PART 4

Eric rose early after little sleep. There seemed no point to it, to anything, anymore. Things were all wrong and they kept playing over and over in his head.

Your daughter left.

Your wife hit you.

Your father is here.

He didn't know why this last bothered him. Eric loved his father; he knew it and they all knew it. But there was something now that was unsettling about the man, here, now.

Why?

Why come now? He already knew about Lucy, knew about Mary.

I've come to help, he had said.

No. This isn't right. He didn't ask to come; he just came.

And I let him in. I know he talked to most of the kids.

Is Annie right about him, about this?

Annie.

Where are you, Annie?

#

Eric rose, showered, dressed. As he ate a quick breakfast his father came into the kitchen.

"How are you, son?"

"Fine."

The usual answer. The Colonel watched him closely.

He could always tell when I lied. He always could.

"You're up early, son."

Eric nodded.

"Work."

"I see."

The eyes were on him, looking at him and into him. He couldn't match them. He could never match them.

Eric left. He didn't know why, but he had to. It was like it wasn't his home anymore.

#

There was, of course, not really anything to do at the church. The budget was done, and he had been spending so much time in the office lately that he had sermons written for the next two weeks. He reviewed those, wondered if they sounded as empty as he thought they did.

It's all empty now. None of it means anything. Everything you always thought was permanent, that you thought would last, is transient, like vapor.

Ecclesiastes had said that, hadn't he?

There is a time for all things.

Later, the phone rang. He had been dozing, half hoping that someone would come in with something, anything, to take his mind off his own life. He sat up as it rang again, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

"Yes?"

A pause.

"Dad?"

He knew the voice.

"Lucy?"

"It's me, Dad."

He sat up suddenly. For weeks he had obsessed over the right words, the words he would say to her, but now he found that he couldn't speak.

"Dad?"

He drew breath and a few words came.

"Oh, my God, Lucy. Are you all right?"

There was tension in her voice; he could sense it.

"I'm fine, Dad."

"Where --?"

Hesitation. Then, "I saw the ad you placed. I'm all right. I wanted you to know that I'm all right."

It was her, his daughter. Even now he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. But he knew her voice, her tone. He could sense the emotion there and knew it was authentic.

"Oh, God, honey. Do you need anything?"

"No."

No. Just no. She was his little girl; somewhere still, she was his little girl. And she was here, now, on the phone with him. What could he say to bring her home?

She had noticed the silence.

"Is everything all right, Dad?"

And then it hit him. Ashes, in his hands. The look on Annie's face, her words. That girl. I've burned her up. A fist and a broken nose.

Did he dare to bring her home?

"Fine," he managed, hoping she wouldn't sense the lie. "We've just been worried."

He could almost sense her nodding.

"I'm sorry about that, Dad. But I had to go."

"I understand," he said.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," she said.

"I know. It's all right, Lucy. It's all right."

This lie bit him deeply. Her pictures at home, all of them, were gone. Her name was spoken in hushed, fearful whispers, if at all. She had become a nonbeing in the Camden household in only a little more than a month. And her mother, her own mother, had made this happen.

And he didn't know why.

"Dad?"

"I'm here."

"I can't talk long. I'm on a pay phone. Are you all right? Is Mom all right?"

The thought came then that she would call home and Annie would answer.

Oh, God, not that. What would Annie say to her?

He lied again. "We're all fine, Lucy. We miss you. But don't call home; no one's there right now. Do you have enough money? I put some more in your account."

"I'm fine. I have a job."

The questions came then: Where? Doing what? But somehow he sensed that she wouldn't answer these.

"How can I reach you, Lucy?" he asked finally. "I won't call or anything if you don't want. But please; how do I reach you?"

A pause. Hesitation.

"I don't have a phone. I can call you."

It was getting hard to hold the receiver. He braced one trembling hand with another.

"Here. Call here. The church. Don't call home."

Another pause. He knew what she was thinking.

"All right. I have to go, Dad. Someone else needs the phone."

"I love you, Lucy," he said.

"I love you too."

And then there was silence on the line.