The man said he was a writer.
He said he was doing research for a project.
Every weekday at noon, the man, bearded and lanky, dark hair straying into his eyes, would come into the diner, choose the booth furthest from and facing the door.
He was polite, extremely polite, almost apologetic about ordering food. The same food, ever day. Burger, no fries, salad, no dressing. Iced tea. He added a lot of sugar to that tea, at least four spoons full; the waitress would always ask if he wanted some tea with that sugar.
The man, dark and handsome, would smile tightly and say the same thing; "Old habits die hard."
Then he would fix his eyes downward again, as if he were afraid of meeting someone's gaze. He would self-consciously run his hand through his hair, as if he were unused to it being so long.
The waitress would leave him alone. He would finish his meal, eyes down except for the occasional glance to the door whenever it would swing open, ringing the bell. It wasn't as if he was expecting anyone. It was more as if he was afraid they would come. He would sit, chewing silently, fear gnawing at his stomach, regret clawing behind his eyes, afraid that someone would sense and know and take it all away.
Again.
At ten minutes to three o'clock, every school day, the dark-haired man would drive his rusty Ford pick-up to the middle school, park at the corner and wait. Fifteen minutes later, without fail, a sturdy boy, his blonde hair closely cropped, would swing his backpack into the front bench seat, climb in, and wordlessly, the two would drive away. In the silence, the resentment grew.
There was a routine to the days. Terse words were spoken between the man and the boy, they would drive home and the boy would do his homework at the round wooden kitchen table. The man stood, watching out the small window over the kitchen sink, drinking cup after cup of coffee. There was nothing to see, really; the window looked out from the small rental house onto a half acre meadow, which fed into thick woods. Beyond that, there was the port.
No, there was nothing to see. And each night, for hours, his father would see every bit of it.
Dinner would be prepared, they would eat, wash the dishes, and the boy would go to bed. This was the routine, every day, for the last seven months.
.
While the boy slept, the dark man drank coffee, and sometimes whiskey. Most often whiskey, as the night grew longer. He would doze, briefly, in fits and starts, sitting at the kitchen table, or in the lumpy armchair that came with the rented house, startling awake at every noise. He was afraid to sleep for longer than a few minutes at a time, afraid that someone, something, would sneak past his conscience and enter, unbidden. To harm his child. To hurt his son more than he had hurt him, himself. Sometimes, the man feared for his own sanity. But to protect his child at all costs, that was the father's credo.
So he sat, and he drank, and he watched. For what, the man was no longer certain.
One night, the boy, in the midst of writing an essay on the Constitution, put his pen down, then nervously cracked his knuckles.
"Dad?" the boy began, hating himself for what he was about to say. But sometimes the truth hurts, his dad always said.
"Hmm?" his father replied, gaze fixed on the darkness outside the window. Rain was beginning to fall again, not unexpectedly. It was spring, and this was the northwest. Even the firmly locked window couldn't keep out the incessant chirping of the tree frogs. If the man and the boy walked outside after dark, the sound would be so loud, they would have to raise their voices to be heard over it.
But the man never allowed the boy outside after dark.
The boy looked up from the table. His father stood, as he did, sentinel, watchman, guardian... at that kitchen window, every night. The sameness of it, the futility, the utter sadness had driven the boy to say what he knew would drive a dagger into his father's heart.
"Dad," the boy hesitated, then plunged in. "I want to go home."
The man blinked and sat his coffee cup on the counter top.
"We've talked about this, John." The man pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, sighing. "This is home."
The boy knew this would be the answer. He was prepared.
"Dad," the boy pushed back from the table, standing up. The contrast between the two, light and dark, brought their similarities into sharp focus. The determination of one to assert their independence, the fierce devotion of the other to protect at all costs.
"Dad, you won't let me play soccer, you won't let me go to my friends' houses... I feel like a prisoner. I hate it. I don't hate it here, exactly, but... I'm starting to … hate … you."
The man turned, fixing the boy with a sharp glare that he couldn't look away from.
"It isn't safe, don't you understand that?" The man took a step closer. The boy stepped back. His father had never hit him, would never hit him. The words were as close to a blow as the man had come.
The boy, biting his lip, knew that this was his moment, now or never. He stepped forward, toe to toe with his father.
"I called Jessica," the boy said bluntly.
The dark man's jaw dropped in momentary shock, and he ran his hand through his hair. Then he grabbed the boy's arm.
"What have you done, John,?" he hissed, looking furtively left and right. "The call can be traced, the line can be tapped..."
The boy shook free from his father's grasp. He was defiant, eyes blazing through unspent tears.
"I hate this, Dad. I hate what you're making me do. I hate..." the boy swallowed. "I I hate that you're running away. I hate that you took me from my home. My friends are... God, I don't even know. I didn't even get to tell them goodbye. Jessica... she is the only family I have, Dad."
The dark man stood, eyes fixed on his son, unmoving. He seemed frozen, as if he had forgotten how to react. The boy sensed his moment and struck.
"I don't want to lie anymore, Dad. I don't want to lie every time I open my mouth." The boy paused, knowing how this would hurt his father. His father held truth, above all, in the highest of regard. Then he continued.
"I want to go home. I want my life back. You took it, Dad. It's your fault... you screwed up my life. Twice." The boy fixed a furious stare on his father.
"You are the reason my mom is dead. You are the reason we're running. You, Dad. Not me.."
The man wheeled away, trying fervently to get a grip on his emotions before they bubbled up and spilled over. He could not, would not, allow the boy to know how much this hurt him. As always, he pushed the painful words down, pushed them aside, and tried to apply logic as a salve.
"Don't you know that I realize that? Don't you know think I know that I killed your mother, as sure as I pulled the trigger myself?" The man remained away from the boy, facing the dark window pane. Rain rolled down the glass, crying for the man's loss. For his palpable sadness.
The man took a deep breath, then another. He turned to his son.
"I am trying, John. I am trying to keep you safe." The man swallowed, hard.
The boy, impetuous youth, countered.
"I don't want you to keep me safe. I want you to let me live, Dad. I want a life again. A real life." The boy looked down at his sneakers, blinked hard at the tears he knew were coming, then at his father's face. At his father's eyes.
"Dad... I want to go home. Back to D.C.. Back to my school, my friends... and if I die, if I get hit by a bus, if I get .. I dunno... drowned in the Potomac... well, whatever, man... that's life." The boy stepped forward. He said, quietly, "I want a life, Dad. I want to live. And if living means dying, then.. okay."
The man took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
"Son," he began, "it doesn't work that way. If we leave, if we go back... we're basically telling the government that we don't need their protection anymore. We're giving up any right to re-enter this program." The man stepped forward, gripping his son's shoulders.
"It means... we're on our own."
The boy gazed deep into his father's eyes, saw the storm, saw the pain, saw the hurt.
Finally, the boy spoke.
"This isn't living, Dad. Not for either of us."
The man looked at his son, searching, as if he was trying to remember everything about him. Finally, he spoke, softly, more softly than his son could remember hearing in a long time.
"Are you sure?"
The boy launched himself into his father's arms. They hugged, hard, like you do when you've been apart for a long time. After a few moments, the dark man pulled away, kissed the top of his son's head, and took his cell phone from his jeans pocket. He dialed a number, waited briefly, then spoke.
"Dave?"... It's... it's Aaron."