Sweet Paradise Gene Desrochers (classic novels TXT) 📖

“What?” I asked.

“That judge in the middle. Man oh man, what a shit-show.”

I looked at Yarey, who seemed as lost as I was. “Harold, what are you talking about?”

“Aw, nothing. You’ll see.”

“Hey, how’s Junior?”

“How do you think?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell the kid about his parents?” I asked. “You knew.”

Harold’s gaze remained fixed on the field, but he was no longer in the present. His mind somewhere else. A dark place. Yarey winced at my blunt question. As Harold’s non-response stretched out, she became more uncomfortable until she blurted, “Harold, you were telling Dana about the archery. Anything we should be looking for?” He didn’t respond, so Yarey pressed. “Harold, what’s that?” She pointed at a block with a number on it.

“Hey man, you ever had a family secret? Something you knew would blow the whole mess out the water like a torpedo?” Before I could answer, he spat, “Probably not, huh? So easy for dudes like you, with simple lives to point their simple fingers at us. Look at those rich, assholes, going around thinking they can do whatever they want.” He paused, recognizing that his voice was rising and a woman behind us had begun to take notice. “Mind your own business, lady,” he snapped at her.

“Easy, Harold, she didn’t do anything,” I said.

“Man, you aren’t my dad. You aren’t some knight in shining armor come out to rescue Junior, either. You want the money just like all the rest. They all want what we have. Well, now they got it. We ain’t got shit, and I’m sure it makes everyone happy. Mom saw to that, didn’t she?”

“You mean the reparations?”

“What the hell else would I mean? Man, it’s like this, we don’t have our inheritance, least not what we expected, and she kept us out of the business, even her precious Junior. And instead of doing it while she was around, she chickened out and did it after she died. Nice, huh? Easy to make decisions for everyone when you aren’t around to face the music.”

“You don’t think what she did was right?”

“Shit man, it’s her money. She can do whatever the hell she wants with it. I know that. But where’s the love? Huh? While she was busy with that fucking reporter Adirondack Kendal.”

“Here’s another for you, Harold. Where were you when Francine was offed?”

This threw him, but he recovered quickly. “Herbie. Some brother that guy is. Family. My family. You want to know where I go, Boise? Man, don’t you think I get tired of all the secrets, too? You know I didn’t kill my mother. You know that. My sibs and I were just covering each others’ backs.”

“How could you be certain that they didn’t do it?”

“Man, you just know. Like you know that you’re hungry.”

“So, where were you?” I pressed.

“I’m in a group. An anonymous group. We meet. No one talks, no one knows outside the group. I have a medical condition. That’s all I’m willing to say. We’ve got too many secrets, and I’m more concerned with how my nephew is gonna live with his.”

I wanted to tell him that I had family secrets too. But that was the point, wasn’t it? My family secret could remain ignored as long as I wanted to let it fester in the corner. You didn’t want to expose those you cared about to that level of scrutiny. Sometimes, as in Junior’s case, it was so fundamental to who he was, his very genetic makeup, there was nowhere to run. How could he ever have a deep relationship with someone and keep something so fundamental about himself hidden? On the other hand, how could he reveal such a horrible truth and expect anyone to stick around? If you sat with that dilemma long enough, it could drive you mad. He would have no choice but to continue the lie. That’s what I would do. I’d tell everyone my mother had abandoned me. That I’d never known her. On one level, a metaphoric level, that was true, but that didn’t absolve him from living with the secret all his days. It would take a special partner to overlook Junior’s lineage.

“Man, the short answer is, that kid is not good. He doesn’t know what to do and none of us have an answer either ‘cause there’s no answer to something like that. Is there?”

He wasn’t waiting for an answer. Yarey looked lost, but afraid to ask what was happening.

“And you,” Harold pointed a finger at Yarey’s nose, “you stay out of it. This is none of your concern. Now, let’s just watch these archers. They deserve our undivided attention.”

The competition had already begun, with various competitors coming and going from different categories and age groups. The final competition would be those at the senior level competing to go on as a representative of the U.S. Virgin Islands in international competition. Isabelle had qualified for this final round as expected, posting the best score average, having the most x’s at seven, and posting the highest overall score in her category.

The crowd had begun to really pay attention in the last half-hour as the juniors and cadets finished their rounds.

Harold seemed to have calmed down. He leaned over after one girl who was fifteen-years-old finished her round and said, “Man, she’s got the goods. I’d like to work on her stance and sightlines, but otherwise, she’s got Olympian written on her back.”

I was still reeling from our earlier conversation, but Dana had come back carrying more junk food. It took my mind off Junior’s woes.

Despite all that had happened the last couple weeks, Isabelle was here and performing at a high level.

“How does she do it?” I asked Harold as we watched another competitor finish her round, moving us closer to Isabelle’s turn.

“She’s a different sort. She has this special focus. For all her physical gifts, it was her mind and emotional fortitude that wowed me when I first worked with her.”

We continued like this, discussing the