“Johnny? What the hell you doing here?” A broad smile cracked his face. When he registered Sara, he looked startled and quickly turned so his back was to them. They watched him fumble with his pants until they were right. Then he turned back to face them.
“Pop, I need to talk to you.”
Ed Fiske glanced over at Sara again.
“I’m sorry — Sara Evans, Ed Fiske,” John said.
“Hello, Mr. Fiske,” she said, trying to sound both pleasant and neutral at the same time. She awkwardly held out her hand.
He shook it. “Call me Ed, Sara, pleased to meet you.” He looked back at his son curiously. “So what’s up? You two getting married or something?”
Fiske glanced at Sara. “No! She worked with Mike at the Supreme Court.”
“Oh, well, hell, where are my manners, come on in. I got the air going, sticky as the damn devil out there.”
They went inside. Ed pointed to a worn sofa and Fiske and Sara sat down there. Ed pulled a metal chair from the small dinette and sat down opposite them.
“Sorry I took so long. Just nodded off to sleep.”
Sara looked around the small space. It was paneled with thin plywood stained dark. Several stuffed fish were mounted on plaques and hung on the wall. Slung across a rack on another wall was a shotgun. In the corner she saw a long, round container with one end of a rod and reel poking out. A folded newspaper was lying on the dinette table. Next to that was a small kitchen area with a sink and a little refrigerator. There was a worn-out recliner in one corner, a small TV across from it. There was one window. Mounted on the ceiling was an air conditioner that was making the room deliciously cool. She actually shivered as she adjusted to the temperature. The floor was cheap, uneven linoleum with a thin rug covering a portion of it.
Sara sniffed and then coughed. She could almost see the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. As if in response to her thoughts, Ed pulled a pack of Marlboros from a knicked-up side table and deftly popped a cigarette in his mouth, taking a moment to light up, then blew the smoke to the nicotine-coated ceiling. He grabbed a small ashtray off the same table and tapped his cigarette in it. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. She noted that his fingers were abnormally thick, the nails cracked, and blackened in spots from what looked like grease. He had been a mechanic, she recalled.
“So what brings you two down here so late?”
Fiske handed his father a six-pack. “Not good news.”
The elder Fiske tensed, and he squinted at them through the smoke. “It’s not your mom. I just saw her, she’s okay.” As soon as he said this, he shot a glance at Sara. The look on his face was clear: She “worked” with Mike.
He looked back at John. “Why don’t you tell me whatever the hell it is you need to tell me, son.”
“Mike’s dead, Pop.” As he finished saying it, it was as though he were hearing the news for the first time. He could feel his face grow hot as though he had leaned too close to a fire. Perhaps he had waited to see his father, to join his grief with his. He could believe that, couldn’t he?
Fiske could sense Sara looking at him, but he kept his gaze on his father. As he watched the devastation wash over the man, Fiske suddenly found he could barely breathe.
Ed took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped the ashtray, his fingers shaking. “How?”
“Robbery. At least they think so.” Fiske paused and then added the obvious, since he knew his father was going to ask anyway. “Somebody shot him.”
Ed tore off one of the Buds from the plastic holder and popped the tab. He drank it down almost in one swallow, his Adam’s apple moving up and down.
Ed crushed the beer can against his leg and threw it against the wall. He stood up and went over to the small window and looked out, the cigarette dangling from his mouth, his big hands closing and opening, the veins in his forearms swelling and then diminishing.