Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,29

the rest of the night. Don’t remember if I went to the beach to look for Dad. Don’t remember how long I stayed huddled behind the jetty and don’t remember walking back to the house and crawling into bed next to Ronnie. That was where I woke the next morning. I didn’t tell anyone what I saw. I was in shock. I was only thirteen years old.

Two days later, his body washed up on shore. All the stories in the papers were about a tourist drowning on a late-night swim.

After we were home, after the funeral, when I picked up my developed pictures, I thought I’d go to the police, tell them everything, show them everything. But the pictures didn’t show anything, really, and too much time had passed. I was still afraid, and to be honest, I was mad at my father, mad that he’d let something like that happen to him.

So, this picture. There isn’t much to see in it, right? Too dark. When I looked at this—and I looked at this for years and years, every night before I went to bed, like the first picture of the motel room door I showed you—I thought if I looked hard enough, I could see him there. But you can only make out black water, the outline of the beach and the jetty. Nothing else. You can’t see anything.

There’s another picture I’ve been staring at for years too.

10.

This is what I moved to the last page. I took this after the record store, but before we all met back up again, so it was just me and Dad. A random picture of my father on the sidewalk of downtown Yarmouth, right? Look closer. Over his left shoulder. See that huge guy two storefronts away, hiding under an awning, but not hiding. He’s watching behind reflective sunglasses, and he’s wearing a tight white polo shirt, wearing it like a threat, wearing it the same way he wore that yellow shirt. That’s the same yellow-shirt guy from the beach Dad was talking to on our first day of vacation.

I’ve been staring at this picture of you for almost twentyfive years, a quarter of a century. It’s hard to understand how all that time passed so quickly. In many ways, I’m still that kid cowering behind the jetty. In other ways, I’m not.

The funny thing is, I never planned for this. It’s not like I’ve been searching for you all this time. I wasn’t even looking for you when I saw you.

19.

The thing of it is, I don’t even want to know why you did what you did. It does and it doesn’t matter. In any case, it’s not that hard to figure out. And sure, a few years ago I asked my mother about the big fight I’d heard and why she kicked out the window on the front door. She said that Dad had blown four grand to a bookie. Four grand was a lot of money in 1986, right? Sure it was.

You see this camera? It used to belong to my grandfather. You’re probably about the same age he was when he died. Anyway, I kept the camera in working condition. Do you remember Polaroids? I’m sure you do. I’m sure you remember lots of things.

So this is you, duct taped to a chair in our hotel room. It’s hard to see with the tape over your mouth, the bruises, the dried blood, but it’s you. I know, compared to the you in the other picture, this you is the Brundlefly. But this was and is you, even if you are so much smaller than you used to be.

I’ve brought you back down to Dennisport. Just like old times, right? We’re at the Sea Shell Motel next to the Ocean House. I put the room on your card but don’t worry, it’s offseason, so I got a great rate.

This is the last picture on the last page of my album. I took this picture while you weren’t awake. Even for someone of your advanced age, you sure do sleep a lot.

I’m not one hundred percent sure what I want out of this. I could just leave you here and go back home to my own young family. Maybe you’d call the police or come after me yourself, or come after me with a little help. Maybe you wouldn’t do anything. Maybe everything would be okay if I just unwrapped you and watched you weakly limp out of here, old