and then taken it and her mother’s away with brutal finality.
As the car pulled away he had continued to look at her, a mixture of
sadness and resignation on his features that had surprised her. But she
had rationalized it away, as another of his tricks to make her feel
guilty. She could not attribute benign qualities to any of his actions.
He was a thief. He had no regard for the law. A barbarian in a civilized
society. There was no possible room in his shell for sincerity. Then
they had turned the corner and his image had disappeared, like it had
been on a string and was suddenly pulled away.
Kate pulled into the driveway. The house was pitch dark.
As she sat there her headlights reflected off the rear of the car parked
in front of her and the glare hurt her eyes. She switched off the
lights, took a deep breath to steady her nerves and climbed out into the
cold and wetness.
The previous snowfall had been light, and what little residue there was
crunched under her feet as she made her way up to the front door. The
temperature promised icy conditions developing overnight. She placed one
hand against the side of his car to balance herself as she walked.
Despite not expecting to find her father home, she had washed and styled
her hair, was encased in one of her suits normally reserved for court
and had actually applied more than a dab of makeup. She was successful,
in her own way, and if chance brought them face-to-face, she wanted him
to realize that despite his maltreatment she had not only survived, she
had flourished.
The key was still where Jack had told her it was so many years ago. It
had always seemed ironic to her that a consummate burglar should leave
his own property so accessible. As she unlocked the door and slowly went
inside, she did not notice the car that had pulled to a stop on the
other side of the street or the driver who watched her intently, and who
was already writing down her license plate number.
The house had the built-up musty odor of a long-abandoned place. She had
occasionally imagined what the place would look like on the inside. She
had figured it to be neat and orderly and she was not disappointed.
In the darkness she sat down in a chair in the living room, not
realizing it was her father’s favorite and totally unaware that Luther
had unconsciously done the same thing when he had visited her apartment.
The photo was on the mantel. It must’ve been almost thirty years old.
Kate, held in her mother’s arms, was swaddled from head to toe, a few
wisps of tar-colored hair visible from under the pink bonnet; she had
been born with a remarkably thick head of hair. Her father, calm-faced
and wearing a snapbrim, was standing next to mother and daughter, his
muscular hand touching Kate’s tiny outstretched fingers Kate’s mother
had kept that same photo on her dressing table until her death. Kate had
thrown it away the day of the funeral, cursing the intimacy between
father and daughter that the image displayed. She had hurled it away
right after her father had come by the house where she had exploded at
him with a fury, an outburst that became more and more out of control
since its target did not respond, did not fight back, but stood there
and accepted the barrage. And the quieter he had become, the more angry
she became until she had slapped him, with both hands, until others had
pulled her away and held her down. And only then did her father put his
hat back on, lay the flowers he had brought down on the table and, with
an inflamed face from her pounding and water-filled eyes, he had walked
out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
And it occurred to Kate as she sat in her father’s chair that he too had
been grieving that day. Grieving for a woman he had presumably loved for
a good portion of his life and who certainly had loved him. She felt a