Found Money - James Grippando [84]
Ryan blinked nervously.
Her eyes turned soulful. She wasn’t sure what he knew—or if he was just pushing her buttons. But after twenty years of wondering, she couldn’t let an opportunity pass. “If you know something about my mother, I have a right to know.”
His voice dropped. “Was your mother ever involved in a rape?”
“How do you mean, ‘involved’?”
“I mean, was she ever the victim?”
Stunned silence. “Are you saying my mother was raped?”
His throat tightened. “It’s possible. A long time ago. When she was a teenager.”
“That far back? How would you know about it?”
He said nothing. Amy’s tone sharpened. “How would you know?”
Ryan was struggling. “It’s like I said. We’re both learning some things here.”
Her hands began to tremble. Her voice quaked. “Are you telling me that your father raped my mother? That’s why he sent me the money?”
“I—” He couldn’t say it. He could hardly think it, sitting right across from the daughter.
Her face reddened. A flood of emotions took over—rage toward the Duffys, disgust with the way she had earlier flirted with Ryan. “Oh, my God.”
“Look, Amy.”
“Don’t even say my name.” She slid out of the booth.
“Where are you going?”
“Away. Far away from you and your whole godforsaken family.” She hurried from the table, nearly running from the bar.
“Wait, please!”
She heard his pleas but just kept going. A tear ran down her cheek as she burst through the double entrance doors. She turned at the sidewalk and headed the wrong way, any way at all, just to get away. More tears followed. Tears for her mother.
Great tears of sorrow for a rape that may have led to suicide.
39
Ryan didn’t follow her out. Numbness took over, shutting out the sounds of a bustling bar. Amy’s outrage had deepened his sense of shame. Until tonight, he’d focused mainly on the way a father’s crime shaped the feelings of a son. Only now did he come to grips with the real victims.
It seemed repulsive now, the subtle way in which he had been taken with Amy the first time he had laid eyes on her. The son of a rapist attracted to the victim’s daughter. Ironically, back at that first meeting in the Green Parrot, they had even talked about children who were destined to be like their parents. He wondered if something in his subconscious was fueling the demons inside him, flooding his mind with loathsome thoughts of his father raping her mother, thoughts of the son raping the daughter. Was there something genetically wrong with him? Or was this situation simply too weird for any man?
He wondered how and where it had happened. The backseat of a car? Somebody’s house? Had his father used a weapon, some other form of coercion? Dad was a strong man. He was no lush, but he did drink more than most, especially at parties. Even so, Ryan had never seen him in a fistfight, never seen him abuse anyone, physically or verbally. He seemed happy with the man he was.
Seemed happy. Now that he was gone, it was looking more like an act. Dad had been happiest in group settings, making friends laugh, singing loudest at the piano. People loved him the way an audience loved a performer. Put him in a crowded room, and Frank Duffy would never shut up. Keep the topic light, and he was even great on the telephone. But face-to-face in a serious conversation, he wasn’t much of a talker. On reflection, Ryan had gotten very few glimpses into his father’s true feelings. Over the years, however, those little windows had stuck with him. Like the talk they’d had nearly two decades ago, on his parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
His father had been in a funk all day, working on the house, repairing some outdoor wiring under the roof easements. Ryan had always thought of his parents as happily married. On this momentous occasion, however, Dad wasn’t exactly acting as if he would have done it all over again. Ryan caught up with him outside, standing twenty feet up on the ladder directly beneath the exposed wires. Ryan was on the ground, looking up.
“Dad, what are you doing up there?”
“Fixing this floodlight.”
“That’s