Chapters (18)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Send Me
- Getting Heavy with Fate
- So Much for Artemis
- Ground Control
- The Last Time I Knew You
- Welcome to Utica
- Woman in a Fan Chair
- That Daring Young Man
- A Door in St. Augustine
- There’s Nothing Wrong with Gus
- Love at the Dog Fight
- Believe It or Not
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
“Like you did.” I hear myself saying this. It’s strange territory. I’ve never discussed my stepfather with him. I’ve rarely discussed him, Dermot Ragazzino, leaving his wife and two kids to return to Utica, to start his life over again without us. He’s got this look on his face as if out of the blue I’ve landed a fist in his gut; he looks hurt and mad and confused at the same time.
“That’s not fair,” he says, his voice weakening a little. “Your stepfather, Roy, he left your mother for another woman. I didn’t do that. I left for different reasons. I was scared, I admit that to anyone. Bring in the jury. I was twenty-five, what did I know?” He lights the cigarette and runs his eyes over the junk spread out on the coffee table. “Jesus, you have a kid, and then everything you’ve ever done gets thrown back in your face one day. I’ll tell you this much. Your mother may have got stuck with a bum rap, but if I knew … I mean, if I had it all to do over again, I wouldn’t do it like I did.”
“Meaning what?”
He breathes through the cigarette. He isn’t looking at me anymore. “I don’t know. I just know it would be different. Listen, Matthew, I’m trying to tell you, I’m trying to say, I haven’t been much of a father. I know that.” He sounds annoyed by having to point out the obvious. “It’s not like there’s a rule book for every moment of your life. I mean, you just do it, and you hope you haven’t fucked everything up in the process. You’re not a fuckup, I’m not saying that—and I take partial credit for it too. But what I mean is, God help you if I was your only parent. You ought to just call the woman now and then. It wouldn’t kill you.”
“I don’t have anything to say to her.”
“You will.” He scratches the top of his scalp with the hand holding the cigarette. The smoke makes a spiral in the air over his head and ashes sprinkle into his hair. He looks at me. “How did we get on all this shit, anyway?”
“You brought it up.”
He exhales a lungful of Winston. “You’re right,” he says. “I did. Now can I please just be left alone? Can I sleep?”