At that moment, he nodded toward a group of young children dressed in their Sunday best, flanking the large white curtain. A girl in braids, no more than ten, tugged on a cord, and the canvas fell to the floor with a loud whap.
The church became awash in brilliant light. Heads turned, followed by a collective gasp. Where once shards of fallen glass had left a jagged hole, a stunning stained-glass window shone intact. Cries of acclamation rang out, then everyone began to clap. The choir started up softly in a hymn. It was so damn beautiful.
As I listened to the moving voices, something stirred inside me. I glanced at Cindy, Claire, and Jill, thinking, reliving just how much had happened since I’d last stood in this place, since Tasha Catchings had been killed.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt Claire’s fingers at my side. She probed for my hand, squeezing me by the fingertips. Then Cindy cradled her arm through mine.
From behind, I felt Jill bracing my shoulder. “I was wrong,” she whispered in my ear. “What I said when they were wheeling me into the OR. The bastards don’t win. We do. We just have to wait to the end of the game.”
The four of us stared at the beautiful stained-glass window. A sweet and gentle robed Jesus was motioning to disciples, a yellow nimbus around his head. Four or five followers were trailing behind. One of them, a woman, had turned to wait for someone else, her arm extended….
She was reaching toward the outstretched hand of a young black girl.
The girl looked like Tasha Catchings.
TWO WEEKS LATER, a Friday night, I’d invited the girls over for dinner. Jill said she had big news that she wanted to share.
I was coming back from the market, grocery bags in hand. In the vestibule of my walk-up, I fumbled for the mail. The usual catalogs and bills. About to move on, I noticed a thin white envelope, the standard air mail variety with red and blue arrows, the kind they sell you at the post office.
My heart jumped as I recognized the script.
It was postmarked Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.
I put the grocery bags down, then I sat on the steps and split the envelope open. I lifted out a folded piece of lined paper. Inside, a small Polaroid photo.
“My beautiful daughter,” the letter began in an edgy scrawl,
By now, you must know everything. I’ve come a long way down here, but I have stopped running.
You no doubt have some idea of what happened that day at the Hall. You modern cops have it all over old slugs like me. What I wanted you to know was that I wasn’t afraid to have it come out. I hung around for a few days to see if the story broke. I even called you at the hospital once. That was me… I knew you didn’t want to hear from me, but I wanted to hear that you were all right. And of course—you are just fine.
These words are not enough to let you know how sorry I am for having disappointed you again. I was wrong about a lot of things: one of them was, you can’t leave everything behind. I knew that the moment I saw you again. Why has it taken me my whole life to let such a simple lesson sink in?
But I was right about one thing. And it’s more important than anything else. No one is ever so big not to need help every once in a while… even from their father.
The letter was signed, “Your stupid Dad,” then below it, “who truly loves you…”
I sat reading the note a second time, holding back a rush of tears. So Marty had finally found a place where nothing would follow him. Where no one would know him. I choked with the sad realization that I might never see him again.
I flipped the grainy photograph.
There was Marty… in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, posing in front of some dilapidated fishing boat, raised on a scaffold, maybe twelve feet long. There was a little note on the bottom: “New start, new life. I bought this boat. Painted it myself. One day, I’ll catch you a dream…”
At first, I laughed…. What a jerk, I thought, shaking my head. What the hell did he know about boats? Or fishing? The closest my father ever got to the ocean was when he was assigned to crowd control on Fisherman’s Wharf.
Then something grabbed my eye.
In the background of the photo, past the proud countenance of my father, against the masts and hulls of the blue marina and the beautiful sky…
I squinted hard, trying to make out the lettering on the freshly painted hull of his new boat.
The single word scrawled there, in plain, white letters, in his own simple hand.
The name of the boat: Buttercup.
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