The Tail of Emily Windsnap - Liz Kessler [25]
“Yes, he left her,” he replied through tight lips.
“Where did he go?”
“That’s just it. No one ever heard from him again. The strain was obviously too much for him,” he said sarcastically.
“What strain?”
“Fatherhood. Good-for-nothing slacker. Never willing to grow up and take responsibility.” Mr. Beeston looked away. “What he did — it was despicable,” he said, his voice becoming raspy. “I will never forgive him.” He got up from the bench, his face hard and set. “Never,” he repeated. Something about the way he said it made me hope I’d never get on his wrong side.
I followed him as we carried on along the boardwalk. “Didn’t anybody try to find him?”
“Find him?” Mr. Beeston looked at me, but it was as though he were seeing right through me. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Find him?” he repeated. “Yes — of course we tried. No one could have done more than I did. I traveled around for weeks, put up posters. We even had a message on the radio, begging him to come home and meet his — well, his . . .”
“His daughter?”
Mr. Beeston didn’t reply.
“So he never even saw me?”
“We did everything we could.”
I looked down the wide boards of the promenade, trying to take in what I’d heard. It couldn’t be true. Could it? A young couple ambled toward us, the man holding a baby up in the air, the woman laughing, a spaniel jumping up between them. Farther down, an elderly couple were walking slowly against the wind, arms linked.
“I think I need to go now,” I said. We’d walked all the way around to the lighthouse.
Mr. Beeston pulled me back by my arm. “You’re not to talk to your mother about this, do you hear me?”
“Why not?”
“You saw what happened. It’s far too painful for her.” He tightened his grip, his fingers biting into my arm. “Promise me you won’t mention it.”
I didn’t say anything.
Mr. Beeston looked hard into my eyes. “People can block things out completely if the memory is too much to cope with. That’s a scientific fact. There’ll be all sorts of trouble if you try to make her talk about this.” He pulled on my arm, his face inches from mine. “And you don’t want trouble — do you?” he said in a whisper.
I shook my head.
“Do you?” he repeated with another yank on my arm.
“No — of course not,” my voice wobbled.
He smiled his wonky smile at me and let go of my arm. “Good,” he said. “Good. Now, will I be seeing you when I come over this afternoon?”
“I’m going out,” I said quickly. I’d think of something to do. I couldn’t cope with Sunday coffee with Mom and Mr. Beeston. Especially now.
“Very well. Tell your mother I’ll be over at three o’clock.”
“Yeah.”
We stood by the lighthouse. For a moment, I had a vision of him throwing me inside and locking me in! Why would he do that? He’d never done anything to hurt me — before today. I rubbed my arm. I could still feel the pinch of his fingers digging into my skin. But it was nothing compared with the disappointment I felt in my chest. Jake wasn’t my father, after all, if Mr. Beeston was to be believed. And he had no reason to lie — did he? Nothing made sense anymore.
“Now, let’s see, where’s the, hmm . . .” Mr. Beeston talked to himself as he fumbled with his keys. He had about five key rings rattling on a long chain. But then he gasped. “What — where’s my . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
He ignored me. “It can’t be missing. It can’t be.” He felt in his pants pockets, pulling the insides out and shaking out his handkerchief. “It was here. I’m sure it was.”
“The lighthouse key?”
“No, not the lighthouse key, the —” He stopped fumbling and looked up at me, as if he’d only just remembered I was there, his eyes dark and hard. “You’re still here,” he said. “Go on. Leave me alone. But don’t forget our chat. It’s between you and me. Remember, you don’t want to cause any trouble.” Then he unlocked the lighthouse door. “I’ve got some important things to do,” he said. Squinting into my eyes, he added, “I’ll see you again soon.” For some reason, it sounded like a threat.
Before I had