I drove and drove, following the lines of the road without care or reason. I drove through East Nashville, down toward where Montague Village once had stood. I drove across the river, down West End and up Belle Meade Boulevard, slowing down but not stopping in front of the great house. I drove past the stone columns marking the road up to Yeatman. I drove across the bridge in Bellevue, along the Natchez Trace, back down and over toward Leiper’s Fork. I was so lost in thought that it came as a genuine surprise when I found myself on the driveway in front of the farm, where my mother and Jim had spent their life together—where the first half of my life in Nashville had ended and the second half began.

I was turning around to leave when the porch lights came on and the door opened. Jim came out, peering down at me from the top of the stairs. I cut the engine, stepped out of the car, and walked over toward him.

“Charlie?” he said. “What on earth?”

What could I say? It was nearly midnight.

Jim looked me over. I must have looked ghastly.

“Come in, son,” he said.

I sat down on the couch, in the same spot I’d sat when Jim and my mother informed me that they were going to have a child together. Jim went into the kitchen. A short while later, he came back with two mugs filled with coffee.

“How do you take it?” he asked.

“Black is fine,” I said.

He handed me a mug, set the other on the table, eased into a chair by the fireplace, and waited for me to explain myself.

“I need your help,” I said.

“I’ll always help you,” he said. “You know that.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Try this,” he said. “Tell me about your day.”

I must have been drunker than I realized; I told him everything. Not everything, of course—I left out the more graphic details—but I did not shy away from the facts, from Averett’s unsavory home movie to my visit from Vanessa the previous night and the evidence of that encounter. He took it all in quite calmly.

“Let’s take a walk,” he finally said.

We went out onto the porch and down the steps and into the field. The only lights came from the house. The sky was brilliant with stars. It was beautiful enough to make me weep.

“You must feel pretty disgusted with me,” I said.

He took a moment to consider before speaking.

“No,” he said. “I’m not disgusted. Just a little disheartened.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“Not especially.”

“You knew.”

“Which part?”

“About Arch.”