Chapter 6 - The Broken Table
Thomas Vance did not go inside.
He stood on the top step, among the shards of his broken glass, his hands hanging limp at his sides. The news crew had lowered their camera, Sarah Jenkins conferring quietly with her producer near the van while Arthur Greer stood beside me, the green duffel bag resting on the manicured grass.
"Emily," my father said. His voice was barely a whisper now, the bluster and defensive panic entirely gone, leaving behind only the frail, broken husk of a man who had traded his daughter's honor for peace in an unhappy marriage.
I walked up the three brick steps. My boots crunched over the glass, but I didn't look down.
I stopped two feet from him. Up close, I could see the broken veins in his nose, the yellow tint in the whites of his eyes, the gray stubble on his trembling chin. He smelled of old tobacco, stale whiskey, and the cedar shavings from the basement workshop he used as a hideout.
"You knew," I said.
He flinched, as if I had struck him with a rifle butt.
"I didn't, Em," he croaked, tears finally spilling over his wrinkled lower lids, cutting clean tracks through the gray stubble on his cheeks. "I swear to God... she told me the letters were collections notices from credit card companies in Columbus. She told me you had run up debts before you left. She handled the mail. She always handled the mail."
"You knew I wasn't in prison, Dad," I said, my voice level, stripped of all filial warmth. "You knew Tommy Miller’s father was the town marshal. You could have walked down to the municipal building any morning for four years and asked to see a record. You could have called the county clerk."
He looked down at his slippers, unable to bear the weight of my eyes.
"It was easier, wasn't it?" I asked. "It was easier to let her tell the town I was a thief than to stand up to her at the breakfast table. It was easier to let the neighbors pray for my parole than to tell your wife she was a liar."
"Emily, please..." He reached out a trembling hand, the fingers curled in a pathetic, pleading gesture, trying to touch the sleeve of my uniform coat. "Come inside. Let’s... let’s talk about this. Your mother’s sick, Em. She’s not right in the head. She’s been under so much pressure with the mortgage, with the historical society..."
I stepped back, out of his reach.
"My mother isn't sick, Dad," I told him. "She’s cruel. And you are a coward. I don't know which one is worse."
I turned to Arthur Greer, who had walked up the driveway and was standing at the base of the steps, holding my duffel.
"Arthur," I said. "Is that offer for the guest room still open?"
"It’s been open for four years, kid," the old Marine said, hoisting the bag with one arm. "Clean sheets. Fresh coffee every morning at five-thirty. Nobody there to tell you who you’re supposed to be."
I turned back to Thomas Vance one last time.
"I’m going to stay in this town for two weeks, Dad," I said. "Not because I want to see you. But because I am going to walk down Elmwood Lane every single morning in this uniform. I am going to buy my coffee at the bakery. I am going to deposit my terminal pay at the First National Bank. And every single person who ate Diane’s lemon pound cake while praying for my soul is going to look at me and remember what kind of people live in this house."
I turned on my heel, executing a sharp, thirty-degree pivot that would have made my drill sergeant proud, and walked down the brick walkway toward Arthur’s truck.
May you like
Behind me, the front door of 412 did not open.
My father sat down on the top step, his head buried in his hands, weeping openly into his flannel sleeves while the neighbors watched from the safety of their porches.
