I’m in the process of editing my next short story (which is also my first attempt at the science fiction genre) so for the next few installments, I’d like to share a preview of the novel I’ll be working on this summer. My intention is to release it on Substack as a serialized novel this Fall (Hopefully). It’s a legal thriller set in Southern Indiana about a disgraced attorney who returns home to care for his ailing father only to be pulled back into a decades-old murder case that’s up on appeal.
“He’s never done that before...your dad, he’s always been the sweetest man.”
“What happened, mom?” I asked.
“It was his bedtime, so I laid out his pajamas. He looked them over, then wandered through the house like usual. First the kitchen, then dining room. He sat in the living room for a couple minutes, then shuffled down the hallway and into his bedroom. Probably a dozen or so times before finally staying back in the bedroom.”
Her voice shook.
“He never came out of the room. There was just silence, so I went to check on him. I thought he’d put himself to bed. When I opened the door, he was just standing there. Pajama bottoms on. He was trying to button his old suit jacket over his undershirt, but he couldn’t figure out the buttons. He’d even dragged his old briefcase from the closet and had it sitting on the bed.”
A long silence, like the call dropped.
“He kept whispering something. I shoulda just let him be. I could tell he was frustrated, but I thought it was about the jacket. It’s like he didn’t know I was there ‘til I touched his arm.”
She paused again.
“He screamed that “I didn’t get it”...that “she was gonna die.” Then he pushed me out of the room. I hit the wall so hard, I took a couple family pictures down with me. It’s like he didn’t even know me.”
Mom’s tears flowed through the phone. The sound left an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.
“Did he try to leave the house?” I asked, still unable to process her reaction. In all my life, I’d never heard or seen mom shed a solitary tear.
“No. I peeked in at about three and he was asleep on top of the covers, still in his suit jacket and pajama bottoms.”
“How was he this morning?” I asked, regretting again that I didn’t ask about her well-being, but I needed the facts. I wanted to understand what happened the night before. Old habits and all that. Something she should be used to from a family of lawyers.
“Same as usual. Friendly. Ate his cereal. Sat in his spot on the couch for a bit, then went back to his bedroom for a nap ‘til lunch time.”
“Anything since then?” I asked.
“Nope. The occasional wandering, but for the most part, we’ve just sat in the living room all afternoon.”
“Okay...are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Your sister’s been here to keep me company.”
More silence.
“Just get home, Cal. You need to come home.”
I promised to be there as soon as I could, then ended the call. The Bluetooth went quiet before switching back to a static-filled radio station, common on this stretch of central Indiana highway. U.S. 50 cuts through the Midwest like an old surgery scar, attempting to heal something that can’t be righted. Old highways are enjoyable if you have time for scenery, otherwise they feel like a slow drive through a water-logged time capsule. If it wasn’t for gridlocked traffic around Cincinnati, I’d already be on the interstate and halfway home. Instead, I’d be lucky to make it through the Hoosier National Forest before dark.
My sister called earlier with less information and more anger at my being away from home. I gave her the same promise before quickly packing and leaving my apartment north of campus. The guilt didn’t set in until mom’s voice broke. The university approved my sabbatical months ago, as they do with most tenure-track professors who have put in their time and are desperate for a publication. Other faculty already published three or four articles at this point in their career, but I threw myself into teaching pre-law to kids who want to save the world. I’d spent my time off pleasure-reading and exploring a city still as foreign as it was the day I arrived, with evenings saved for half-hearted Google searches of research topics like “Reform of Judicial Review”. All so I could have an excuse not to witness Dad’s decline. The weekly updates from mom were enough.
The sign for Holton, Indiana stood against a backdrop of waist-high, green corn that blurred until I dropped the old Chevy pick-up down to 50 mph. White noise from the radio filled the interior with a guilt-laden ambiance, fitting my mood after the call. The historic highway became a backdrop, painted by the weathering effects of time. The GPS map on the phone showed an aerial view of a cursor, moving right-to-left along a jagged red line, as though I was traveling backward, away from a life and toward something I left in Southern Indiana seven years ago.