himself. He’s pretty much right where he wants to be in life. He doesn’t look at all like the kind of man who fathers a child and then has nothing to do with him for fifteen years other than scratching out a monthly check. But who does? Who looks like that guy?
This morning, in person, he looks only slightly less composed. He comes down the steps squinting into the morning sunlight. Like Fitz, his father is long-limbed and tall—he’s a shade over six feet. Fitz is five-ten and still growing. He wears size eleven shoes, and his mom says he’s going to grow into his feet like a big-pawed puppy. His father has more meat on him. His upper body looks thick, like he may have done some work with weights, but still he looks light on his feet, quick, graceful even, a tennis player—Fitz has seen a racket in his backseat. He’s wearing a white shirt and dark suit, one of the bright ties he favors—this one is orange. His shoes are black, polished to an impossible sheen. He’s got a black leather briefcase in one hand and his suit jacket slung over his shoulder on a hanger.
Fitz flips up his hood and takes a deep breath. He takes hold of the handle of the gun.
The thought crosses his mind: This is crazy. What am I doing? Kidnapping my own father. He feels himself starting to perspire. Fitz knows he’s probably going to regret it. He’s not stupid. There are going to be consequences. His life is never going to be the same, he feels that, he’s going to put himself in a world of trouble. He doesn’t have to go through with this. He could turn back now, catch a bus, head home, drop the gun in a sewer, crawl back into bed.
His father holds up his key ring and extends his arm toward his car, pointing, an unmistakable look of pleasure on his face—this is mine, his expression says, all this finely tuned German machinery. My beautiful car, my beautiful life. There’s something about that expression that sets Fitz’s feet in motion.
Fitz steps out into the alley. The lights of his father’s car flash, and the locks pop up. His father hangs his suit jacket in the back, takes a minute to smooth it, adjusting it so that it drapes without wrinkling, sets his bag on the backseat. His father still hasn’t seen him. He’s completely absorbed by what he’s doing.
Fitz has witnessed this little ritual before: his father performs it every morning as he leaves for work and every evening as he prepares to come home. But there’s something about it this time that enrages Fitz. This perfectly starched, self-satisfied man all alone in his well-tuned, tailored, wrinkle-free world—the sight of it makes Fitz wants to smash something.
His father closes the back door and is now getting himself settled behind the wheel. Fitz crosses the alley in a few quick strides, comes up on the car’s passenger side, and pulls the door open. He leans down and peers inside the car. His father has been fiddling with the radio and looks up now, startled. Fitz has his hand on the gun, but it’s still hidden under his sweatshirt.
“What?” his father says. “What do you need?” Maybe he thinks Fitz wants directions, maybe a handout—spare change for bus fare. Maybe he thinks he has a sad story to tell him. That’s when Fitz takes the gun out. He doesn’t so much point it as show it. It’s a visual aid. He wants his father to see it.
“Whoa,” his father says, and raises his hands. “Take it easy.” He’s talking to Fitz, but he’s staring at the gun. “Slow down,” he says. It’s as if he’s talking to the gun. He’s transfixed. Fitz has wanted more than anything else in the world to get the man’s attention and now, he’s got it, undivided.
“You can have my wallet,” his father says. “There’s cash in it.” He reaches slowly into his back pocket and produces a billfold. He holds it out to Fitz, a shiny black leather offering.
“Help yourself,” his father says to the gun. “There’s a hundred bucks, something like that.” Fitz is still standing, leaning into the car, trying to use his body to shield the gun from the sight of anyone who may drive down the alley. Fitz grabs the wallet from his father. His father hands over his phone and Fitz snatches that, too. Under normal