Page 64 of Angels Fall

Jack’s hand just hangs there in the space between him and Tyler. Tyler stares down at it, still not moving, his eyes still dead. I can see Mom fading further and further back from the scene. She’s almost at the wall. And Dad is fidgeting, clearly debating whether he should turn on his politician smile and make a joke, or just let this play out on its own.

For my part, I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to take Tyler’s hand, tell Jack that this is Ford Aston, a guy I’m dating, and make it go away like that, so we can (maybe) joke about it later. But not only is that stupid, if I do that Mom may remember the phone call we had a few weeks back when I told her a story about a soldier that I was seeing whose name I refused to give her, and start putting two and two together.

Another part of me wants to grab Tyler and run. Again, stupid.

And another part wants, for reasons I cannot even begin to understand much less explain, to help Tyler beat the shit out of his dad here in the lobby of the Four Seasons.

None of these seem like any good will come of them, so I do. Fucking. Nothing.

Finally, Tyler takes Jack’s hand, shakes it slowly, and says, “Hey. How’s it going?”

“Good, good,” says Jack. Then, “Sorry. Didn’t catch your name, chief…?”

I know that I don’t, but for a second I swear I can hear a clap of thunder somewhere in the great, wide distance.

I see the place on Tyler’s cheek where his upper and lower jaw connects tensing and releasing. It looks the way a fish’s gills do when you pull it out of the water and it’s gasping to stay alive.

“My name?” Tyler asks.

I swallow.

“Yeah! I didn’t catch it.”

Tyler blinks. Once. Slowly. “I’ll give you a hint,” he says.

Jack’s brow furrows and he snorts out a laugh. “OK,” he says.

“OK,” Tyler says. And then, still holding Jack’s hand, he draws him in close. Tyler’s a good five inches taller than his dad, so he has to lean down to put his mouth next to Jack’s ear. Which he does. And I hear him whisper… “I’m your son.”

Unconsciously, I hug myself around the waist, like I’ve been kicked.

Jack’s eyes narrow and then widen, and he says, “Tyler?”

“You got another kid you need to tell me about?” Tyler says.

“I—Jesus. Tyler. What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you was…”

“Yeah? Thought I was what? Please. I’m curious to know.”

This is awful.

“I didn’t—uh…” Jack stammers.

I notice that Tyler still grips his father’s hand. His father’s hand that looks like it’s being crushed. Tyler hasn’t moved otherwise. Or blinked. Or breathed, I’m pretty sure.

Suddenly Jack lifts his free hand to the ear piece he’s wearing.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, this is Jack. What’s that? Oh, yeah? OK, I’ll be right there.”

It’s a pretty lousy performance.

“Guys, I’m sorry, I, uh—” Jack mutters out. “I, uh, shit, it’s so good to see ya, but I gotta, dammit…”

He wrenches his hand free from Tyler’s grip, which is not easy and looks painful, and continues his bullshit.

“I wish I had known you was…I’m sorry I gotta…but somebody’s…” He goes on like that as he scurries across the lobby and out of sight. It doesn’t really matter what he’s saying, so none of us try to say anything back.

Mom is so close to the wall she could be wallpaper. Dad is a lost satellite, trying to figure out if he should go to Mom or come over to Tyler or what.