Derailed Read Free Page A

Atlanta. My shoulders sagged. How’d he get himself arrested
again
? I’d visited that gray-towered bastille on police business and knew it didn’t qualify as anyone’s “home away from home.”
    Swearing under my breath, I ripped the letter open and turned it away from DaShawn, glad for once that he was glued to
American Idol
. The boy didn’t need to deal with his father being in jail again.
    I’d been estranged from Rodney for over ten years until the Department of Children and Family Services brought me his son a couple of years ago—a grandson I didn’t even know I had—while Rodney was in Cook County Jail. We’d managed a few contacts, and I’d lined up an attorney who got his case dismissed. Thought things were going better between us. Then he went down to Atlanta “to put his life back together.” We texted a couple of times, and then he quit answering. Made me mad, so I quit trying.
    I scanned his scrawl. He’d been picked up on a drug charge, but this time he wasn’t claiming it was a bogus setup. “It was my mistake, Dad. I never should’ve—”
Dad
? He called me
Dad
? I sat up a little straighter and kept reading. Rodney said he’d completed a drug treatment program that qualified him for early release—middle of February—provided he had “suitable accommodations.” Meaning he needed a place to stay. “But I don’t really want to go back to staying where I was. I’m afraid I’d just get back into the old patterns. So, I’m wondering if I could come live with you guys for a while?”
    I slapped the letter closed and looked around the room as if someone was going to catch me reading such an outrageous request. Slowly I opened the letter and reread the words: “So, I’m wondering if I could come live with you guys for a while?”
    No way was Rodney gonna insinuate himself into our happy family! Wasn’t gonna happen! Outta the question!
    I started to fold the letter and return it to its envelope when I realized there was a second sheet of paper, a printed form from the Criminal Court of DeKalb County. Rodney had already filled in his name and inmate number at the top. All it needed was my name, address, relationship to the inmate, and a dated signature to create a formal invitation.
    Of all the nerve!
    I put everything back into the envelope and stuffed it into my pocket just as Estelle called, “Y’all shut that trash off and come to the table now. The pizza’s gettin’ cold.”
    We held hands and I said a blessing, pretty much the same short prayer I usually prayed, but the thought of what we were doing struck me as I said amen. We were a family, the kind of family I’d never provided for Rodney. His resentment of my too-busy life while I’d been a Chicago cop had taken its toll, and when I
was
home, I drank too much.
    God had given me a second chance to be the kind of a father to DaShawn I’d never been to Rodney, and I wasn’t gonna risk that by . . .
    I looked around the kitchen table. There was something wrong with this beautiful picture. I knew God had forgiven me, but that didn’t mean the past didn’t still hang heavy over my head.
    â€œSo,” Estelle said in a voice meant to perk us all up as she poured Pepsi into our glasses from a two-liter bottle, “what’d Rodney have to say?”
    â€œMy dad? Did he call?” DaShawn’s eyes went big as he tried to corral his mouth full of pizza.
    I sighed and gave Estelle a thanks-a-lot look. “No, son, he didn’t call. I got a letter from him today.” I glared at Estelle, but she ignored my distress. “He’s still in Atlanta, but—”
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œHe just wanted us to know he’s okay, and he’s thinkin’ about us.” What else could I say? “And . . . and he wishes he were