Squirm

  “She’s from the Crow Nation.”

  “I love her name. ‘Little Thunder-Sky.’ Where’d you two get married?”

  “Everyone calls her Lil. We didn’t have, like, a courthouse wedding.”

  “So it was a traditional tribal ceremony?”

  “Uh, no, it was…private.” Dad must be writhing on the inside. “Just me, Lil, and her daughter. We went camping in the Crazy Mountains.”

  “That’s what they’re really called? No way!”

  “Yup, the Crazies.” He laughs drily. “Perfect, huh?”

  I’m actually on the verge of feeling sorry for him.

  Belinda returns with the coffee. She hands one cup to Mom and one to Dad. I can’t stand the stuff. Mom claims it tastes better when you’re older.

  “Please stay,” Dad calls to my sister, who’s already halfway to her bedroom, “until I’ve said what I came to say.”

  Belinda sullenly returns and plants herself in a chair across from the sofa. “This should be priceless,” she mutters.

  Mom shoots her a glance that says: Back off and give the man a chance.

  After a deep grim sigh, my father begins his apology speech. It’s not terrible. He stumbles through some of it, probably because he’s nervous. He repeats the “no excuses” line several times, which makes me believe he doesn’t have a script memorized in his head; I think he means what he’s saying.

  Mom doesn’t take her eyes off him. At one point she wipes something that might be a tear from her cheek. Still, I’m not sure what she’s feeling. Is it sorrow, or pity, or both? Dad doesn’t paint a very flattering portrait of himself as a younger man—impulsive, restless, unreliable.

  “I loved you kids, and I loved your mother,” he says, “but it got to feel like I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave. At least I thought I had to leave. So I did.”

  Belinda, who’s been fake-staring at her fingernails the whole time, looks up and asks, “So why show up now?”

  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of coming all this way and bothering you, but after seeing Billy out in Montana—”

  “No, it was your drone that saw me,” I cut in. Mom and Belinda heard the whole story.

  “The point is,” says Dad, “knowing Billy had traveled so far to see me, I thought it was time to grow up and reintroduce myself to three people I’ve never stopped caring about. I was hoping all of you might be open to at least…listening. Which you have, and I’m thankful.”

  My sister rolls her eyes, one of her go-to snarky moves.

  “Dad’s actually here on business,” I add pointedly. “That’s the main reason.”

  “Not the main reason,” he insists, “a co-reason.”

  Mom says, “Let’s hear more about your work, Dennis. What can you tell us?”

  “Not much, unfortunately. It’s classified.”

  “So, you’re a drone spy.”

  “Even if he is,” I cut in, “he wouldn’t be allowed to admit it.”

  Dad says, “Billy’s right.”

  This is the promise I made to him—that I’d back up his story, even though I know the truth. It won’t be a permanent commitment if he doesn’t honor his end of the bargain.

  “When you lived with us, you couldn’t even hold down a job in a shoe store,” says Belinda, sarcastic again. “Now you want us to believe you’re a secret agent for the U.S. government?”

  Dad smiles weakly. “It turned out I was actually good at something. Who knew, right?”

  Mom says, “Belinda, Billy…could you guys please…” She motions down the hallway toward the bedrooms. “Your father and I would like a few minutes alone to talk.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing my father would like, but this time he’ll get no help from me.

  * * *

  —

  Belinda follows me into my room, shuts the door, and sits on the floor. “So, what do you think?’

  “He’s trying,” I say.

  “Yeah, but what’s his game? His angle?” Her legs are crossed, and her toes are wiggling. “Obviously he wants something.”

  “Maybe all he wants is forgiveness,” I say, “or the possibility of forgiveness.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one, Billy. That’s rich.”

  “Look, he’s got money, a nice house, a whole other family. Why would he risk messing up his new life unless his conscience was bothering him?”

  “Wait—you’re saying he’s got a conscience?”

  “I think he does, sure.” I also think he’s still got a few loose bolts rattling around inside his head.

  “Know what scares me?” Belinda is serious now. No more snark. She’s got my mother’s sea-blue eyes, super-intense.

  She says, “I’m scared Mom still has a thing for him.”

  “She doesn’t,” I say, which is what I want to believe.

  “Did you check out that Katy Perry lipstick?”

  “Come on, it’s not that bad. And just because she wants to look nice doesn’t mean she’s in love with him.”

  “But what if she is, Billy?”

  “Then we help her get past it.”

  “Because it’s over, right?”

  “So over,” I say.

  There’s a light knock on the door, followed by Mom’s voice: “Billy, your dad wants to see your snake collection.”

  My sister rolls her eyes. “Know what? You two nature freaks deserve each other.”

  Dad is waiting in the garage. I take the lid off the glass tank that holds the yellow rat snakes, which are actually pumpkin-colored. They’ve got thin dark stripes all the way to the tips of their tails.

  “Can I hold one, Billy?”

  “Better not. They’re biters,” I say.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  With hot-tempered snakes, the key is how you handle them. Most people try to grab them behind the head, which triggers a bite reflex. One trick I use is to slip both hands beneath the snake’s body and lift up so slowly that it doesn’t get alarmed. Rat snakes are climbers, so they’re used to being above the ground. They’ll stay pretty chill if they think they’re up on a tree branch somewhere.

