decades.”
“Why did he throw you out?”
“I pushed him too hard.” She sighs. “Be careful, Ashley. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dale
I knock loudly on the door of the cracker box house in the city. Dad and I stand on a concrete stoop that’s spalling and cracked in three places. The screen door hangs on one hinge.
Whoever Floyd Jolly really is, he sucks at home maintenance.
If this is even his home. Maybe he rents, though who’d rent this shack, I have no idea.
I knock again. “Hello? Anybody home?”
This time Dad knocks with me. We’re both pounding, and still no response.
“Must not be home,” I say.
“We’ll see.” He moves the screen door and turns the knob on the main door.
It opens.
“Dad…”
He cracks the door. “Hello? Mr. Jolly?”
An orange cat whisks by, hissing at us.
Dad opens the door farther. “Hey, kitty. Anyone home?”
“Dad, are you sure we should be doing this?”
“No, but we’re going to do it anyway. If the man who lives here really is your natural father, we need to know if he’s here.”
“He’s obviously not.”
“Actually he probably is. People who aren’t home don’t usually leave their doors unlocked.” He moves into the small living area. “Mr. Jolly?”
I inhale. Stale cigarette smoke. A glass ashtray overflows with butts, and a few more litter the worn brown carpeting that covers the floor.
The cat jumps onto a vinyl recliner. She doesn’t hiss this time but regards us with a wary look.
I walk into the small kitchen—
“Shit. Dad, come quick!”
A man lies passed out on the linoleum. A goose egg has erupted on his forehead. Beer cans clutter the floor.
Is this dear old dad?
He’s silver-haired. Maybe that means he was blond once. His eyes are closed. If they’re green… Does that mean…?
“He’s loaded,” Dad says. “But we need to wake him up. Make sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”
The cat walks in softly, sits down next to the man, and hisses again.
“We’re not going to hurt him, kitty,” Dad says.
My father using the word “kitty” twice in one day makes me want to chuckle.
“I need to see his eyes, Dad,” I say.
Dad kneels down and pushes the eyes open.
Green.
Fucking green. Clear green and bloodshot as hell.
“Do you remember what color eyes your mother had?” Dad asks.
“Light brown. I remember people mentioning Donny’s and my eyes a lot because they were so different from hers.”
“Still doesn’t mean anything,” Dad says.
“True. I’ll need a DNA test before I believe it.”
“Absolutely. Come on. Help me get him up.”
The man is big and tall, another bad sign. Donny and I are also tall and muscular. His face is lined with age, and his lips thin. Donny and I have full lips. A glimmer of hope spears into me.
But it’s false hope.
Already I know this.
I’m looking at the man who sired me.
And he’s a goddamned drunk.
My gut churns with nausea.
Dad and I get him into the living room and onto the couch.
“He’s bashed his forehead pretty bad. He’ll have a scar for sure. At least the bleeding has stopped. He’s clotted. Get a wet rag from the kitchen.”
I return to the kitchen. The only rag I find is soiled. Where’s the bathroom? I walk out of the kitchen and down a small hallway. I find an equally small bathroom. One washcloth hangs on a rack. It doesn’t look too clean either, but it’s better than the one in the kitchen. I turn on the faucet, dampen the rag, and walk back to the living area.
“Here you go.” I hand the cloth to Dad.
Dad wipes the crusty blood from the man’s forehead. His wound doesn’t look as bad once it’s cleaned, but sure enough, a jagged cut slices through the goose egg.
“Hey.” Dad slaps his cheek. “Wake up.”
A low belch emanates from him, and the acrid stench of beer and halitosis erupts into the air.
“Damn.” I wave my hand in front of my nose.
“Drunk as hell,” Dad says. “You want to stay here and try to wake him, and I’ll look for coffee?”
I shake my head. “I’ll look for the coffee.” I head back into the kitchen.
A coffee maker sits on the counter, but the kitchen houses no coffee that I can find. The best I can do is an old jar of instant coffee whose contents are hard as a rock. With a kitchen knife, I chop off enough of the brown rock to microwave a mugful of instant coffee.
“He’s coming to,” Dad says when I return. “Sort of.”
“Here’s the coffee. All he had was instant.”
“It’ll do.