The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [16]
“Y’mean with the park? I told you: I was at the bar, then got jumped . . .” He studies me, reading my anger all too well. “Ah. You mean for the past few years.”
“Yes, Lloyd. For the past nineteen years. You left me, remember? And when you went to prison—” My voice cracks, and I curse myself for the weakness. But I’ve earned this answer. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”
Staring over my shoulder, my dad anxiously studies both ends of the U-shaped driveway, then scans the empty sidewalk that runs in front of the hospital. Like he’s worried someone’s watching. “Calvin, is there anything I can possibly say to satisfy that question?”
“That’s not the point. Y-You missed everything in my—” I shake my head. “You missed Aunt Rosey’s funeral.”
I wait for his excuse. He’s too smart to make one. He knows there’s no changing the past. And the way he keeps checking the area, he’s far more worried about the future.
“The doctor told me you drive around and pick up homeless people,” he offers, eyeing the parking garage on our right. “Good for you.”
“Why’s that good for me?” I challenge.
“This isn’t a fight, Calvin—”
“Cal.”
“—I just think it’s nice that you help people,” he adds, rechecking the street.
“Oh, so now you like helping people?”
“I’m just saying . . . it’s good to help people.”
“Are you asking me for help, Lloyd?”
For the first time, my father looks directly at me. I know he’s a truck driver. I know about the delivery slip. And I know that whatever it is he’s picking up at the port, he’s not getting that shipment unless he has someone remove the hold notice, a favor that wouldn’t take me more than a single phone call.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” he tells me, standing slowly from his seat. He’s clearly aching. But as he grips the armrest, I can’t help but stare at his fingers, which are marked by hairy knuckles and crooked pinkies. Just like mine. “Calvin, can we please have the rest of this argument later? With all this pain medication, it’s like everyone’s talking in slow motion.”
I just stare as he limps away. Paulo said he hadn’t given him any pain medication. Just a shot of anesthetic by the wound.
“Hey, Lloyd—you never told me what you do these days. You still painting restaurants?”
“For sure. Lots of painting,” he says, his back still to me.
“That’s great. And you can do it full-time? No odd jobs or anything else to make the rent?”
My father stands up straight and looks back. But in his eyes . . . all I see is panic. Real panic. My father spent eight years in prison. If he’s scared, it’s for something that’s worth being scared about. “Business is really great,” he insists.
“I’m sure it is if you can afford this nice shirt and shoes,” I say, still holding his belongings.
His mouth is open, like he’s ready to say something. It’s as if I have a grip on his scab and I’m slowly pulling it off. That’s it, Lloyd. Tell me what you’re really here for. But instead, he shakes his head slightly, like he’s begging, pleading for me to stay away.
“I—I can handle my own problems, Calvin. Please. . . .”
On our left, an old rumbling car turns into the corner of the hospital’s driveway. The rain glows like a tiny meteor shower in the car’s headlights. “I gotta go,” he says, heading for the car but still scanning the area. Whoever this is, he knows them.
In front of us, a dark green Pontiac Grand Prix pulls up to the emergency room entrance and bucks to a stop right next to me.
“¡Ay, Dios mío!” a young, fair-skinned black woman with short hair shouts from the driver’s seat. “¿¡Que paso!?”
“Estoy bien, Serena,” my dad replies. Serena. When’d my dad learn Spanish? “Callate,” he adds. “No digas nada, okay?”
Serena’s voice is rushed. She’s scared. “Pero el cargamento . . . ¿Por favor, yo espero que el cargamento ha sido protegido?”
“¡Escúchame!” he insists, struggling to stay calm as he turns back to me. “I promise, Calvin,” he tells me as he scoops his clothes and Franceschetti shoes from my arms and slides into the passenger seat of the car. The woman touches my dad’s forearm with the kind of tenderness