His father slumps forward, momentarily winded.Matthew straightens him up and pins him back so they are almost nose-to-nose.
He presses his forearm firmly across his father’s collarbone.“You, Roger Miller.”Matthew breathes his name like a curse.“You have no rights.You should be rotting in jail.And that’s exactly where I’ll make sure you end up if you don’t get out of my house.”
Despite the pressure on his chest, Roger cranes his neck, trying to project authority.“I’m your father.You owe me respect and obedience.You owe me,” he insists, spittle flying, “for everything I gave you!”
“You gave me nothing but pain,” Matthew bites back, the words torn from somewhere deep inside.“You taught me nothing but fear.”His forearm presses harder.“I don’t owe you shit!”
Roger seems to deflate a little, but his eyes remain hard.“That life insurance money is mine!That policy was from my job,” he snarls.“The benefit I paid for every single week for twenty years!She had no right to take it from me!”
“She had every right,” Matthew insists.“It was her policy.Her one chance to protect me.She knew you’d piss it all away.She made her choice.”
Roger’s face contorts with sputtering rage.“She was my wife!”
Something snaps in Matthew.He releases the pressure of his forearm long enough for his fist to connect with Roger’s jaw.A resounding crack of bone on bone.His father’s head snaps to the side.He stumbles back, a dark trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his lips, staining his white goatee deep red.
My hand flies to my mouth, muffling a choked gasp.
Matthew stands his ground, breathing hard, his gaze fixed on his father with burning intensity.“She was my mother,” he spits, his words heavy with grief and righteous fury.“And you killed her.”
Killed her?
“You might think you got away with it, fooled the police,” Matthew continues, his voice shaking with the tremor of long-suppressed conviction, “but I know you’re the reason she’s no longer with us.”
Roger spits a glob of blood onto the slate tile floor between them.He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth.“You know shit all,” he rasps in contempt.
He straightens, taking unsteady steps away from Matthew.His stony gaze flicking up toward me for a chilling instant before settling back on his son.“One way or another,” Roger says, his voice regaining some of its earlier menace, “I always get what’s mine, boy.”
Matthew’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle jumps erratically in his cheek.He strides the few steps to the front door and wrenches it wide open.The night air rushes in, clashing with the suffocating tension in this foyer.He pivots back instantly, hands shooting out to grab fistfuls of Roger’s rumpled shirt collar.With a surge of raw power, Matthew propels his father right through the open doorway.Roger stumbles over the threshold, arms flailing, and crashes hard onto his back on the porch with a grunt of pain.
Matthew follows him out.He stands over his father’s fallen form, his shadow falling over him in the dim outdoor light.
He looks down at Roger.“Make sure I never see your face again,” he says, each word dropping like ice.“Because if I do?I will kill you.With my bare hands.”He bends down, grabs Roger roughly by the shirt again, and hauls him upright.
My stomach turns as I watch Matthew drag his own father down the walkway toward the low stone steps that mark the boundary with the public sidewalk.Roger scrambles, trying to regain his footing, protesting, but Matthew’s grip is iron.His movement relentless.He gives his father one powerful shove.Roger stumbles down the two steps, landing sprawled and undignified on the concrete sidewalk below.Matthew stands tall, breathing hard, every line of his body radiating controlled fury and utter finality.
He points a single, trembling finger towards the street.“Get the fuck off my property,” he commands, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet night air.
Roger pushes himself up painfully, stumbling down the street without another word.
Matthew watches him go, standing rigid at the edge of his property, an unyielding barrier, until his father is completely out of sight.He then turns slowly and walks back up the path, his steps measured and heavy.
Stepping back inside, he reaches for the heavy oak door, pushes it shut, and locks the deadbolt.He stands facing it for a long moment before letting his head drop to his chest.
I’m still gripping the banister, my heart gradually slowing from its frantic race, my limbs shaky.
When he finally lifts his head and turns around, the soft foyer light illuminates the devastating aftermath of his rage.He’s incredibly pale beneath his tan, almost ashen.His eyes are unfocused, glistening with moisture, glazed over with shock.His chest still heaves, but the breaths are rapid, shallow and uneven.He is visibly struggling to draw air into his lungs.
“Matt…?”Concern takes over.Without thinking, I rush down the two steps.
My movement seems to break through his daze.His glazed eyes turn to me, widening further for a split second.
Before I can take another step, before I can say anything else, he bolts.
He rushes right past me.He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge me.He just flees, taking the stairs two at a time with desperate speed.The sound of his heavy footsteps pounds on the wood treads, fading as he reaches the top.
I watch him disappear onto the upper landing, leaving me standing alone with the ghosts of his past.
THIRTY EIGHT
