Billyâs assessment: âShit, man, Iâm sorry, but from the street, looking at your house, itâs right out of The Amityville Horror. â With the neglected front lawn, the place seemed even a little more sinister lately. He wasnât around to rake the leaves anymore. Walking up to the front porch, Ryan pulled out his keys. Though he hadnât seen his fatherâs car, he was still wary when making these clandestine visits. He didnât want to run into the old man.
He took the mail out of the box by the front door. He always used to bring in the mail. He wondered who did it nowâprobably Keith.
Slipping his key into the door, Ryan found it was unlocked. He opened it and glanced toward the living room in one direction and the dining room in the other. Empty. He closed the door behind him. âMom?â he called out with uncertainty.
He didnât hear a sound. Wandering into the kitchen and family room, he looked around and then set the mail on the kitchen counter. Heâd expected to find the little Christmas tree there. Maybe his mom hadnât taken it down from the attic yet. She knew he was coming over. Where was she?
âMom?â he called, starting up the stairs to the second floor. âMom, are you home?â
Still no response.
He stopped by his parentsâ bedroom. The door was closed. He knocked. âMom, itâs Ryan . . .â The hinges squeaked slightly as he opened the door. He looked across the room toward the master bath. The door was open and it was dark in there.
Frowning, he retreated to his own room, which seemed less and less his with every return visit. Heâd already moved so many personal things to his grandmotherâs. But there were still some clothes to collectâand a few old Playboys and Penthouses he wanted to smuggle out. He figured he might as well take advantage of the fact that no one was home now.
He couldnât help feeling a little ticked off at his mother. He didnât come over that often. He hadnât seen her since before Thanksgiving. What was so important that she couldnât wait around a few minutes for him? The car was still here. She must have walked uptown for something. She could have at least left him a note. Typical. She was probably running an errand for his father.
Sitting down at his desk, Ryan opened the bottom double-drawer and started digging past some papers for the adult magazines. He found four envelopes amid all those papersâeach one addressed to his dad. Ryan had stashed them in here a while back.
He wondered if his mother would be so compliant toward his dad if she knew about these envelopes. None of them had a return address, but the handwriting was the same on each one.
Four years ago, heâd fished that unsigned Fatherâs Day card out of his wastebasket and saved it. He was curious about this thing that had caused a skirmish between his parents. He couldnât stop thinking about what the card might have meantâthat he could have a half brother or half sister somewhere out there.
The following June, when the Fatherâs Day card selections started surfacing in the supermarkets, he remembered that mysterious, unsigned card to his dad. If he hadnât taken it out of his desk and studied it again, he might not have recognized the handwriting on the envelope when another just like it arrived the week of Fatherâs Day. Bringing in the mail that afternoon, Ryan had slipped the envelope under his shirt. Later, heâd steamed open the envelope. Inside, heâd found another unsigned Fatherâs Day cardâof a dad and his little boy flying a kite by the lake at sunset.
Ryan had decided to spare his mother any further grief. So heâd stashed the second card in his deskâalong with the first. After two more years, he had two more unsigned Fatherâs Day cards hidden in his desk. His fatherâs bastard wasnât giving up.
As far as his
He took the mail out of the box by the front door. He always used to bring in the mail. He wondered who did it nowâprobably Keith.
Slipping his key into the door, Ryan found it was unlocked. He opened it and glanced toward the living room in one direction and the dining room in the other. Empty. He closed the door behind him. âMom?â he called out with uncertainty.
He didnât hear a sound. Wandering into the kitchen and family room, he looked around and then set the mail on the kitchen counter. Heâd expected to find the little Christmas tree there. Maybe his mom hadnât taken it down from the attic yet. She knew he was coming over. Where was she?
âMom?â he called, starting up the stairs to the second floor. âMom, are you home?â
Still no response.
He stopped by his parentsâ bedroom. The door was closed. He knocked. âMom, itâs Ryan . . .â The hinges squeaked slightly as he opened the door. He looked across the room toward the master bath. The door was open and it was dark in there.
Frowning, he retreated to his own room, which seemed less and less his with every return visit. Heâd already moved so many personal things to his grandmotherâs. But there were still some clothes to collectâand a few old Playboys and Penthouses he wanted to smuggle out. He figured he might as well take advantage of the fact that no one was home now.
He couldnât help feeling a little ticked off at his mother. He didnât come over that often. He hadnât seen her since before Thanksgiving. What was so important that she couldnât wait around a few minutes for him? The car was still here. She must have walked uptown for something. She could have at least left him a note. Typical. She was probably running an errand for his father.
Sitting down at his desk, Ryan opened the bottom double-drawer and started digging past some papers for the adult magazines. He found four envelopes amid all those papersâeach one addressed to his dad. Ryan had stashed them in here a while back.
He wondered if his mother would be so compliant toward his dad if she knew about these envelopes. None of them had a return address, but the handwriting was the same on each one.
Four years ago, heâd fished that unsigned Fatherâs Day card out of his wastebasket and saved it. He was curious about this thing that had caused a skirmish between his parents. He couldnât stop thinking about what the card might have meantâthat he could have a half brother or half sister somewhere out there.
The following June, when the Fatherâs Day card selections started surfacing in the supermarkets, he remembered that mysterious, unsigned card to his dad. If he hadnât taken it out of his desk and studied it again, he might not have recognized the handwriting on the envelope when another just like it arrived the week of Fatherâs Day. Bringing in the mail that afternoon, Ryan had slipped the envelope under his shirt. Later, heâd steamed open the envelope. Inside, heâd found another unsigned Fatherâs Day cardâof a dad and his little boy flying a kite by the lake at sunset.
Ryan had decided to spare his mother any further grief. So heâd stashed the second card in his deskâalong with the first. After two more years, he had two more unsigned Fatherâs Day cards hidden in his desk. His fatherâs bastard wasnât giving up.
As far as his
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