A look of nostalgia comes into his face. “The Rialto in DeRidder, Louisiana. I saw a lot of pictures in that grand old dame of a theater. Good ones, bad ones, just okay.”

A worm of fear is turning in my belly. Has my father lost his grip on reality? “Dad, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m trying to set you straight, son.”

“About what?”

“You’re confused about what kind of movie you’re in.”

“What kind of movie . . . ?”

“Yes. This isn’t a mystery. It’s not a whodunit, with Margaret Rutherford playing Miss Marple. I’m the killer.”

“Dad, for God’s sake—”

“This isn’t even film noir,” he goes on. “It’s a western, Penn. It always was. With black hats and white hats. Well . . . maybe my hat is gray. Like Henry Fonda’s in his later years.”

I get up from the table and walk toward the door. His words are so maddening that I want to get physically away from him. Halfway to the door, I stop and turn back. “If you killed Viola . . . why even go through this trial? Why not plead guilty, take your sentence, and live out your last year or two of life in jail?”

He apparently takes my question very seriously. “I’ve thought about that. A great deal, in fact. But I can’t do that to your mother. Or to Annie. What I do now, I’m doing for them.”

Right. Tom Cage, the family martyr.

“You said your motive was between you, Viola, and God. But you don’t believe in God.”

This time his smile is sad. “That was only a figure of speech. What I meant was, it’s between Viola and me—and she’s gone now. When I go, my motive will be lost to history, just as it should be.”

Maybe I’m not listening with the proper detachment, because his words hit me like a slap in the face. “That’s great, Dad. Only you don’t live in a vacuum. The decisions you make have consequences for the rest of us. Terrible consequences.”

“I know. I’ve learned that, if nothing else. If you’d let me—”

I hold up my hand again, and this time, mercifully, he stops. But when the doorknob is in my hand, he says, “I’m so sorry for everything, son. I mean that.”

Without turning back, I say, “Is that what you said to your other son? To Lincoln?”

When he doesn’t reply, I look back.

“Yes,” he says finally, and then he shakes his head in resignation.

At these words, something in my mind simply shuts down. There’s only one thing left to say.

“Good-bye, Dad. I won’t be coming back before the trial.”

And I leave him.

Thursday
Chapter 6