tingles. Images flash like a premonition, clear and sure. I see Benny propped on the tractor, a laughing driver, a stranger, telling my son
happy birthday
. Telling him
surprise!
Telling him
this is a gift from your parents
.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A distant rumble, then a dazzling beam through the rain, and within moments the brakes on the train hiss as the giant machine halts in front of us. It’s slightly longer than the length of the platform. In less than a minute, the driver sounds his horn and we hear metal on metal as the train rolls away. Only one passenger has stepped off. A young man in dark skinny jeans and sneakers lumbers down the platform stairs. He zips his leather jacket and tucks his chin into his collar against the rain. The train is already out of sight. Steam rises and fades from the tracks.
I tell Oliver about the tractor, and in telling him I realize that by the time the man we’ve been calling the stranger offered to help me, Benny might already have been jouncing away with someone else.
We gaze downhill, where the vineyard appears to curve toward town. Surely Moreau has stood where we’re standing now, has seen what we see. Has he come to the same conclusions?
Oliver rubs his eyes and succumbs to a monster yawn.
“Jet lag’s eating you alive,” I say. “If you need to crash, I understand.”
He assures me he’s fine, says not to worry, suggests we follow the vineyard down to where it meets the town.
Not so long ago, Oliver couldn’t stand the sight of me. Everything I did or said was met with eye rolling and a smart-ass reply—if he replied at all. How he turned out to be one of the kindest people I know, I’ll never comprehend. I just wish he were more willing to open up about the past. I can’t help believing that what’s happened to Benny is at the end of a chain leading back, link by link, to our own particular history. I don’t know if it’s as simple as Isabel trying to reclaim what she sees as hers, or Jonathon seeking vengeance. Since he’ll never spend another day outside prison, revenge would seem to be his
only
motive. But he’s a psychopath. I put nothing past him.
Years ago, Jonathon wrote several letters to Oliver. I made a point of leaving them on the kitchen counter, but Oliver tossed each one, unopened, into the recycling bin. I left them there, never knowing what they said. The letters eventually stopped coming. And then, soon after Oliver turned twenty-one, his attitude toward his father began to change. With maturity came curiosity: he wanted to know how Jonathon could’ve done what he did to us. It’s the only time I know of that Oliver visited him.
What went on during that encounter, the emotional chaos Oliver must’ve endured…this is exactly the kind of thing he’s reluctant to share. He’s a grown man now. I can’t force him to tell me what he’d rather not say. What I
do
know is that Jonathon apologized repeatedly, claimed that years of stress, of compounding each mistake with a worse one, had left him temporarily out of his mind. He claimed it had taken years in prison for him to recover. And now, he said, he was consumed with remorse. I believe none of this, not a word. Finally, after making his case to Oliver, the son of a bitch asked to be forgiven. “And
did
youforgive him?” I’ve asked Oliver more than once. His answer, each time, has been a single nod, a not-so-convincing yes.
“When we get back to the car, see if you can find us a pension on your phone,” I say. “Honestly, you look like you’re going to fall over.”
He smiles gently from the side of his mouth. “I won’t.”
So I turn my attention to the ground again, kick the dirt with my boot. Until today’s rain, the soil was hard packed from weeks of drought…but before I can follow this thought all the way through, Jonathon interrupts my concentration again. If he’s the one who engineered all this, then what has he done with Benny? Who would he give him to? Is it
happy birthday
. Telling him
surprise!
Telling him
this is a gift from your parents
.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A distant rumble, then a dazzling beam through the rain, and within moments the brakes on the train hiss as the giant machine halts in front of us. It’s slightly longer than the length of the platform. In less than a minute, the driver sounds his horn and we hear metal on metal as the train rolls away. Only one passenger has stepped off. A young man in dark skinny jeans and sneakers lumbers down the platform stairs. He zips his leather jacket and tucks his chin into his collar against the rain. The train is already out of sight. Steam rises and fades from the tracks.
I tell Oliver about the tractor, and in telling him I realize that by the time the man we’ve been calling the stranger offered to help me, Benny might already have been jouncing away with someone else.
We gaze downhill, where the vineyard appears to curve toward town. Surely Moreau has stood where we’re standing now, has seen what we see. Has he come to the same conclusions?
Oliver rubs his eyes and succumbs to a monster yawn.
“Jet lag’s eating you alive,” I say. “If you need to crash, I understand.”
He assures me he’s fine, says not to worry, suggests we follow the vineyard down to where it meets the town.
Not so long ago, Oliver couldn’t stand the sight of me. Everything I did or said was met with eye rolling and a smart-ass reply—if he replied at all. How he turned out to be one of the kindest people I know, I’ll never comprehend. I just wish he were more willing to open up about the past. I can’t help believing that what’s happened to Benny is at the end of a chain leading back, link by link, to our own particular history. I don’t know if it’s as simple as Isabel trying to reclaim what she sees as hers, or Jonathon seeking vengeance. Since he’ll never spend another day outside prison, revenge would seem to be his
only
motive. But he’s a psychopath. I put nothing past him.
Years ago, Jonathon wrote several letters to Oliver. I made a point of leaving them on the kitchen counter, but Oliver tossed each one, unopened, into the recycling bin. I left them there, never knowing what they said. The letters eventually stopped coming. And then, soon after Oliver turned twenty-one, his attitude toward his father began to change. With maturity came curiosity: he wanted to know how Jonathon could’ve done what he did to us. It’s the only time I know of that Oliver visited him.
What went on during that encounter, the emotional chaos Oliver must’ve endured…this is exactly the kind of thing he’s reluctant to share. He’s a grown man now. I can’t force him to tell me what he’d rather not say. What I
do
know is that Jonathon apologized repeatedly, claimed that years of stress, of compounding each mistake with a worse one, had left him temporarily out of his mind. He claimed it had taken years in prison for him to recover. And now, he said, he was consumed with remorse. I believe none of this, not a word. Finally, after making his case to Oliver, the son of a bitch asked to be forgiven. “And
did
youforgive him?” I’ve asked Oliver more than once. His answer, each time, has been a single nod, a not-so-convincing yes.
“When we get back to the car, see if you can find us a pension on your phone,” I say. “Honestly, you look like you’re going to fall over.”
He smiles gently from the side of his mouth. “I won’t.”
So I turn my attention to the ground again, kick the dirt with my boot. Until today’s rain, the soil was hard packed from weeks of drought…but before I can follow this thought all the way through, Jonathon interrupts my concentration again. If he’s the one who engineered all this, then what has he done with Benny? Who would he give him to? Is it
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