62 of the night he’ d be cross-eyed trying to look down the bridge of his nose at her. If he tried hard, he could imagine the baby smell and remember the rippled texture of her little wrinkled feet. It made him heavy with misery that his clearest memories of her were from when she’ d been an infant, seven years ago.
Yet, behind the anger and the bitter resignation to the impulse, still he loved her so. She was most precious to him in this world, second only to his angel Sarah. And although he understood that he was wading waist-deep in thick, sticky Bad Decision, he also understood the danger he was to his family. Most of all, he feared that what he’ d allowed himself to do to his wife might someday catch on Sarah and he couldn’ t stand the thought of it.
So he became aloof, keeping his distance and loving them from afar. On nights when he felt the rage on him, he’ d go out drinking and try to stay out late enough that his ladies were sure to be safely in bed by the time he returned. He slept on the couch those nights to keep himself away from Yvette and if he’ d drank enough and done things right, he’ d sleep straight through till the women had left the house the next morning.
He lived this way for as long as he could, but soon nights spent on the couch outnumbered the nights next to Yvette and he was watching Sarah grow up without him. Even when he was home, he would look over and be stunned to realize he hardly recognized the changing face that shone out from under those glossy black curls. On Saturdays, he would watch Sarah from the window as she played in the backyard. He’ d see her wandering around talking to herself and he could almost cry he wished so badly she were talking to him. By November he spent those hours at the bar staring at her picture from his wallet. With every beer, he felt her floating farther and farther away, so he’ d hold the picture closer and closer and by the end
62 of the night he’ d be cross-eyed trying to look down the bridge of his nose at her. If he tried hard, he could imagine the baby smell and remember the rippled texture of her little wrinkled feet. It made him heavy with misery that his clearest memories of her were from when she’ d been an infant, seven years ago.
It was a Wednesday. He was at the Sun Dog Tavern on Tanzy Street and at the bottom of his eighth bottle when an idea came to him, and it was beautiful in its simplicity: Sarah was his daughter and dammit if he wasn’ t still her father. He’ d been thinking about the phrase“ the sins of the father shall be visited upon the son” and how that very fear was robbing him of his life. And the thing was, he could feel his life going, could feel his death approaching. His time was running out. He had to see her, he had to know what her face looked like, what her hair smelled like, had to memorize it so he could take it with him to his grave.
And that’ s why he came home early on Wednesday, why Sarah and Yvette were still awake, why he had tried to hug Sarah but he was just so drunk and instead he was smothering her. His poor baby girl was crying and screaming for her Mamma, but her tears made him hug her all the tighter until not even her screams could escape his arms. Yvette hit him over the neck with the crockpot and the pain was so blinding he didn’ t even notice the beef stew was burning down his back. He groaned in a heap on the floor long enough for Sarah to crawl away under the kitchen table. Then he was staggering to his feet and Yvette was in his face, wide-eyed and sobbing, blubbering through her