Tell Me You're Sorry by Kevin O'Brien Page B

Billy’s assessment: “Shit, man, I’m sorry, but from the street, looking at your house, it’s right out of The Amityville Horror. ” With the neglected front lawn, the place seemed even a little more sinister lately. He wasn’t around to rake the leaves anymore. Walking up to the front porch, Ryan pulled out his keys. Though he hadn’t seen his father’s car, he was still wary when making these clandestine visits. He didn’t 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 now—probably 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. “Mom?” he called out with uncertainty.
    He didn’t hear a sound. Wandering into the kitchen and family room, he looked around and then set the mail on the kitchen counter. He’d expected to find the little Christmas tree there. Maybe his mom hadn’t taken it down from the attic yet. She knew he was coming over. Where was she?
    â€œMom?” he called, starting up the stairs to the second floor. “Mom, are you home?”
    Still no response.
    He stopped by his parents’ bedroom. The door was closed. He knocked. “Mom, it’s Ryan . . .” 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. He’d already moved so many personal things to his grandmother’s. But there were still some clothes to collect—and 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 couldn’t help feeling a little ticked off at his mother. He didn’t come over that often. He hadn’t seen her since before Thanksgiving. What was so important that she couldn’t 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 papers—each 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, he’d fished that unsigned Father’s Day card out of his wastebasket and saved it. He was curious about this thing that had caused a skirmish between his parents. He couldn’t stop thinking about what the card might have meant—that he could have a half brother or half sister somewhere out there.
    The following June, when the Father’s Day card selections started surfacing in the supermarkets, he remembered that mysterious, unsigned card to his dad. If he hadn’t 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 Father’s Day. Bringing in the mail that afternoon, Ryan had slipped the envelope under his shirt. Later, he’d steamed open the envelope. Inside, he’d found another unsigned Father’s Day card—of 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 he’d stashed the second card in his desk—along with the first. After two more years, he had two more unsigned Father’s Day cards hidden in his desk. His father’s bastard wasn’t giving up.
    As far as his