Failings of the Fathers: 27

"How would standing outside our house bring you that.  No offense, Buddy, but you're basically stalking us, and that could be a case for the police."  The man said.  He had tucked the newspaper under his arm, and Todd could see a pistol holster on the left of his body.  

He is a cop, or something . . .

"I didn't mean any trouble."  He walked forward.  The guy wasn't being aggressive or even defensive.  He put out his hand. "I'm Todd Manning, but I guess you already know that."

"I do."  He stepped down onto the path toward Todd, and took his hand and shook it.  "I'm Jack.  Jack Ribsky."

"Jack, my son's name is Jack.  For John."

"Same here."  The man seemed to be about ten years younger than Connie would be.  His salt and pepper hair was still pretty full on top, and he was in decent shape.  He said, "It's cold out.  You want to come in?"

Todd felt woozy for a moment, and grabbed the railing, before saying, "I would, yeah."

"You okay?" Jack asked.

"I'm fine, just . . . nervous, I guess."  He followed the man inside.  The house was warm, and decorated pleasantly.  

A woman was at the table, with a cup of tea in front of her.  Todd could not get warm, and he felt as if his shivering was evident to anyone observing him.  She said, "Dear, sit down, you're pale as a ghost."

Ghost.  I am one.  Especially to Connie, most likely. 

"My sister went to change.  She was still in her robe and bedclothes.  We're assuming you're here to see her?"

"Yes,"  he said, his hands still in his pockets for warmth.  "I wanted to talk to her."

"Well, she'll be right back.  I insist you drink some of this, you're very pale, and you're shaking."

She handed him a cup of tea.  He put his hands around it for warmth, and closed his eyes a minute.  Then, he lifted the cup and sipped.  In a few minutes, he was warmer, and felt calmer.

Down a small staircase came Connie Bensonhurst.  She said, "Todd?"

He stood, "Connie?"

"Yes.  I must look a great deal different.  You've barely changed, just less hair."  She stiffly smiled.  

He breathed out, and his sigh was audible.  "You . . . probably are not happy to see me.  We didn't exactly leave off on a good note."

"No, we didn't.  I am sure it's no joyride for you either."

He wiped his palms on his coat.  "I've come to ask you . . . something."

"All right.  Maybe we can go into the living room.  But I will tell you, my brother-in-law and sister will be nearby."

"Of course.  I understand."

He followed her into a sitting room, replete with floral tapestry and light colors.  He sat down, and she handed him his tea.  He placed it on the coffee table in front of him, and said, "I don't want to have to be in town longer than I have to, so I'll get to the point.  Is my father dead?"

"Todd, you know he's dead.  He died in front of you."

"I mean, is he really dead?  You had him cremated.  You were his sole beneficiary.  I didn't ever see his body buried."

She got up and walked to the mantle.  "He's right here."  She ran her fingers over a tall, thin urn, the color of hay.

He swallowed.  "Did you see . . .I'm sorry," he cleared his throat.  She went back to the couch, and crossed her leg over the other.  He did notice that she still was rather . . . cold.  "I meant, were you there . . ."

"When they incinerated him?  Yes.  I was there.  I saw it happen, first hand."

He drank his tea, which was losing its warmth.  "Can you be sure?"

"Todd, I know this must be difficult, for whatever reason, but can you explain to me why you came all this way to dredge this up?"

"For whatever reason?"  He felt his ire rising.  He saw Jack Ribsky standing in the archway between the rooms.  "For whatever reason," he brought his voice down, and stated instead of asked.  "There's reason.  Why did you leave that house and have it boarded up and never sell it?"

She flushed pink, and ran her finger inside her collar.  She was clearly uncomfortable.  "I didn't want to be bothered with it."

"Because?"

"Because . . . Todd, perhaps you ought to get to the point.  I'm not the one who sought you out."  Her face took on the look he was used to.  Pert, tight, mean.  

"I'm sorry again.  If you want to deny that you know what was in that house, then fine.  I'm here because over the years, I've been through a lot of things.  Recently, my memories were recaptured, and I've had to face some truths about Peter Manning.  I've had to face some very hard truths."

"Go on."  She would not budge.

"Part of this leaves me needing to know if he's alive.  I need to protect my family. . ."  As much as he tried, he could not mask the emotion in his voice, as it cracked.

She slightly wavered.  Jack, at the doorway still, unfolded his arms, studying Todd.

Todd said, "I can't let anything happen to them.  I have three boys.  One is three years old.  I have a new daughter, she's just been born.  I . . . have to know, if he is alive, don't you see?"

She didn't respond.  She just clasped her hands tighter around her knee.  

