Depth Perception Read Free Page A

as sharp as a cane knife were rheumy and bloodshot. Skin that had once lain like fine leather over strongly boned features now sagged from jutting cheekbones. Hair that had once been as black as a raven's breast had faded to a sallow color that was part gray, part yellow. With a two days' growth of white beard, he looked washed out and pissed off and none too pleased to see his only son.
    "Hello to you, too, Pop."
    Dutch made a sound that was part growl, part disgust. "I was wondering when you were going to show up."
    Nick stared at him, not sure if he was more taken aback by his father's appearance or the rancor in his voice. He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but he hadn't expected open hostility either. At least not right off the bat. "The bus ride took a while," he said. "A lot of stops along the way."
    "You look like a goddamn convict."
    Nick looked away, focused on the overgrown fields. "I guess I do."
    Dutch's eyes landed on his' forearms. "Why the hell did you go and get yourself tattooed like that? You think anyone's going to hire you with your arms tattooed like some carnival freak?"
    "Just passing time.”
    "I guess you figure you haven't already embarrassed me enough, huh?"
    "Nobody's trying to embarrass you, Pop."
    Dutch cackled, the sound of a bitter old man. "You've been an embarrassment to me since the day you took a match to that fancy restaurant of yours. You finally get a break, a chance to make something of yourself, and you fuck it up. Don't that sound familiar?" he said sarcastically. "I guess you've always been your mama's boy, though, haven't you?"
    Nick met his gaze, felt a flare of what he could only describe as hatred burn deep in his chest. Of all the emotions he was feeling at the moment, that he could hate his own father when he hadn't seen him in eighteen years hurt a lot more than he wanted to admit. "I might be guilty of a lot of things, but arson isn't one of them."
    "I lost my job at the mill because of that stunt you pulled."
    Nick looked at him closely, wondering how much of the bitterness had to do with honest disappointment and how much was a result of the Alzheimer's disease. "You lost your job because of your memory, Pop."
    "That's bullshit. My memory's as good as it ever was. This is all political. Those bastards wanted my job. Thanks to you, I got the boot."
    Suddenly feeling very tired, Nick lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm not going to argue with you about your job. Pop. If you want me to leave. just say so. There's a halfway house in New Orleans I can go to. I just thought.. . after eighteen years, you might want to ... " For the life of him, he couldn't find the words to finish the sentence.
    Growling like an old bear, Dutch swung open the door and stepped aside. "You may as well stay here. Just don't think you're going to sit on your ass while I work my tail off around this dump."
    Nick picked up his duffel. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said and stepped inside.
     
    #   #   #
     
    Sheryl Crow was belting out a tune about leaving Las Vegas when Nat took the Mustang across the old steel bridge that spanned the muddy water of the Bellerose River. She slowed for a curve in the road, then made a quick left onto the gravel driveway. The two-story Victorian hadn't changed in the three years she'd been away, and the utter sameness of it shook her. The wraparound front porch still beckoned one to sit on the swing and sip sweet tea. At the dormer window, she could see the frilly curtains she'd hung a lifetime ago. In the front yard, the magnolia she'd planted the year Kyle was born was still in bloom, and it shocked her anew that the tree had outlived her son.
    In the last six months Nat had made this pilgrimage a thousand times in her mind. She'd seen the house as it stood now, as Southern and pretty as a belle. A snazzy For Sale sign in the front yard touted the word Reduced in big red letters. The house had been on the market