Had a Dad

Justin only knew his father by the sound of his voice. He'd heard rumors of a photograph, taken right before his parents got married, but he'd never seen it. Their relationship was limited to phone calls that came a day or two after his father had been released from jail, prison, or rehab, and was looking to make a fresh start. And no matter how much time passed between calls, Justin always recognized his voice. Hyper, a tad girlish, completely fake. Not that voice recognition was a requirement, as his father always started the conversation the same way:

Hi, boy, he'd say. Need someone to teach you to fart? ‘Cause I'm your guy. I'll be there tomorrow if you say the word.

When he was younger, Justin always responded Okay! But apparently “okay” wasn't “the word.” Finally, after too many disappointments, his mother told him his father was putting him on, that even if he wanted to see Justin, court orders required he stay away. He's not a good man, Justin, she'd say, and that's putting it nicely.

To lay the matter to bed, his aunt finally told Justin that his father slipped his mother a mickey and dragged her before a judge. She got an annulment, sure, his aunt said, but by then she was already pregnant .

Justin didn't buy it. For one thing, his parents didn't divorce until he was two. For another, his mother wasn't the slip-her-a-mickey-and-get-away-with-it-type. But he let the matter go.

When his father called this time, however, he skipped the second part and said instead:

Your mother says she caught you smoking dope. I think it's finally time we meet, kid. Be at The Road's End Motel in an hour. Room 105.

The line went dead. Justin held the phone to his ear and listened to the beeps and the operator tell him if he'd like to make a call, to please hang up and try again. How long had he imagined this moment? And all it took was getting stoned for it to happen. Even if his father beat him senseless, at least Justin would finally know that he had a dad.

***

Justin buttoned up his oversized black and red flannel and snuck out the back door. The Road's End Motel was at least three miles away, but Justin was used to walking long distances. At night, after his mother fell asleep, Justin often wandered through neighborhoods listening to indiscriminate voices and tracing shadows rooted behind blinds. He didn't loiter now, however. He walked quickly, furtively, lest he be caught and dragged back home.

At the motel, Justin stood in front of the door marked 105 and rehearsed the meeting in his head. His father would hug him and tell him he loved him, say he was sorry for not coming sooner, that they'd make up for lost time. Justin was still revising the lines he'd say in return when the door opened and a man with the same wheat hair and blue-grey eyes that feathered along the pupil's edges stepped out and slapped him on the back. You my boy? he said. How old are you now?

Until that moment, Justin thought he took after his mother. He had her round nose, short stature, and even, to an extent, her voice. Fifteen? Justin said.

Yeah? That sounds about right. Though I'm not real sure when you were born either. He stepped out of the doorway and ushered Justin inside. Come in here and take off that jacket.

Justin slipped inside, unbuttoned his flannel. At a table in the corner sat two other men. Between them lay a needle, a spoon, a butane lighter, and what looked like a large rubber band.

You know what we do with that stuff, don't you, Justin? his father asked.

Sure, Justin lied.

That's what I thought. His father laughed and nodded to the men sitting at the table. The kid's got my genes, boys. Time to have a little fun.