“The last thing I want to do is leave you or hurt your feelings. I meant what I said, that I’ll come back for you. I’ll do my best to not break that promise again.” Remembering how Antaris listened the last time he talked about a case, Hiram asks, “Can I tell you what happened that day?”
At his son’s slow agreement, he wades through the murky topic as delicately as possible, telling a kid-friendly version of his day leading up to realizing how late it was. Hiram makes peppermint tea for Antaris while telling him about the library, his son’s fascination waking up as he talks about the dusty books. He makes breakfast while describing Clinton’s unscrambling magic. They eat while he chooses his words carefully when discussing Ruth and the trip to the FCD and how panicked he was after he realized he was late and how he rushed to the school. The longer he talks, the more enrapt Antaris becomes, angles to him, follows him, understands him. His tear streaks dry, and the tension he carries relaxes. As does Hiram.
They move to the dock. It’s cool and muggy from last night’s rain, the peaceful quiet makes the decision easy. He’ll keep Antaris home from school in favor of watching the sun rise over the trees.
“When I was your age ...” Hiram trails off when Antaris’s head whips to him.
Veda’s words haunt him:He wants to know you.
“I liked to create as a child. Still do. I start with an idea and a bunch of parts, build it, test it, refine it. That’s probably why I cook and readas much as I do. I didn’t get this from my father. He didn’t teach me to read, to swim, or to ride a bike. I learned from tutors, boarding school, and my parents’ staff—everyone except them. It’s tradition; generations of Ellises were raised the same way, but I never wanted that for myself, and I don’t want it for you. I want better.”
Antaris shifts closer.
“I’d promise not to make another mistake, but that’s not possible. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not perfect. No one is, but I’ll keep trying to do my best to be the father I always wanted.”
He makes a small fist and rubs it in a circular motion over his chest.Sorry.
“Iamsorry.”
Antaris signs the word again with more intent. He means it ... or perhaps, he’s trying to communicate something he hasn’t learned how to sign. Hiram raises his finger. “Do you forgive me?”
There is no hesitation in his response.
He taps twice.
Yes.
Tuesday is a new day.
Hiram walks Antaris to the school door, hand on his book bag, guiding him. For the first time, before they part, he kneels in front of his son. It’s easier to talk to him like this. He points at the clock. “When the small hand gets to four, I will be here.”
Antaris nods.
Hiram then offers his son the second thermos he’s been holding. “This is for Miss Thorne. Can you give it to her?”
Antaris accepts the thermos, but is slow to leave, looking back twice and nearly bumping into another student. Hiram waits until he’s inside, then waits a little longer. Finally, he allows relief to wash over him.
One down. One to go.
Hiram is debating whether now is the time to approach Veda when he hears his name, then sees Peter beckoning him into his office. Boxes of shirts litter every surface. Peter pulls out a small, checks the collar, then hands it to him. “It’s for the end-of-term party Friday. The students are allowed to wear whatever they want, so long as it follows the dress code. The school day is basically a block party.”
“Think I can make the bow tie work with this?”
“Good luck.”
Hiram tosses the shirt over his shoulder and walks down the hall to the balcony. Students mill about, playing and talking and having breakfast before the first bell. He spots Antaris standing in front of the thriving herb garden, shyly offering the second thermos to Veda.
His son shines in her presence, and her smile breaks like dawn, transforming into something unforgivably alive. Critical but shortsighted, Veda took one look at Hiram and drilled straight to the heart of his painful truths. She’s as right about him as she’s wrong, and his urge to pick her apart in all the same ways remains. Not to critique but to understand.
“The bell is in five minutes,” Peter says next to him. Hiram didn’t know he was there. “You can go down there. Talk to her.”
“I’ll bet my entire trust fund that she doesn’t want to talk to me. Double or nothing, she hates me.”
“You’d lose.” Peter laughs in the face of his disbelief. “Trust me, Veda is selective with her emotions and good at protecting herself from what she doesn’t want to feel. Antaris is a blind spot for her, but so are you. She’s decided how she sees you, and you’re challenging her reality.”
“I doubt that. You weren’t there when she was cursing me out.”
“No, but I heard it.” Peter waves back at a group of students who yell their greetings. He leans on the safety railing. “My mom always says emotions masquerade as each other and blur the line between reality and belief. What you believe is anger may be fear or frustration. What looks like fear can be sadness or regret. The purpose of arguing with someone is to convince them to change their actions or beliefs. IfVeda truly hated you, she’d be apathetic. She wouldn’t believe you were capable of change and wouldn’t waste her energy confronting you, no matter how much she cares for Antaris.”