  Again, this kind of information would be worthless to a normal person.

  I pick up the five-footer and carefully place it in my father’s hands.

  “Now, don’t squeeze,” I warn, but it’s too late.

  He squeezes. The snake whips around, chomps him on the chin, and resets for another strike.

  With a wince, Dad says, “Oops, my bad.”

  “Just stay super-still, okay?”

  After a few moments, the rat snake lowers its head and starts peering around.

  “Check it out, son—he’s chillin’ now.”

  “It’s a she,” I say.

  My father proceeds to do an excellent imitation of a tree. The snake is definitely calmer, having wrapped around his right forearm. It’s not strong enough to cut off the circulation, the way a python or a boa constrictor might do.

  “See, Billy? Look how peaceful she is.”

  Dad is trying so hard to be still that he’s actually speaking without moving his jaw muscles. Meanwhile, his chin shines with a U-shaped pattern of bleeding pin-sized holes. It looks like he’s got a red goatee. I probably should’ve let him hold the king snake instead; that one doesn’t bite.

  “You’re dripping blood on your suit,” I say.

  “Good. Now I’ve got an excuse to throw it away.”

  “You’ve never done this before? That’s hard to believe, all the time you spend out in the wild.”

  Dad says he avoids snakes. “It’s not a full-on phobia,” he adds. “I just walk the other way when I see one. Live and let live, right? Also, Montana’s full of rattlers.”

  “I saw a beauty,” I tell him, ?
??sunning right next to your truck.”

  “They den high up in rock cliffs all winter. When the weather gets warms, they swarm down to the valleys and do a number on the gophers.” He is basically eye to eye with the rat snake. The fork of its glistening tongue feathers in and out of its mouth.

  “What if your mother says no?” Dad asks.

  “She won’t,” I say.

  He’s talking about our deal—the promise he made to me in return for keeping his secret. We’ve lowered our voices, so Mom and Belinda can’t hear us.

  “Billy, I’ve gotta leave tomorrow. First light.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Gingerly I uncoil the snake from his arm and return it to the glass tank. Dad takes out a handkerchief and dabs the blood from his chin.

  “What were you and Mom talking about in there? Old times?”

  “That’s personal, son.”

  “So, you still care about her.”

  “How could I not? My eagle girl,” Dad says fondly. “One of these days she’ll find the right guy, I know she will.”

  “Belinda’s worried that Mom still loves you. I told her no way.”

  “Your mother and I talked about the way things ended between us, and we also talked about what’s happened since then, the way I let you kids slip out of my life. She was kinder about it than I deserved, but, no, I’m definitely not the secret love of her life.”

  The relief I’m feeling is difficult to hide, but I try.

  “So,” Dad says, “did you come up with a good cover story for the trip?”

  I tell him what I plan to tell Mom. He’s not convinced she’ll buy it. He stands back while I unfasten the lids from the other glass tanks.

  “Is your sister still pissed at me?” he asks.

  “Oh yes.”

  “And I totally get that. But, who knows, maybe someday…”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  Quickly I bag up all the snakes. They don’t mind sharing the same pillowcase.

  Dad offers to give me a ride. I stick my head in the door to tell Mom we won’t be gone long. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  Nobody else is driving on Grapefruit Road this time of night. I show Dad where to park. He angles his pickup so the headlights illuminate a path into the scrub and the trees, where I let the snakes go. Dad seems impressed that the release operation ends without me getting chomped even once.

  On the way back to town, I ask him what to bring on our “mission.”

  “Long pants, bug juice, sunblock, Band-Aids, a sleeping bag—oh, and binoculars,” he says. “I’ve got all the food and water we’ll need.”

  “Don’t forget your gun.”

  “We don’t mention the gun,” Dad tells me sternly. “The gun is strictly for emergencies.”

  “But he’s a bad guy, right?”

  I’m talking about the man we’ll be chasing, the one my father followed all the way across the country, from Montana to Florida. The same man who flattened Dad’s tires and shot a hole in his truck trying to scare him off.

  “Yeah,” says Dad, “he definitely qualifies as a bad guy.”

  ELEVEN

  Summer and Lil were relieved to learn Dad was all right, but they were curious about his sudden reappearance in Florida. We were communicating by text, which made it easier for me to avoid giving a full explanation.

  “Guilt trip” is what I typed. “He wanted to see me and Belinda.”

  Their return texts sounded doubtful. Maybe they’re worried that he won’t return to Montana, that he’s decided to move back here with us. I can’t tell them the main reason he came. Silence is part of the deal.

  Now it’s crunch time—trying to convince Mom to let me leave with Dad for a few days. My story sounded way better when I rehearsed it in my bedroom.

  “A camping trip?” She raises an eyebrow. “What kind of camping trip?”

  “You know. Guy thing.”

  That’s the best I can do. Pretty shaky, but I’m on my own. My father is talking with Belinda in her bedroom, trying to dent that iron shell of resentment.