Jack Ribsky stepped forward into the room.  He said, "You can't believe he would hurt your children, if he were alive?"

"I have my reasons to believe he would, yes."  Todd said, holding his anger and urge to burst firmly in check.

"That's preposterous!"  Connie exclaimed.  She didn't move, physically, but her voice elevated.

"Preposterous?"  Todd said, sitting forward.  "Let's get something straight, Lady," he tried to imagine Blair, calming him, in his mind, her hand on his shoulder, and changed his tone, "there's nothing preposterous about it.  He was a brutal, hateful, sadistic bastard."

"I don't know what you're remembering, but he was a gentle, kind and caring person."

Todd sat back, and relaxed.  He felt suddenly somehow empowered, but he struggled not to lose control.  "Caring enough to build a secret room for torture in his basement?  Gentle enough to beat me, when I was barely able to talk?  Kind enough to abuse me for years?"

She flinched slightly, and Jack Ribsky stepped between them.  "That's plenty."

"Is it?"  Todd said, looking up.

"He's dead, Todd," the man said.  "No use in bringing up the past this way.  He's dead.  His ashes are there, on the mantle.  Connie saw it done."

"I have to make sure you all understand," he said, standing, "that Peter Manning's death is the one thing I want to celebrate right now.  I don't want him near my family.  I don't want him near my mother."

"Your mother?"  Connie asked. "I was certain your mother died when you were young, of cancer."

"Yeah, I thought so, too.  But she's alive, what's left of her."  

Connie's face showed uncertainty and badly hidden shock.  

He continued, "She was left for dead, raped and beaten to the point of coma.  She lost her ability to speak, and was institutionalized for years.  That from your kind, gentle person."

"I want you to leave this house," Connie said.  "He's dead, I saw him burned.  He's gone.  Your slander won't change that."

"Please," he said, toning his voice down again, "Please, I need to be certain."

"You can be certain," Jack Ribsky added.  "She's telling the truth.  My wife and I were there for the aftermath.  He's dead, Todd."

He sighed, and tears were welling in his eyes.  "That's what I came here for.  We just need to move on.  Thank you for your time," he said, heading to the door.

Connie said, "Todd?"

"Yeah," he turned slightly.

"Your mother.  I . . . certainly hope she will recover from whatever happened to her.  But I assure you, it was not my beloved Peter."

"Yeah, well, I'm going," he said, shaking his head.

Jack Ribsky closed the door after him, and Connie, unmoved, lifted her tea.

Outside the door, Todd stopped and took in air, using the rail for support.  He closed his eyes and found himself having to sit down on the step.  Various scenes of his father, Peter, flashed through his mind, and he fought to keep from accepting the blackness.  He realized his breathing was heavy, and decided to wait it out, putting his head between his knees.  

He heard the door reopen behind him, and saw Jack's shoes.  The man sat next to him on the stoop.  "You need help getting to the car?"

"No, I just need a minute."  He rested his head on the railings.  When Todd opened his eyes, he saw the cop looking at him, with genuine concern.  He said, "I'm going, I'm going.  Just have to get it together a minute."

"I'm in no rush."  He paused.  "What did he do to you?"  Ribsky asked.

"Everything," he said, standing.

"I've worked with people for years.  All types.  All kinds of horrors.  Was this recent?  The memories?"

"Yeah.  There's a lot to it, but, I guess you could say recent."

"I'm retired now, from the Chicago Police Department, but I do investigative work.  Seen all kinds of criminals and victims.  You have to let go.  The guy's dead, and it's all right to move on."

Todd turned his face from the man for a moment.  "Yeah, I know.  Just had to be sure."

"Well, you know."  He said.  He looked out to the street where Todd's eyes were fixed.  "You a good father?"

"My wife says so.  My kids do, too.  I love them and her more than my own life."

"Put this behind you, then.  He's gone.  Now, go and be with those kids you talked about."

Todd nodded, words caught in his throat.  He turned and walked to the car, his vision slightly blurred with relief.

He sat in the driver's seat and picked up his phone and dialed.  "Babe?"

"Todd?  You sound . . . are you all right?"

"I'm okay.  I'm coming home.  I . . . I saw her.  He's dead.  He's gone."

She held back tears, "I can't wait to hold you in my arms and tell you it's all right."

"You will, soon," he said, hanging up.

He put his head back and closed his eyes, envisioning teeny Jewel on his chest and slightly over one shoulder, and Blair's head on the other.  Then he lifted his head and started the car.  Pulling away from the curb, he said, "Good bye, you son-of-a-bitch.  It's finally over."

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