The Fury

6

We landed in Portland at five o'clock, or eight o'clock

New York time. We'd both slept a good portion of the flights. While Amanda was awake, she tore through

Jack O'Donnell's book with incredible zeal. It thrilled me to see that she was clearly enjoying the book. It brought back memories of the first time I'd read it, in junior high. I spent the next week plowing through every O'Donnell book I could find at the Deschutes

County Library. My teachers were less than impressed, since I'd read the books in lieu of completing my actual schoolwork. Safe to say O'Donnell's tomes taught me more about myself and what I wanted to be than years of school could ever do.

After landing, we rented a car, a nice little compact that probably got twenty-eight miles to the gallon.

Given how you practically had to sell a kidney to fill up a tank of gas these days, I would have seriously consid ered a motorized skateboard if Hertz had one available.

The drive to Bend took just about three hours. Once we merged onto US-20, I began to feel my stomach rumbling and beginning to churn. I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I hadn't set foot in Bend in nearly ten years. The same amount of time had passed since I'd last seen my parents. And while some children might find a hole in their heart, in their soul, due to this absence, mine was finally able to fill up.

I wondered if coming back here was a good idea, whether it was best to let dead dogs lie. Yet that image of Stephen Gaines lying on an examining table, his head nearly blown apart, made this trip a necessity.

Anger had driven me away from my home. Now the same was leading me back.

As we approached the city limits, I could immedi ately tell that the last eight years had changed my hometown a great deal. And all the changes looked to be for the better.

To the west, the spectacular beauty of the Cascade

Mountain Range. The lush green foliage was tipped with hints of snow from winter. I could make out the magnificent peak of Mount Bachelor, rising to a snowcapped point. I rolled down the window to breathe in the fresh air. It was warm, dry and clean. For a moment

I considered what I'd given up. Part of me missed the air, the scenery. Being able to see for miles, the horizons rising blue and bold above the skyline. For everything

I loved about New York-the hustle and bustle, the thriving heart of media and business, the diversity of its inhabitants-I missed the open world.

By seven-thirty, we were approaching Eastview

Drive, the street in the northeast section of Bend where

James and Eve Parker had lived for nearly thirty years.

I still didn't have the timeline sketched out completely, so I wondered if my father had had his affair with Helen Gaines in the very house I'd grown up in. Perhaps a quickie in the room that later became my bedroom.

Every moment spent thinking about it made me more angry. I'd have to restrain myself once I saw him in person.

I turned the car onto Eastview Drive tentatively, slowing the car down as my old house came into view.

The first eighteen years of my life forgotten and now remembered. A bad dream interrupting a peaceful sleep.

The dark green paint hadn't been refreshed in years.

The two-car garage was still surely filled with old records, antiques my parents had grown weary of and empty photo albums. A black 1994 Chevy C/K 1500 flatbed truck was parked outside the left garage. The paint was scratched and faded, but I had no doubt the old truck still purred like a kitten. The grass was fairly short, so as least they cared about some sense of decorum, and the cobblestone walkway leading up to the front door was still there like the day I left. Much had changed in Bend over the last decade, and it seemed as if my parents had resisted that change as much as possible.

I steered the car into the driveway, parking next to the flatbed, then turned off the engine and sat there in silence. Amanda did as well. Neither of us said a word for a long time. Finally Amanda said, "Henry, do you want to do this? We can go to a hotel, wait until you're ready."

"I'm ready," I said. "Or at least I need to be."

I opened the car door, cautiously stepped out as though expecting the driveway to swallow me whole.

Amanda climbed out, and we walked up the cobble stone path to the front door. A faded yellow button popped out like a pimple to the right of the front door.

I could see a faint glow from inside one of the windows.

Somebody was definitely home.

I looked at Amanda, smiled weakly, tried to gather my strength and rang the doorbell. The bell startled me for some reason, like I wasn't ready to accept that there was actually a person who lived here.

I hadn't phoned ahead because I didn't want him to know I was coming. Didn't want to give him a chance to think, to make up excuses. I wanted him face-to face. To see how he reacted. If he did at all.

I heard footsteps, someone mumbling under his breath. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to forget the resentment I had toward this man. Knowing the pain he'd put us all through. Knowing there was a young man lying in New York with two bullets in his head, a man who my father could, like me, call his blood.

The front door opened with a creak. A man stood in front of me, rubbing his eyes. He looked older than I remembered, lines creasing his face like small ditches, a thin coat of gray stubble covering the worn skin.

When his eyes came into focus and he saw me, the man's mouth opened slightly, his reflexes working faster than his mind was able to keep up with. He shook his head slightly, unsure.

I took a step forward and said, "Hi, Dad. It's been a while. It's Henry. Your son who's still alive."