Chapter 7 - The Thirty-Year Silence
Lily knew something had changed.
Children always knew.
Adults wasted incredible effort pretending otherwise.
At breakfast the next morning, she watched Vincent over a bowl of cereal.
He read the same paragraph of the newspaper four times.
Finally she said, “You talked to Grandpa.”
Vincent lowered the paper.
“Frank.”
She frowned.
“Grandpa Frank.”
“Lily.”
“What?”
“You can call him Frank.”
“But he is my grandpa.”
Vincent stared at her.
She spooned cereal into her mouth.
Argument over.
Vincent folded the newspaper.
“Why does this matter to you so much?”
She looked confused.
“Because I didn’t have one.”
Vincent stopped.
Lily had never met either grandfather.
Sofia’s husband after Frank died before Lily was born.
Vincent’s maternal father had been gone even longer.
He had never thought about it from Lily’s perspective.
She continued eating.
“Did he do something bad?”
Vincent considered his answer.
“Yes.”
Lily paused.
“What?”
“He stayed away.”
“Why?”
“He thought he was helping.”
“Was he?”
“Sometimes.”
She thought.
“Did you do bad things when you thought you were helping me?”
Vincent stared.
“What kind of question is that?”
“The question kind.”
He almost smiled.
Again.
She waited.
Vincent said, “Probably.”
“Like when you told the school I couldn’t go on the camping trip.”
“That was different.”
“Because bears.”
“There were no bears.”
“You said there could be.”
“That was one of several concerns.”
Lily rolled her eyes.
Vincent resisted the urge to defend his perfectly reasonable concerns about sleeping in tents supervised by twenty-three-year-olds.
She said, “Maybe Grandpa did camping-trip stuff.”
Vincent looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“He thought something was dangerous, so he made a rule.”
Vincent sat back.
“That’s not exactly what happened.”
“But kind of.”
He hated that she was right.
“Finish breakfast.”
Lily took another bite.
Then asked, “Are you still mad?”
“Yes.”
“At Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“At Grandma?”
Vincent paused.
“Yes.”
“At Aunt Teresa?”
“Yes.”
“At yourself?”
His eyes lifted.
Lily watched him.
“Why would I be mad at myself?”
She shrugged.
“You look like when you break something and don’t want anybody to know.”
Vincent stared.
Eight years old.
Miniature interrogator.
He said, “Eat.”
She did.
Then, softly:
“If Grandpa was hiding to keep you safe, when does he get to stop hiding?”
Vincent looked away.
He did not answer.
That evening, he opened more letters.
Age eleven.
Age thirteen.
Age sixteen.
At sixteen, Frank wrote:
I heard you got into trouble.
Your mother says you’re angry all the time.
I understand anger.
Be careful with it.
People will tell you anger makes you strong because angry boys are easy to point in a direction.
Vincent read the sentence twice.
Then a third time.
His life had been built from men pointing angry boys in directions.
He opened the age-eighteen letter.
Frank wrote about wanting to attend Vincent’s graduation.
He did not.
Age twenty-one.
Frank heard Vincent had joined family operations full-time.
The letter was shorter.
Age twenty-five.
Frank wrote:
I think your mother won.
Not because she kept me away.
Because you became exactly what she was afraid my presence would make you.
Vincent stared at the page.
He almost tore it.
Instead, he laughed bitterly.
Fair.
He opened a box from the storage unit.
Photographs.
He spread them across the desk.
Frank had taken some.
Others had clearly been sent by Teresa.
Vincent at graduation.
Vincent leaving church.
Vincent at a baseball field.
Vincent standing beside Sofia.
Then he found one he had never seen.
Age twelve.
He was walking out of a deli holding two sodas.
In the background, reflected faintly in the glass, stood Frank.
Older than the father Vincent remembered.
Younger than the janitor Lily knew.
Watching.
Not approaching.
Vincent pulled out another.
Age fifteen.
A school baseball game.
Frank sat in the top row.
Another.
Age nineteen.
Vincent leaving court after a minor charge.
Frank across the street.
Another.
Age twenty-three.
Vincent outside a hospital after Sofia underwent surgery.
Frank at the far end of the sidewalk.
Always far.
Always there.
Vincent sat back.
For years, he had imagined abandonment as emptiness.
A door closing.
A man walking away.
But this was worse.
Frank had stayed near enough to see the life he had surrendered.
Never close enough to touch it.
Vincent did not know whether that made him braver or more cowardly.
Probably both.
That seemed to be the theme.
At ten that night, Vincent drove to Frank’s apartment.
No warning.
Frank opened the door wearing reading glasses.
“You okay?”
Vincent hated the question.
“I found the photographs.”
Frank went still.
Vincent walked in.
“You were at my graduation.”
Frank nodded.
“You were across from the courthouse.”
“Yes.”
“The hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Baseball.”
“Yes.”
Vincent stared.
“Why take pictures?”
Frank looked embarrassed.
“I wanted proof.”
“Of what?”
“That you existed.”
Vincent’s face changed.
Frank continued.
“Some years, you felt like something I had imagined.”
The room went silent.
Vincent looked toward the wall.
No family pictures.
Still none.
“Why aren’t they up?”
Frank followed his eyes.
“Because visitors ask questions.”
Vincent nodded.
Of course.
Silence again.
Then Frank said, “I can stop working at the school.”
Vincent looked at him.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?”
Frank hesitated.
“No.”
“Then why offer?”
“Because Lily is your daughter.”
Vincent nodded.
“Good answer.”
Frank gave a small smile.
Vincent sat.
Frank seemed startled.
Until now, Vincent had never stayed longer than necessary.
Frank remained standing.
Vincent looked at him.
“Sit down. You’re making this strange.”
Frank almost laughed.
Then sat opposite him.
For a while, they said nothing.
Vincent studied the older man’s face.
“What did I call you?”
Frank’s eyes changed.
“When?”
“When I was little.”
“Dad.”
Vincent looked away.
“Nothing else?”
“Sometimes Papa when your grandmother visited.”
Vincent absorbed that.
It felt like hearing someone describe another child.
“Did I like you?”
Frank smiled.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“You threw a shoe at me once.”
“Why?”
“I turned off cartoons.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Frank continued.
“You followed me everywhere. Until you discovered baseball. Then I became less interesting.”
They sat quietly.
Frank said, “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Try to remember.”
Vincent looked at him.
“I’m not.”
Frank nodded.
Vincent stayed another seventeen minutes.
They discussed nothing important.
Frank complained about the school’s boiler.
Vincent asked about the rent.
Frank accused him of trying to buy the building.
Vincent said he could.
Frank told him that was exactly the problem.
Then Vincent stood.
At the door, Frank said, “Good night.”
Vincent looked back.
“Good night.”
Outside, he sat in the car for several minutes.
Daniel texted:
Everything okay?
Vincent replied:
Yes.
Then changed it.
No.
Then erased that too.
He put the phone away.
Maybe some things did not need an answer immediately.
May you like
The next morning would come soon enough.
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