Chapter Four

The open window sent a cooling breeze through the room. Ocean sounds buffeted the darkness. Jarvis flipped on the bedside lamp, a low-watt bulb giving just enough light to read by and leaving the rest of the bedroom shrouded in black. He propped a pillow against the headboard and picked up the leather journal. Lying on his back, he opened to the page about a quarter from the end, held by an old laundry ticket he’d used for years as a bookmark. He didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was within a couple minutes of 3:15 a.m., his internal circadian keeping eternal synch with the hour. The last entry was the previous night’s, identified only by time, not day or year. He scribbled 3:15 a.m. below it and began to chew on the end of the pen. Events of the day and evening ran through his mind, some parts at high speed like the fast-forward button on the DVD player, others almost comically slow. He scratched out a few lines, hesitating only occasionally.

 

The hand of the father

Falls heavily on the shoulder of the son.

It is a burden, a gift, a curse.

And it is there long after he is gone.

 

Jarvis closed the book without reading what he’d written. Tossing it onto the nightstand along with the pen, he killed the light and rolled onto his stomach. A flickering image of his father, decades old, flitted across the palette of his closed eyes before he fell into an immediate, deep sleep.

 

The clock showed 4:18 a.m. when Jarvis quickly, steadily emerged to consciousness. A few rays of pre-dawn light bent around the house and snuck into the bedroom. Refreshed, fully alert, he rolled out of bed and headed to the garage. Ten minutes later he was hitting the heavy bag and sweating freely, cobwebs gone, another full day ahead. After forty-five minutes of punching, his breathing heavy and rasping, he stopped just as the cell phone perched on one of the shelves lining the garage vibrated violently. Wiping his hands against the only dry spot on his sweatpants, he picked it up. He recognized the digits as those commonly used in movies where they never gave a real phone number– 555.555.5555. Only one person he knew punched that into their cell so it displayed when they made a call. Someone who cracked open a new cell phone burner every week and reached out to Jarvis sometimes just as often, and sometimes not for six months or longer. Brin.

 

Jarvis answered. “Hey.”

 

The voice that responded wasn’t Brin. And there were sirens in the background.