The In-Between Hour. Barbara White Claypole
times, but like the healed scar, it was no longer a mark of anything more than his past.
“I wanted to be alone. I came here to work the piss out of a route and get my head together.”
“Be one with the rock?”
“If you want to put it that simplistically, yeah. Look, I didn’t mean to cause worry. Why don’t you take Seth out for dinner on the corporate credit card? A pre-Halloween bonus.”
“What the hell is a pre-Halloween bonus?”
“A gift from a grateful boss. Listen, I’m going to find somewhere to stay overnight. I’ll be back in the city tomorrow.”
“You want us to come join you?”
“No. It’s ninety miles—a colossal waste of time and money.”
“Promise me you’re okay, Will. No bull. Just you and me and the truth.”
Will looked back at the mountains. “I’m good.”
“Okay, but do me a favor. Please take an hour to check your email, answer some messages. Act like a guy who cares about his business.”
“I don’t need to care about my business. That’s why I have you.”
“Will—”
He knew that tone.
“Let it go, Ally. I’m doing all I can right now.”
“I know. Love you.”
“Ditto.”
“And, Will? Don’t forget you have a hair appointment tomorrow at four. Please don’t make me reschedule again. You look like a surfer dude with a really bad dye job.”
Will ducked down and glanced in his wing mirror. She had a point. He inspected a clump of dirty-blond hair. The tip was platinum—discolored by the sun during his last climb. He stood and tried to run his hand through what used to be his bangs, but his fingers snagged on a huge knot.
“Go henpeck your husband.”
She gave a laugh. “Bye, you.”
Will stared at his phone. Might as well take ten minutes to dump emails. Trashing unread messages was strangely liberating. Grief had either desensitized him or revealed that ninety percent of his life was disposable. He clicked on the email icon and began deleting. He stopped, finding one he should read—one from Hawk’s Ridge. What was his dad’s latest infraction? Will huffed out a sigh. Had the old man demanded pancakes? Circulated another petition for a fall dance?
Dear Mr. Shepard, the director had written, I trust this email will solicit prompt action on your part.
Pinching his thumb and forefinger together, Will touched the scene and then spread his fingers apart to zoom in on the type.
His dad had been right all along. Fucking bastards.
Four
Blinding October sunlight burst through the trees, jolting Will’s attention to his speedometer. Eighty-five, he was clocking eighty-five. Flying, rather than driving. He slammed his foot on the brake pedal, and the tailgating idiot behind blasted his horn.
Will pulled into the inside lane and waved. Dickhead.
One state away and already he was thinking like his dad. Will hit Pause on his iPod. Bad enough to be heading back to Orange County, North Carolina. He didn’t need to mess with his head by listening to the drumbeat of a Boxer Rebellion song that summoned up the ghost of powwows past.
Why hadn’t he waited for sunup and dealt with this latest crisis by phone? Why had he driven back to New York, packed an overnight bag and jumped into the Prius at two in the morning like Batman on an ecofriendly mission? Will Shepard planned and orchestrated, didn’t do spontaneity, never released anger, but here he was, acting like a caped avenger. Rushing to defend what remained of his dad’s honor. Trying to save someone who likely as not could no longer be saved.
The state border zipped past; the forest, a sleeping ogre with the strength to tear him to pieces, stretched toward the Carolina blue sky.
A bloated deer lay on the grassy verge, its flesh ripped open to expose bone, and unidentifiable chunks of roadkill littered the painted lines dividing the lanes. To his right, a barn—roofless and caving in on itself—struggled to rise out of the undergrowth only to be tugged back by wild vines. To his left, a regiment of transmission towers flattened everything in their path as they marched over the horizon like metal warriors.
Will clutched the steering wheel. Two days max and he could do this trip in reverse. But first, figure out how to take down the director of Hawk’s Ridge.
Precision and balance, Will.
A climber who rushed, who didn’t strategize, was a dead climber.
He would book into a motel, crash for a few hours, meet with the director, placate him, spend an afternoon with his dad, get knee-walking drunk, sleep it off, drive home. But how to placate the director? Be nice, but firm: You can’t kick my dad out. Where else will he go? Will shook his head. Lame, totally lame. Begging might be involved. Or maybe he could offer to do a book signing. Yeah, right. Like that would make a difference.
* * *
“How about I organize a book signing with local authors?” Will said five hours later in a face-off across a cherry desk. Beautifully crafted, it was too big for the room, too grand for the doofus opposite.
“I don’t think so.” The director of Hawk’s Ridge craned his neck—not that he really had one, just a gelatinous mound of fat—and peered into the mirror on the far wall. He adjusted his tie slowly.
Will flipped over his hand and rubbed the calluses. If he could tackle cliffs of rock, he could handle this groundhog of a man who lumbered through the leftovers of people’s lives.
Thud. Will jumped as a bird crashed into the sparkling windowpane. “A bluebird just—”
“Mr. Shepard, please.”
Will stared beyond the splatter of feathers to Occoneechee Mountain. My blood’s all over that mountain, the old man used to say. Unfortunately, so was Will’s.
“Your father is loud, abusive and, half the time, drunk.”
I would be, too, if I had to live here.
“Last week he hounded poor Mrs. Wilson into signing his petition for a Friday-night social. Chased her down the hall.”
Mrs. Wilson’s in a wheelchair. How much chasing could be involved?
“She was terrified.”
Why could Will think of nothing to say other than fucking bastard?
“Alcohol was involved.”
“I appreciate everything you’re saying. But I want to assure you that my father is not an alcoholic. My moth— I grew up with someone who abused alcohol. I know the signs. As I’m sure you do. I don’t mean to question your judgment.” Will’s left eye began to twitch. “My father’s always been a heavy drinker, but he’s not a drunk. And right now, seems he has little to enjoy but his Wild Turkey. Where’s the harm in that?”
Stupid, Will. Never ask a question if you’re not prepared to hear the answer.
“With all due respect, Mr. Shepard, I don’t think you realize how the situation has deteriorated since your last visit. Many of our residents are heavily medicated. They cannot drink. And, to be honest, I think your father has emotional issues. We’ve had great success with Risperdal in some of our more aggressive residents.”
“Seriously? You want to give my dad an antipsychotic used to treat schizophrenia?”
“And, finally—there’s this business with your son.”
Will sat up, senses alert.
“When