check each other out. At fifty-seven years old, he's got the permanent smile of a ten-year-old, but he's still extremely handsome, with a messy swath of gray hair barely receding at the temples. He's wearing his favorite T-shirt--the one with the Heinz ketchup logo on it--and his always present khaki shorts, which are pulled too high around his stomach. Down low, he's got white sneakers and black socks. Watching Nora, he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I can see the surprise on her face. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrick," she says, removing her baseball cap. It's the first time she's done that in public. No more hiding.

"Do you know who she is?" I ask, suddenly enjoying myself.

"He's my baby boy," he tells Nora, proudly putting his arm around me. As he says the words, he looks away from both of us. His always wide eyes go straight to the corner of the room and his shoulders slump awkwardly forward.

"Dad, I asked you a question. Do you know who she is?"

His mouth hangs open as he turns to her with a long sideways glance. Confused, he says, "Pretty girl with small breasts?"

"Dad!"

"She's not?" he asks sheepishly, his eyes darting away.

"Actually, that's just a nickname," she says, extending a hand. "I'm Nora."

"Frank," he blurts with a grin. "Frank Garrick." He wipes his hand against his stomach and offers it to Nora.

I know what she's thinking. The way his mouth gapes open; the way he's always staring in the distance--it's not what she expected. His teeth buck slightly forward, his neck cranes upward. He's an adult, but he looks more like an oversized kid--who happens to have really poor fashion sense.

"Dad, why're you still wearing those black socks? I told you they look terrible with sneakers."

"They stay up better," he says, pulling up each sock to its height limit. "Nothing wrong with that."

"There sure isn't," Nora says. "I think you look handsome."

"She says I look handsome," he repeats, rocking back and forth. As I watch the two of them, he stands right next to her--completely invading her personal space--but Nora never steps back.

I grin at Nora, but she turns away to check out the room. Above my dad's bed is a framed picture from Michigan's Special Olympics. It's an aerial shot of a young man competing in the long jump. On the opposite wall is the framed collage I made for him when he moved into the group home. Built with pictures from the last thirty years, it lets him know I'm always there.

"Is this you?" Nora asks, examining the collage.

"Which one?" I ask.

"Bowl haircut and the pink oxford shirt. The little prepster."

"That's Mikey in his big-boy shirt," my dad says proudly. "Off to school, off to school."

In the corner, she glances at the rows of empty Heinz ketchup bottles that line the bookshelves, and the windowsills, and the side table next to the bed, and every other free space in the room. Following her glance, my dad beams. I shoot him a look. He can show her the ketchup bottles later. Not now.

Next to the bookcase, his bed is made, but his desk's a mess. On top of the clutter is a framed wedding photo. Nora goes right to it.

Right away, my dad starts flicking his middle finger against his thumb. Flick, flick, flick, flick. "She's my wife. Philly. Phyllis. Phyllis," he repeats as Nora picks up the frame. Decked out in their respective tux and wedding dress, my dad looks young and slender; my mom shy and overweight.

"She's very pretty," Nora says.

"She's beautiful. I'm handsome," he says. Flick, flick, flick. "Here's Michael with the President. The real one." Reaching over, he hands Nora a photograph of me and her dad.

"Wow," she says. "And Michael gave this to you?"

"I told you--he's my boy."