Before it ended, he went home. I offered to walk with him. but he told me he just wanted to get home quickly and go to sleep. He promised he would call me in the morning. He did, very late, but we spent most of the day together, talking and going for a row. He agreed to come to dinner when my mother threatened to have Mrs. Geary cook it at his house if he didn't.
The following day Uncle Roy went back to work. He couldn't sit around and mourn anymore: he said that working would at least occupy his mind. Harley didn't go back with him. He remained home. I called, but he was very secretive about what he was doing, telling me he would call me later.
Later ran on and on into the late afternoon. Mommy had invited both him and Uncle Roy to dinner again, but Harley didn't come with him this time Uncle Roy made excuses for him and said maybe it was better Harley had some time to himself.
"I'll try to get him back to work in a day or so," he promised.
I called after dinner. but Harley didn't answer the phone. I wanted to go over there to see why not. Mommy stopped me. however,
"Sometimes people need some space. honey. Give him a chance. He needs to grieve in his own way," she advised.
Reluctantly. I listened and went up to my room to read and watch television so I wouldn't think about him. It was difficult. I don't know how many times I went to the window to look across the lake at his house. He didn't have many roams lit, and I wondered if he was even there. I hadn't heard the sound of his motorcycle, but I thought he might be walking or sitting down at the lake.
What could he be doing all day and all night? I wondered. I worried so much about him. I thought it would just be impossible for me to go to sleep. I tried, of course. I prepared for bed and slipped under my blanket, listening to the sounds in the house. Daddy and Mommy had come up hours ago and were in their room. The house had its usual creaks and groans in the summer wind, but I heard something different and listened very hard. It made my heart thump faster.
Footsteps in the hallway were barely audible. but I heard them and then, seconds later. I heard my bedroom doorknob turning and sat up to see Harley.
"Summer?" he called. "Are you awake?" "Harley! What are you doing here?"
He didn't answer immediately. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. There was just enough light from the new moon coming through the window for me to see him hurry to my bedside. He sat quickly.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I spent all day going through my mother's old things," he replied. "things she had buried in boxes in our attic closet. There were so many things I had never seen before, things from when she was young, letters and memories, ribbons and pictures of her family. I don't know why she never showed them, but she didn't."
"Oh," I said thinking it was a very natural thing for him to have done, You want to hold onto the memory of someone you love. You would do anything that would help.
"Then. I found it," he announced excitedly.
"Found what?"
"My father's name. There was a letter he had written to her, explaining that he had to go on a job,"
"What is his name?" I asked.
"Fletcher Victor. My real last name is Victor," he told me with great pride. It was as if he had discovered he came from royalty, but I guessed that discovering your real identity had to be as wonderful.
"Did you learn any more about him?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "but not from the letters. I called Timmy Gross, this guy in my class who is a computer whiz. I'm practically the only one who ever talks to him in school. He talks about going on the Internet like some people used to talk about going to outer space. Anyway. I gave him my father's name, and he ran a search and guess what? He located him. A name like Fletcher Victor is kind of unique. There were twelve, but eight were easy to rule out. They were either too old or had never been out of their state. We narrowed it down to four and started on them.
"Finally, I reached one who was very quiet when I described myself and my mother. He listened and at the end of my little speech, he said, yes, he was my father.'
"No!"
"Yes, he did and guess what else he did after I told him my mother was dead?"
"What?"
"He invited me to come to see him and maybe,
if we got along, to live with him. He's in upstate New York, a place called Centerville."
"What are you going to do?"
"I want to go, at least to visit."
"What does Uncle Ray say?"