23. Gregory Allen Walker

23

GREGORY ALLEN WALKER

DARREN

A wkwardly, I sit in the diner, playing with the edges of the menu while I eye the door every time someone comes in. I lift my wrist and check the time again.

“Can I get you some more coffee?” the waitress asks.

“No.” I throw a couple bills down and head for the exit.

My grandfather, Gregory Allen Walker, is standing in the parking lot. He’s tall and lanky like my father, with gray hair peeking out of a ball cap. I don’t wait for him to say anything and walk past him to my car.

“Darren, please!” he calls after me.

“You know, I didn’t even know if I wanted to meet you ,” I say angrily. “And you stood me up.”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’ve been standing out here since you walked in,” he pulls the ball cap off and scratches his head.

“This isn’t what I need right now,” I grumble and start to walk away again.

“I was nervous,” he explains. “Didn’t know how to talk to you after all these years.”

“How about explaining why?”

“That’s not an easy answer,” he says.

“Okay, well let’s start with why you were arrested for arson?” I ask angrily.

His eyes grow wide.

“Did you do a background check on me or something?” he scoffs and then comes to the conclusion. “Rausch,” he laughs and shakes his head.

“You know him?” I can’t hide the shock from creeping into my voice. Of course he knows him.

“You could say that.”

“I didn’t come here for more riddles.”

“Then why did you come?” He shakes his head.

“I want to know why my father didn’t want you in his life.”

He looks at me sadly, deep regret lining his face and in his dark blue eyes.

“Can we sit down and talk?” he asks, motioning to the diner.

When we enter, the waitress recognizes him. “Hey there Allen, you want your usual?”

“No, just some coffee.” Then he smiles real big. “This is my grandson.”

She points her pen at me. “I thought you looked familiar. Aren’t you running for congress?”

“That would be me.” I offer a small smile.

“My daughter couldn’t stop watching those ads.” She gives me a wink.

I try my best to give her a smile. “Just coffee for me, too.”

We take a seat in the booth at the far back where it’s not so crowded.

“So?” he sits across from me, and it’s a bit jarring how much he reminds me of my father—same nose, same eye color, same deep thoughtful brow.

The waitress pours our coffees and I hold on to the cup.

“Why did my father hate you?” I ask bluntly.

He pours a container of half and half into the cup and stirs it with the spoon before clearing his throat. “Was he a good father to you?” he surprises me by asking.

It takes me a moment to answer, not because I need to contemplate but because I’m wondering why he’s asking.

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good,” he nods, still staring down at the coffee and cream swirling together.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I wasn’t.” He pauses, looking up at me. “I wasn’t a good father.”

“Why?”

He sits back in the booth and looks out the window. “I wasn’t around a lot and when I was, I drank too much,” he shrugs.

“That’s not something you disown a parent for,” I speculate.

“All that’s in the past. My son is gone,” he says sadly.

“That’s why you showed up at the funeral, to say goodbye?” I ask.

“A father has a right to be there when his son is put in the ground,” he says, jabbing a finger into the table. “No matter what happened.”

I can understand his anger but there are still so many questions.

“What about his brothers?” I shake my head. “They didn’t come.”

“Your father didn’t want anything to do with his family. I came to tell him when his brother Colt died, but he was still so angry—.” He pauses. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

“That’s when I saw you at the house,” I say.

“You remember that?” He smiles. “You were a little kid. Must have been around eight or so.”

“I was ten.”

“I never got a chance to know you,” he explains.

“You could have contacted me when I was in college, but you waited until my father died.”

“I just figured I’d let things be. When I heard he died in that helicopter accident…” He trails off, holding the mug in his shaky hands and taking a sip.

I sit back in the booth, turning the cup around in my hand, trying to make sense of it. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more than just my grandfather being a drunk.

“Why did you set that house on fire?” I inquire.

“What does it matter now?”

“Because it does. Is that why my father hated you? Whose house was it?” I slam my fist on the table, causing the coffee mugs to shake.

“I thought he was taking advantage of my son!” A few people turn to look at us. “I saw them together.” He casts his eyes to the ceiling as if he’s trying to make an apology but all I can see is anger lining his face. “I was drunk, and I was mad, and I made a mistake that I paid for.”

There’s a silence between us that could swallow me whole. If I understand him correctly, I’m horrified. He must see the expression on my face.

“I’m not the same person I was back then.”

“I don’t understand. Saw who together?” I shake my head, thinking this can’t be right, I’m mistaken.

“A neighbor boy. I saw them kissing before they went into the basement. I thought—” He shakes his head as if trying to stop the memory from coming. “I had a bottle of Jack and a lighter.”

I close my eyes and rub my forehead. He loved my mother. I saw it. I saw the way he took care of her, the way he would lead her into a room, the look of admiration and love in his eyes. I couldn’t have imagined all that.

“He left for college and never looked back at where he came from. I thought when he married your mother, he put all that behind him. We could forget the past and move on, but he was just living a lie,” he explains, and I feel like my world just dropped right out from under me.

“What are you saying?” I manage to get out.

“You wanted to know why we didn’t speak, why I never got to be in your life? It’s because I couldn’t accept him.” He throws his hands in the air.

The diner spins, and I grip the table to get my bearings while he continues.

“Then Dexter comes back, says he forgives me for setting his house on fire and that he’s in love with my son and has been for years. That I should love him for who he is, but how can I do that?” He challenges. “How can I do that when I didn’t even know who he was?”

“Dexter?”

“Dexter Rausch,” he confirms, and my world tilts. I feel sick, like I could vomit right here. I have to take a sip of water and count my breaths.

“I know what you think of me. I wasn’t a good person. When I tried to make it right, he didn’t want anything to do with me. Dexter comes back, offers me money to keep quiet like I was a liability instead of a father,” he fumes.

“I have to leave.” I stand up and rush out of the diner.

My grandfather calls after me. “I warned you. No good can come of opening up the past,” he yells as if there’s a winning side in all this. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

“You’re sorry.” I laugh. “You drop a bomb like that, and you say you’re sorry?”

I run a hand over my face as if that will clear my head.

“How can I believe you? How can I know you’re not doing this to get back at me or my father?” I demand.

“You know I’m telling the truth. You know because you saw it just like I did, but you didn’t want to believe it.”

I want to punch him. I want to punch him because he’s right.

“No wonder my father didn’t want anything to do with you,” I spit, pacing in front of him, kicking up the stone of the gravel parking lot.

“Darren,” he pleads. “I know I’m on the wrong side of whatever line,” he tries to explain, shaking his head. “Do you think I wanted my son in the ground thinking that I wasn’t proud of him?” he questions.

“You wanted to have a relationship with me, and—Jesus,” I run my hand through my hair. “This was a hell of a way to start.”

I stalk to my car and peel out of the parking lot.

I start to pick out events, gestures, looks, that I thought were innocent that now start to take on a whole new perspective.

The letter. The fucking letter.