The Wrong Man

12

Scott drove east the following morning, early enough so that the rising sun reflected off the reservoir outside the town of Gardner, momentarily filling the windshield with glare. Usually when he drove the Porsche up Route 2, with its long, empty stretches through some of the least scenic countryside in New England, he let the car fly. He’d been ticketed once by a humorless state trooper, who’d clocked him at over a hundred miles per hour, and who had started a series of quite predictable lectures, which Scott had ignored. When he drove alone and fast, which was as frequently as he could, he sometimes thought it was the only time that he truly failed to act his age. The rest of his life was dedicated to being responsible and adult. He knew inwardly that the recklessness he exhibited spoke of some larger issue within him, but he ignored it.

The car began to hum in the distinctive sound that the Porsche had, an I can go faster, if you’ll let me reminder, and he settled into the drive, considering the brief conversation he’d had with Ashley the night before.

There had been no discussion of the reason for his trip to get her. He’d started to ask a question or two, but realized that she’d already spoken with both Hope and her mother, and so he was likely to simply be repeating questions already asked. So it had been all I’ll be there early and Don’t bother parking, just beep, and I’ll come running out. He figured that once she got into the car, she would open up, at least enough for him to make some sort of assessment of the situation.

He wasn’t sure what he thought, so far. The recognition that his first instincts upon reading the letter were correct didn’t give him any satisfaction.

Nor did he know, now that he was heading toward Boston to pick up his daughter, just how worried he should be. In a slightly perverse way, he was looking forward to seeing her because he doubted that he would have many more opportunities to truly act like a father. She was growing up, and she didn’t need him or her mother nearly as much as she did when she was a child.

Scott slid a pair of sunglasses down on his nose. He wondered, What does Ashley need now? A little extra cash. Maybe a wedding party sometime in the future. Advice? Not likely.

He punched the accelerator and the car jumped forward.

It was nice to be needed, but he doubted he would ever be again. At least, not needed in that small-child-and-parent way, where the smallest of problems can be magnified. Ashley was equipped to extricate herself from the problem. Indeed, he suspected she would demand this right. His role, he believed, was truly cheering from the sidelines, limited to making a modest suggestion or two.

When he had first seen the letter, he’d been filled with protective feelings that were reminiscent of her childhood. Now, as he drove to get her, more or less vindicated in his concerns, he glumly realized that his role was probably going to be small, and his feelings were best kept to himself. Still, as the stands of trees still carrying their fall colors swept past him, a part of him was overjoyed to be allowed into his daughter’s life in something other than a peripheral way. Scott grinned Can’t catch me as he headed down the highway.

Ashley heard the car horn beep twice, quickly peered out the window, and saw the familiar profile of her father in the black Porsche. He gave a small wave, which was both a greeting and a hurry-up gesture, because he was blocking the street and more than a few people who drive in Boston are willing to exchange words over the inconveniences of the narrow traffic lanes. Boston drivers take a sporting delight in honking and shouting. In Miami or Houston, that sort of conversation might produce handguns, but in Boston it is more or less considered protected speech.

She grabbed a small overnight bag and made sure that her apartment was locked. She had already unplugged the answering machine and turned off her cell phone and computer.

No messages. No e-mails. No contact, she thought, as she bounded down the stairwell and through the front door.

“Hi, beautiful,” Scott said as she crossed the sidewalk.

“Hi, Dad.” Ashley smiled. “Gonna let me drive?”

“Ah,” Scott hesitated. “Maybe next time.”

This was a joke between them. Scott never let anyone else drive the Porsche. He said it was for insurance reasons, but Ashley knew better.

“That all you’re going to need?” Scott asked, eyeing the small bag.

“That’s it. I’ve got enough stuff out there anyway, either at your place or Mom’s.”

Scott shook his head and smiled as he embraced her. “There was a time,” he said with a fake, sonorous tone, “that I distinctly recall carrying trunks and suitcases and backpacks and huge, military-issue duffel bags, all crammed with completely unnecessary clothing, just to be sure that you would be able to change at least a half dozen times each day.”

She smiled and headed toward the passenger door.

“Let’s get out of here before some delivery truck comes along and decides to squash your midlife-crisis toy car,” she said, laughing.

She put her head back on the leather headrest and momentarily closed her eyes, feeling, for the first time in some hours, safe. She breathed out slowly, feeling herself relax.

“Thanks for coming, Dad.” A few words that said a great deal.

Their exchange distracted her as her father steered the small car out of her street. He, of course, wouldn’t have recognized the figure sliding into the shadow of a tree as they went past, but she would have if her eyes had been open and she had been more alert.

Michael O’Connell stared after them, taking note of the car and the driver, and memorizing the license plate number.

“Do you ever listen to love songs?” she asked me. The question seemed to come out of the blue, and I hesitated for a moment before replying.

“Love songs?”

“Exactly. Love songs. You know, ‘Yummy, yummy, yummy, I’ve got love in my tummy,’ or maybe, ‘Maria…I’ve just met a girl named Maria’…I could go on and on.”

“Not really,” I replied. “I mean, I suppose everyone does, to some degree. Isn’t about ninety-nine percent of pop, rock, country, whatever, even punk, often about some sort of love? Lost love. Unrequited love. Good love. Bad love. I’m not sure what this has to do with what we’re talking about.”

I was a little exasperated. What I wanted to do was find out what the next step had been for Ashley. And I certainly wanted to get a better handle on Michael O’Connell.

“Most love songs aren’t about love at all. They’re about many things. But mostly about frustration. Lust, maybe. Desire. Need. Disappointment. Rarely are they about what love really is, which is, when you strip away all these other aspects, a…well, mutual dependency. The problem is, so often it is too difficult to see that, because we get obsessed with another one of these items on the love list, mistaking that for the be-all and end-all of the emotion.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “And Michael O’Connell?”

“Love for him was anger. Rage.”

I remained quiet.

“And it was as essential to him as the very breath of life.”