“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to shout. That’s not what I would have—”
I carefully lowered my head back to the window.
“Yes, sir,” he said, his voice quieter, strained. “You’re right. You have been patient. We are close. A full-strength test could—”
I coughed involuntarily from the air’s carbon monoxide content, and Dad whipped his head around to look. I rubbed my nose, kept my eyes shut, pretended to be asleep—not easy with my nerves on edge.
“Good idea. It would be nice to have Marguerite there,” Dad said. “Just to head off any issues.”
Pause.
“Right, sir. There won’t be issues. Right. Thank you.”
He snapped his phone shut, hit the steering wheel, opened his lighter, lit a cigarette, dropped the lighter, grabbed the lighter, dropped the cigarette, hit the steering wheel again.
Then to himself he whispered: “Shit. He’s going for it.”
* * *
—
Now would be a good time to explain exactly what my father does for a living. Except that I can’t. Ronald Cole works for Jackduke Energy, and far as I can tell, he’s like a superstar engineer who parachutes in for emergency repairs when all the locals are out of their league. Like one of those wild-eyed movie geniuses who fix spaceships orbiting Mars from their bedroom.
Except he’s not an engineer. So it’s more like he’s a business-consultant genius who parachutes in when there’s an administrative breakdown. Like Steve Jobs saving Apple, both times. Except my father knows squat about running a business. He doesn’t even own a laptop. His ATM code is 1234. And he definitely doesn’t own a parachute.
What I can say is that Lawrence Hoch, Jackduke’s CEO—a man who oversees a workforce of tens of thousands and, according to websites that obsess over such things, has the kind of wealth that buys Caribbean islands and moves them if they’re not exactly where he wants them to be—this man calls my father direct when he has a problem at a power plant. And my father goes and fixes it.
How does he fix it? Somehow. That’s how.
This sounds vague and sinister, but that’s only because it is vague and sinister.
Alternate theory: My father doesn’t actually do much at the power plants. He’s a temp, an interim coach, the guy who comes in for a few weeks and keeps everyone from melting down while the fired coach slinks off and the CEO negotiates to get the hotshot new coach hired, the one with the Zen management techniques and walking desks and motivational videos clipped from action movies.
Except my father has never, far as I can tell, said kind and meltdown-preventing words. It’s not his thing. And he doesn’t own a suit.
Are you starting to get the picture? There is no picture. The man is one of those subatomic particles that disappear when you look directly at them.
He’s also my only family.
And if you’re wondering why I, a curious lad with time on his hands, didn’t just ask my father directly what he does, well, I have, many times. He didn’t answer.
Here’s an example, from somewhere in southern Ohio, an hour after that phone call.
Q (this is me, I’m the Q): Soooo, so tired. Just waking up here. Whew, what a nap….So, New York, eh? What’s happening there?
A (Dad, obvs): Work.
Q: Ever thought of taking a break from work until the end of the school year? I’ll be graduated then.
A: No.
Q: Working remotely? That’s big now.
A: No.
Q: What about work is so important?
A: The work part.
Q: Care to elaborate?
A: No.
(Note that A has the warmth and eloquence of a fire door. Hence, the new and subtle approach Q, an adroit improviser and keen reader of emotional cues, takes below.)
Q: Father, do you hate me?
A: Come on, Wallace.
Q: Yes or no? It’s a straightforward question.
A: It gives me a headache.
Q: Most people would say love involves care for the person being loved. Ergo, from your lack of same, one might deduce subconscious hatred.
A: Is that a question? Someday you’ll understand. You know, this kind of talk is why principals are always on your ass.
(No answers, no girlfriend, all out of honey-mustard beef jerky, Q is now actively trying to give A a headache.)
Q: Here’s a question: What’s the point of my life?
A: Oh, God.
Q: Him? Surprising. Or her. They. I don’t mean to assume.
A: That’s not what I meant. We’re going to stop soon. We’ll rent a movie. I’m going to focus on driving now, okay?
Q: It’s not that hard. The brake is on the right.
A: It’s not— Okay, Wallace.
* * *
—
Don’t drink and drive or these children will die! Sex leads to pregnancy! Free pretzels with a large sub! You’ll die alone. Alone!
* * *
—
We stopped at a motel on the strip of Pennsylvania that nestles between Ohio and New York like a deflated penis. Our room smelled like it was shaken out of an ashtray. Dad reneged on a promise to rent a Keanu movie, and I fell asleep to him smoking and watching a news report about natural disasters. It had been an unprecedented fall everywhere: in Vermont, a flock of geese fell out of the sky, stone dead; in Florida, a pod of dolphins crawled onto a country-club fairway in a mass suicide. All of Siberia was on fire, apparently. This had never happened before and we’re all going to die, but also a bear was walking around on its hind legs in suburban New Jersey. Just like a furry person!
I woke up sweating. We were back on the road by six. In New York State by seven. At nine, we switched off the interstate to a two-lane road and hit hill country, and as we drove through a light rain, we were often higher than the towns we passed through, and we looked down on gas stations and repair-shop roofs. I felt like a tornado, picking a target. I flung buildings down valleys and over ridges, and future people knew I had been there. Dad’s truck was an old Ford with a duct-taped bench seat, and was so large it made regular-sized cars cower out of the passing lane and onto the rumble strip. Puddles sounded long sheeeeeeits as we drove through them much too fast. As we sped through western New York, Dad glowered and did that I’m-exhaling-out-the-side-of-my-mouth-into-this-sliver-of-a-window-opening-so-you-can’t-blame-any-future-lung-troubles-on-me thing.
Our destination, he did share, was a small town in the Finger Lakes called North Homer. It had been named by classics professors, not Simpsons fans. Jackduke had a power plant two miles outside it.