I wonder if you hear me / if you’re still near me /

or were you ever really there /

or just a trick of the light in the air

 

It takes me what feels like an hour to walk across the parking lot. I’m not sure where to put my gaze as I go, so I look at the ever-changing patch of black asphalt just ahead of my feet as I stride, glancing up at Shane now and then to make sure I’m on course, pausing to let cars pass in front of me.

I stop a few yards away from him, the distance you use when you don’t know someone so well and you’re not quite sure how either of you feels about the interaction you’re about to have. He’s examining me, that same cautious, slightly apprehensive expression on his face as when he was standing on my front porch, mixed with a hint of something else. Amusement, maybe. The look of someone laughing at himself. Sad-amused. Bitter-amused.

Neither of us says anything for a moment. Then he leans a bit to the side, looks past me, straightens up again. “She looks like a big scoop of fun, and three big scoops of trouble,” he says.

“Yeah, I think you’re probably right about the trouble,” I say.

He nods, smiles. Again the melancholy amusement.

Then, “I followed you,” he says. “Saw you leaving your house and I followed you.” I had gone home briefly after my visit to Whitmore’s to fetch the ukulele and change my clothes, which had railroad tar on them.

“I felt real bad about what happened at the studio,” he says. I can hear the southern in his voice, stronger than my mom’s accent. “Stuff is just . . .” He waves a hand, annoyed. “Anyway, I was up all night thinking about it. I didn’t know how to find you other than going to your house, and I saw you riding off on your bike, and I followed you.”

I nod. More mutual examination.

“I’m Shane,” he says, finally, sticking out his hand.

“I know who you are.”

I don’t move. His hand is still extended, one beat, two, and then he looks down at it like he’s noticing it for the first time. Then he lets it drop to his side.

He takes a breath, sighs it out. He looks at me some more. “Amy couldn’t remember it, so I don’t know your name,” he says.

I don’t know why I pause as long as I do before answering. Like something is hanging in the balance. Even as I’m opening my mouth to speak, I’m not sure what I’m going to say.

It turns out to be “I’m Austin. My name’s Austin.”

Then I stick out my hand to him. He pushes himself off the truck and takes the step forward to shake my hand, his grip firm.

“Austin. Great name. Nice to meet you, Austin.”

“You too.”

He releases my hand and we stand there.

“You have a really nice voice,” he says. “I heard you earlier, singing to the girls up there. I didn’t want to intru​—”

“Are you my dad?”

He blinks at me, taken aback.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, it’s​—”

“But are you? Are you my dad?”

He rubs his head, pulls at an ear.

“Honestly?” he says. “I don’t know. KD is your mom, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Right. Does she say​—”

“She says you’re my dad.”

“Yeah.”

He gives a little snort of laughter, shaking his head, sighs. Ain’t that a thing, he’s saying.

“I guess it’s possible,” he says. “When were you born?”

I tell him.

He thinks about it.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“But what do you think?” I say.

“You do look a lot like me. And you got a voice on you . . .”

I wait.

“Yeah, I think . . . it’s . . . possible.”

“Possible.”

“Yeah.”

I wait some more.

“Okay . . . probable,” he says. “I mean, I think . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He looks off, shaking his head again. Ain’t that a thing. Then looks at me again, gaze level. “Yeah, Austin,” he says, “I’d wager I am.”

I let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “So . . .”

“Yeah,” he says, “So.”

Ever had this conversation? I bet you haven’t. There’s some awkwardness. The silence stretches out. There are a lot of important questions you should ask your dad who disappeared before you were born. Right at this moment I can’t think of a single one of them.

“That’s a cool truck,” I say instead. He seems relieved.

“Not poseur-y? I feel poseur-y.”

“No, I think you can rock it,” I say. “You look cool.”

“Thanks.”

Part of me is taking notes, because he does look cool. I’ve never met a grownup who looks so cool, not a bit of effort to it. He even somehow looked cool when he was trying to avoid getting his skull bashed in.

“How’s your head?” I say.

“Hurts,” he says. “Should have seen that coming, I suppose. KD always was, uh . . .”

“Moody,” we say at the same time, then look at each other, both of us grinning shyly.

“Her work?” he says, gesturing toward my head.

“This? No, someone hit me with a mandolin. Smashed a Gibson A3 over my head.”

“What? That’s a crime!”

“Yeah.”

“I mean to do that to an instrument like that. I hope it’s okay.”

I laugh. “Totaled.”

“Girl involved?”

“Yeah, that one,” I say, twisting to point at Alison. She’s standing by the concession stand, watching us.

“Probably worth it,” says Shane.

I laugh again.

“Hey, you know what?” I say. “I think I might have your old guitar.”

“Really?”

“Johnny Cash sticker on it?” I indicate where the sticker would be.

“Holy crap! Yes! Johnny Cash sticker! Man! I wondered where that got to!”

“You can have it back, you want.”

“No, you keep it.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, jeez, that old guitar. No kidding. No kidding.”

Then we’re quiet, both of us shifting around a bit. I’m hoping he wasn’t listening the whole time when I was singing to the girls, didn’t hear me wreck the title song from his second album.

“How is KD?” says Shane, serious again.

“She’s all right.”

“I’d say tell her I said hi, but . . .”

“Yeah. She says she’ll kill you if you come back.”

“Yeah, I suspect she would. She with someone?”

I stare at him.

“I’m just asking. I just want to know that she’s okay.”

“She’s with a guy named Rick. He’s a lawyer.”

“That the guy who came out when I was there?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s a douche. But mostly he’s just boring.”

He nods.

“Yeah, well, sometimes boring is okay. They married?”

“That why you’re here? You gonna rekindle the romance?”

He grimaces, looks away.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Curious, is all. I haven’t seen her for sixteen years,” says Shane.

“You’re the one ran out.”

“I didn’t know about you,” he says. “Okay? I was twenty-one. I wasn’t much older than you, and probably half as smart. This is as big a surprise to me as it is to you.”

We both shift around a bit.

“You really upset her, showing up like that,” I say.

“Uh . . . no kidding?” he says, touching his forehead.

“I want you to leave her alone.”

“Sure,” he says.

“I mean it.”

“I understand.” Then, “I can leave you alone too, you want.”

I think about it. While I’m doing that, he glances at his watch. “Crap,” he says. “I have to get going. Look, I’m only in town a few weeks. I understand if you don’t want to hang out or​—”

“I want to. I mean, we should talk, right?”

“Absolutely. I’d like that.”

“Okay.”

He nods. I nod. We nod.

“So . . .” I say.

“What happens next?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Depends. You busy tonight?”

“No.”

“Can you get away for a bit without getting in trouble?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. What happens next is you come to my show.”