Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [104]
Martin could not waste a minute in formulating a plan.
He spent the next three hours planning the conversation that he would have with his father. Ideally, Martin would drive over to the house, acquire the information desired, and leave. But considering that father and son had not spoken in so long, Martin worried that the topic of family history would inevitably arise. He needed to be prepared.
With the script set firmly in his mind, Martin drove to his father’s apartment in East Hartford, arriving outside the apartment building shortly past five o’clock. The sun was low in the sky as he parked the Subaru in the shaded parking lot behind the building, reminding Martin of how quickly time was passing. Having not visited the Pearls in almost two weeks (missing his previously scheduled visit in order to preserve the Ashleys’ party), he couldn’t be sure when Sherman Pearl’s next business trip was planned for, or even if he was out of town right now. Though Martin was keenly in tune with his clients’ vacation schedules, business trips taken by one spouse were less critically tracked, since these trips rarely provided him with additional opportunities for entry into the client’s home. For all Martin knew, Clive Darrow could be hiding in a closet in Sophie Pearl’s bedroom right now, waiting for the moment to strike.
Martin’s father rented an apartment behind a barbershop on Silver Lane, and though it was small, it appeared clean and well maintained on the outside. Martin had always known where his father lived, and had kept close tabs on the man since their separation, cruising by occasionally to see if his father was still driving the 1990 Ford pickup that he seemed unable to rid himself of.
He was. Martin’s Subaru was now parked alongside its battered exterior.
Though he had never actually been inside his father’s apartment, Martin had driven by the building hundreds of times over the past ten years, always wanting to stop and knock on the door, but never able to bring himself to do it. “Next week,” he’d say to himself, until next week became one year and then five, and any hope of reconciliation seemed impossible.
But now he would have to knock on the door and face the man who hadn’t bothered to fight for his wife or son, who had left his home more than twenty years ago with little more than a whimper.
When his father finally answered his knocking after more than a minute, Martin barely recognized the man. His once black mustache was now wispy and gray, his thick black hair was almost gone, and what remained was gray and lifeless. He had put on weight since Martin had seen him last, most of it in his belly, and he held a cane in his right hand for support. It was clear from his father’s furrowed brow that the man did not recognize the son standing before him.
Martin hadn’t anticipated this, and as a result he froze.
“Yes?” his father said. After a moment, he repeated himself, curiosity quickly turning to annoyance. His voice hadn’t changed a bit in nearly two decades, and for that, Martin was relieved. It was as if one piece of his childhood father still existed.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, becoming more perturbed by the second.
“It’s me, Dad. Martin.”
The man’s blue eyes opened wide, and a second later Martin saw recognition in his father’s face. “Martin,” he said after a moment, a sigh more than a word. Then again. “Martin. I can’t believe it. Look at you.”
“Do you mind if I come in?” he asked, this line rehearsed.
“Of course. Come in.” His father backed away from the door, clearly requiring the cane for support, and Martin entered a kitchen in serious need of remodeling. Though the room was clean and organized, the yellowing wallpaper and the ancient linoleum gave it a depressed, hopeless appearance. The appliances were old, the cabinets were old, and the man standing before him was older than Martin could have ever imagined. He looked nothing like the father who had taught Martin to bait