When they catch you, act surprised. I
mean pretend they’re speaking Korean. Lots of “What?” and
“I don’t understand.” Until you get a lawyer, give them
nothing, like on TV. Make sure you get one of those celebrity type
lawyers, too, if you can. None of those will take your case,
probably, but at least try.
I knew, you know, as
soon as I saw the Amber Alert, even though it was two states away and we
hadn’t heard from you in over a year, since you got out of jail,
skipped town, and didn’t register anywhere. I checked the
Internet, praying you would get smart and register. Hoping so much
that you would make a go at normal.
But I knew—maybe
because the girl was eleven, your favorite age. Seems you have
radar for eleven-year-olds. A birddog on the scent. I’ve
tried to understand, hard to believe as that may seem. Tried to
see it from your point of view—she’s not quite into puberty, not
quite out of childhood, straddling some fence in your mind so you can
justify it by saying, “It’s not like I’m going after babies
or something.”
If it wasn’t you,
I’d be yelling at the TV in the bar along with my buddies at
work—“The sick bastard! Castrate the son’bitch. Hell,
killing him’s too kind. He deserves the same torture he
inflicted on those girls.”
I used to yell just
like that. Then you got caught and now everybody looks at your
mother and me all tip-toey, asking, “How’s your son?” not because
they care about you, but more because they’re concerned for
themselves, their own children. We lie, say you’re responding to
treatment. We say we’re praying hard.
Your mother’s
prayed so goddamn hard her hair started falling out.
God, what would they
say if they knew about the other two, the ones you didn’t let get
away. And how about when you didn’t have anyone else to turn to
after your “play date” went sour. I told you then I wasn’t
helping dispose of them because so’s to give you permission to keep
doing it—Jesus, especially after the beating I gave you over the
second one. That was pure love, boy. Trying to save you,
see, save you?
What the hell else
could I do? Turn you in? People just don’t do that sort of
thing.
You’re my son.
You were following
in my footsteps—a damn fine coach you would’ve made. A damn
fine defensive coordinator or something in a good Division I school,
something like that. Better than your old man, stuck far down the
ladder. What was all that back then, playing the field with the
cheerleaders, joining the fraternity, keeping your grades up—when did
that goddamn switch in your head flick on? Again, I’m just
trying to understand.
They’ve got you on
surveillance video now from a burger joint in Nebraska, buying her
chicken nuggets while she hung by your side, restless. They
haven’t got your face clear enough yet to put it all together, but I
expect we’ll see your mugshot next to the blurry film in a few hours.
God help your mother then, and me, and hope to hell this neighborhood
can believe we’re guiltless and as heartbroken as if you were dead,
and hope the neighbors will bring over hot dishes instead of icing us
right out of the neighborhood. Like we’d ever get a warm
reception elsewhere—might as well register ourselves if you
won’t do it. How would you feel about that? Us taking the
bullet for you?
That’s what
parents do. Even though we wish you’d have the decency to do it
yourself. Turn yourself in. Let them keep you away from the
temptation. It’s a good thing and you know it.
So keep your mouth
shut. Let the lawyer do some voodoo about your brain being busted
so there’s still hope for a better life—being locked-up as a sicko
is better than being locked-up as a criminal.
That’s all the
advice I’ve got. After all, it’s not like you’re ever going
to read this anyway, not until long after they’ve caught you, and you
probably know all that stuff about the lawyer already anyway, I’m
sure. You’ve always been smarter than me.
I guess the only
reason I’m typing out this email, even though I can’t send it to
you, is because I’m still your father and, damn it, I have to feel
like I’m doing something right. A little one-on-one with
my boy. Because even if I’ve got no clue why you do this or
what’s driving you or what went wrong, you can still benefit from a
little common sense.
Love,
Dad
Copyright 2006 by Anthony Neil Smith
Anthony Neil Smith was born and raised on the
Mississippi Gulf Coast, not far from New Orleans. He's on the creative
writing faculty at Southwest Minnesota State University. Smith walks the
fence between literary and pulp fiction, forcing them to duke it out on
the page. His first novel, PSYCHOSOMATIC, is now available from
Point Blank Press and his second novel, THE DRUMMER, will be published
in May from Two Dollar Radio Press.
