and neck have grown gaunt, his eyes sunk deeper into their sockets. His chest no longer fills out his shirt, which is now concave down to his protruding hip bone. And thanks to the tumor squeezing his pancreas and shooting sprouts into his liver, his skin has turned an awful yellow-orange like he’s been dipped in carrot juice.
Two armed and uniformed men settle him into a wheelchair. They tuck a heavy wool blanket around his scarecrow frame and then stand guard on either side, which is, of course, ridiculous. If there’s a working muscle under those state-issued scrubs, it’s not strong enough to win a race to the end of the driveway, much less a getaway chase through the woods.
And running looks to be the last thing on my father’s mind. He tilts his face into the sunshine and puffs out a breath long enough to have been saved since 1994.
Has it been that long since he last felt the sun’s warmth?
One of the guards, a stodgy man with thinning silver hair, pushes the wheelchair up the ramp Cal built. The guard whistles a country tune, but not loudly enough to drown out the protesters at the end of the driveway.
“Ray Andrews is guilty. We want justice.”
A news van pulls up, scattering the protesters like cockroaches, and a camera crew piles out. They find a spot on the front lawn and begin taping, the house as their backdrop. Two seconds later their newscast is interrupted by a noisy procession of trucks and SUVs, their drivers laying on their horns. The cameraman abandons the broadcast and swings the lens around, focusing in on the lead truck where a bearded man leans out the open window. He lifts a bullhorn to his mouth. “Wife killer! Die, wife killer!”
His evil words echo through the valley and slice, as sharp and deadly as a buck knife, into my gut.
My gaze darts to my father, now almost to the top of the ramp. He chomps down on his lips and burrows farther under the blanket, but not before I catch his expression. The sixteen years’ worth of outrage and indignity have slashed lines on either side of his mouth, his eyes, his forehead, but there’s still plenty of room in between for this afternoon’s mortification.
Fannie tsks, stepping up behind my left shoulder. “Crackpots. No matter what your father did or didn’t do, darlin’, he doesn’t deserve that. Everybody deserves to die with dignity and respect.”
“He used to be respected.” My voice is thick, and it cracks on the last word. “He was a member of every service club, raised money for every nonprofit, served on every board. Just look at him now.” I swipe a cheek with the back of a hand. “He’s pathetic.”
The guard makes the last turn onto the porch, and Fannie pats a palm on my shoulder. “Get ahold of yourself, sugar. ’Cause here he comes.”
She leaves me sniffling into the curtains, waddles to the door and pulls it wide. Through the window I see Dad’s gaze land on her with an expectant thud.
“Welcome home, Mr. Andrews.” She lifts a hand. “I’m Fannie Miles, and I’m gonna take real good care of ya.”
Disappointment is written across Dad’s forehead as clearly as the Tennessee Department of Corrections painted in big blazing block letters on the van behind him. He cranes his neck toward the side of the house, searching. Searching for Bo and Lexi. Searching for me. I step into the shadow.
The protesters increase their volume, marching back and forth on the road while the news crew films their angry chants. Dad returns his squint to Fannie. “I see you called the welcome wagon.”
Fannie motions for me to come to the door. “Your lovely daughter Gia is here. We were just getting acquainted.”
His eyes flash to the window. “Where is she?”
I don’t move. I barely breathe. Last month our convoy was almost ambushed by four armed bandits, and I sped the Rover away without breaking a sweat. Now I’m about to hurl my coffee onto the burgundy Rooms To Go carpet.
“Gia’s right here. Come on inside and say hi.”
He shakes his head. “Hold it right here, fellas.”
Dad doesn’t wait for the silver-haired guard to stop the wheelchair. He grips the chair’s metal arms and tries to push himself upright, but his feet are still propped onto the metal flaps and his scrawny body can’t get more than four or five inches of air. After a few clumsy tries, he sinks back into the chair, his face ashy-orange beneath his whiskers. “Somebody get me out of this goddamn chair.”
The second guard, a stocky man with a bottom lip bulging with tobacco, plants his feet and palms his billystick. “Sir, my orders are to escort you into the house and tether your ankle monitor before allowing you out of that chair.”
My father flops one slippered foot onto the ground. “I aim to walk.”
For the first time I notice Jimmy standing guard at the bottom of the porch. He gives my father a disciplined smile and climbs the ramp, his equipment chinking at his belt. “Afternoon, Mr. Andrews. You remember me?”
Dad glares up at him. “Of course I remember you, Jimmy. But right now I’m trying to walk through my own goddamn door, so our little reunion’ll have to wait until I get inside.”
Jimmy’s mustache doesn’t even twitch. He motions his silver-haired colleague aside and stomps on the wheelchair’s brake. Fannie rushes to help, tucking the foot supports out of the way and planting my father’s feet onto the cold concrete. Together, the two heave him out of the chair.
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