The day after I found Evangeline, I called George. I told him what had happened, that I wanted to compensate him for the food she’d eaten, for any additional utility costs.
“And, if in studying your boat—because, George, she was reading the manual on the engine, if you can believe that—if she messed something up or caused damage—”
He cut me off. “There’s no damage. I was down there this morning and could tell someone had been on board. I assumed it was a transient, so I did a pretty thorough check. Nothing missing or amiss. Well, except for some empty cans of stew.”
That news was more a relief than expected, and I realized I’d been concerned she’d pocketed souvenirs from the boat. We talked a bit longer, and then George said, “No worries, Isaac. Evangeline’s going to be all right. She’s whip-smart and motivated. Maybe not always in the right direction.”
We both laughed, and I think he was waiting for me to say good-bye. When I didn’t, he said, “There something else on your mind?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. I’d like to reconvene the clearness committee if you think the group is willing.”
“They’re willing,” George said. “I’m certain of it.”
A WEEK LATER, when I arrived at the meeting hall, it was as if we’d continued uninterrupted—the same chairs and lamps and extension cord, though a new lavender candle had been placed near my seat. George and Ralph and Abigail were already seated when I arrived, and our greetings were subdued. Some new shyness there.
George had been right to question my prior work in the committee. I’d wasted those early sessions distracting myself with false guilt. I’d never perceived Jonah as dangerous. Not really. I’d slanted those normal boyhood stories because it was easier to feel guilty about missing a danger no one could have foreseen than to face the larger role I’d played in my son’s death.
After an opening silence, I said, “I want to talk about my son.”
After some minutes, George said quietly, “Of course.”
I couldn’t find any words, so we sat in that still room, a frog croaking outside. Ralph cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as if his back were bothering him.
Out of this strained silence, I finally said, “Daniel could be cruel.”
I saw on their faces how they knew this to be true, and I almost cried out for the pain of it. I swallowed. “I’d see him at times, taunting boys less powerful than himself. I’d tell myself it was good-natured teasing or blame the other boy. I refused to recognize this quality in him, refused to see the bully in my son.”
Proper silence was allowed, and then George asked, “Do you have any idea why you would choose not to know this?”
The obvious answer was that it’s never easy to think ill of one’s child. But George knew I’d always assessed my son’s errors of moral judgment as a fact of youth and attempted to address them. I was less judgmental and thus clearer eyed than most. We are all the time battling the beast. There is no disgrace in it. Why did I have such a blind spot here?
I thought of my own father, the shame I felt for his passivity. The shame I felt for my own: watching Katherine save Daniel from the sea lions, refusing to know that my wife was cheating or that Peter needed help, avoiding my family in the guise of discernment. Katherine had betrayed me. My son was murdered. Even God, it seemed, had abandoned me. I was life’s prey.
“Because then I’d have to admit that I admired this trait in him.”
I felt it clearly now. My son was everything I was not. He was an alpha animal, a strong, muscular being who took what he wanted. He fought with everything in him on the football team, wrestling, at the gym. He battled for primacy in all aspects of his life. When I’d witnessed him exerting dominion in small, cruel ways, I saw him as one would a panther, beautiful and powerful and fierce, taking what was his.
I’d been envious of him. And strangely grateful. The relief of it! Seeing some small portion of my own violence expressed through my son.
I’m not sure what I said after that or if I even spoke, but I remember the room felt alive with all that had been released.