  “Was this ‘guy thing’ your idea or his?” Mom asks.

  “Mine, totally.”

  That’s true. It’s also technically true that Dad and I will be “camping.”

  “Where, Billy?”

  “Down in the Everglades.” Also true.

  “And what about your summer job?”

  I’m ready for that one.

  “I checked with Mr. Voss at Publix. He’s fine with me taking a few days off. I told him it was a family vacation.”

  My mother frowns. We’re in the kitchen, where she’s cleaning the filter of the coffee machine. She says, “I don’t have a wonderful feeling about this, Billy—you guys charging off into the swamp together. There are better ways to bond.”

  “I’ll have my phone with me, Mom.”

  “Great,” she says. “And if you don’t answer, I’ll assume it’s ringing in the belly of an alligator.”

  I put my arms around her. “I promise not to get eaten. If I do, you can ground me for the rest of the summer.”

  “That’s not funny, Billy. I don’t think you should go!”

  So I rattle off some statistics about how rare gator attacks are—lots more people die from bee stings, for example. My mother isn’t swayed. When Dad comes out of Belinda’s room, Mom cross-examines him for twenty minutes. Like me, he doesn’t actually lie about the plans for our trip. He just leaves out a few key details.

  Listening to their back-and-forth discussion, I notice something interesting: even though my father has been gone for years, living far away from what you’d call our “family dynamic,” he still knows exactly what to say to Mom, and how to say it.

  Not only does she give me permission to go along with him, but now she’s offering to help me pack. Amazing.

  So, props to smooth-talking Dad.

  The amateur man-hunter.

  * * *

  —

  I wish I could play the guitar. Mom once offered to pay for lessons, but I said no thanks. I haven’t got enough patience to sit down and strum chords for hours after school. I need to be outside in the woods or on the water, even when it’s pouring rain. Otherwise, I’ll go cray-cray, as my sister would say.

  If only somebody would invent a super-fast way to learn a musical instrument—some type of overnight audio hypnosis, where you could wake up in the morning and magically start playing like Eric Clapton.

  The reason I’m thinking about this? We’re in the truck, an hour before sunrise, and a Clapton song called “Get Ready” is blasting on the speakers. Dad’s got a sweet playlist, I admit. Oldies but goodies. It’s way better than being trapped in a moving vehicle with Belinda, which means nonstop Taylor Swift. Not even Taylor Swift’s mother listens to as much Taylor Swift as my sister does.

  Dad says, “If we have time, I’ll teach you how to fly the drone.”

  “Did you replace that broken propeller?”

  “I replaced all of them,” he reports, “to maximize performance. You’ll see.”

  We’re passing through a town called Okeechobee, on the north side of the famous lake. The outskirts feature vast sod farms that supply new grass for lawns and golf courses. The fields are so bright green that they look spray-painted.

  My father asks if Mom got up early to make me breakfast.

  “She tried. I sent her back to bed and ate a bowl of cereal.”

  “What was her state of mind, Billy?”

  “I think she’s a little worried about this trip.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not at all,” I say, untruthfully. “Tell me his name—the guy we’re chasing.”

  “You mean the guy we’re tracking.” r />
  “What’s the difference?”

  “Baxter.” Dad spells it. “Lincoln Chumley Baxter.”

  “So he’s crazy rich.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Because regular people don’t name their kids ‘Lincoln Chumley’ anything.”

  Dad laughs. “Even better: it’s Lincoln Chumley Baxter IV. His family owns a couple of skyscrapers in San Francisco. He’s never worked a day in his life. All he does is—”

  “Where’s the g-word?”

  “Stop asking, Billy.”

  “Is it loaded? Because that would make me nervous.”

  A sod truck is ahead of us, its flatbed stacked high with freshly cut squares of grass. The back draft from the load smells like wet fertilizer. Mom would have rocketed past the truck miles ago, but Dad hangs back, taking it easy.

  I’m still trying to deal with the fact it’s just me and him cruising along on a sunny summer morning, listening to tunes, like we do this together all this time.

  Like this is how I grew up.

  Like he never went away.

  “Why did Baxter come to Florida?” I ask.

  “Same reason he was in Montana. To kill something.”

  “So he’s a poacher.”

  “Not just an ordinary poacher, Billy. He doesn’t do it for food, or to make money. He does it purely for his ego, some lame notion of glory.”

  “What was he hunting in the Tom Miner Basin?”

  “He wanted a big grizzly. He didn’t get one.”

  “Thanks to you, right? That’s why there’s a bullet hole in your fender.”

  My father shrugs. “Mr. Baxter wasn’t a happy camper. Literally.”

  Not long ago the government removed the Yellowstone grizzly from its list of threatened species, claiming there are now enough bears that they don’t need to be legally protected anymore. Dad says some western states will soon start selling licenses to hunt the grizzlies, like in the old days.

  In other words, we saved an animal from extinction just so we could start killing it again. How messed up is that?

  According to my father, a bunch of lawsuits have been filed in protest, trying to block the bear hunts. So, until the courts make a decision, it’s still a crime in Montana to shoot a griz, except in self-defense.