The Old Block
Shortly after his father dies, Nick Castle discovers what seems to be a draft
of the novel his father had always hoped to write. But a clue at the end
causes Nick to fear that this story of a serious federal crime and escape
from the U.S. may not be fiction at all. Nick sets out to find out the truth
about his father’s past, and in the process, he learns more than he ever
expected—about his father and about himself.
of the novel his father had always hoped to write. But a clue at the end
causes Nick to fear that this story of a serious federal crime and escape
from the U.S. may not be fiction at all. Nick sets out to find out the truth
about his father’s past, and in the process, he learns more than he ever
expected—about his father and about himself.
Chapter 1
May 2012
I splashed cold water on my face to shock some life into it. I should be doing better than this. Over a month since the funeral, and I still wasn't getting much sleep. I glanced at my reflection, eased out a sigh. Every time I looked in a mirror I saw Dad looking back at me. Easy enough to see why: same dark eyes, same jawline, same smile. A smile that didn't come easily for me these days. At least I didn't break into tears this time.
I ran a palm over my cheek. I'd either have to shave or commit to growing a beard. I flicked on the Norelco and started in on my six-day stubble. The buzz of the razor wasn't loud enough to block out the voices that still wouldn't leave me alone.
###
The clamor of a hundred simultaneous conversations overwhelms me at the post-funeral gathering in the Shoat Valley Presbyterian Church. The whole town has turned out.
The barrage never lets up. Everyone feels compelled to corner me, pay their respects, share their fond memories of Jim Castle--his kindness, his gentle way with people, his humility, his willingness to step in and help. As if I somehow didn't already know what he was like.
Mary Ellen Camp, our mayor, pumps my hand with her two-handed candidate's grip. "Nick, your dad's smile always lit up the room. He will be missed."
Charley Hanson, the town pharmacist and Dad's frequent golf partner, leans in close to remind me: "Jim Castle was truly an honest man. Might be the only guy I know who never once cheated at golf." I reward his hearty guffaw with a forced smile.
Mom's sister, Eloise, sincere as always, drunk as always, covers me with sloppy kisses and tells me, "Your dad was one of a kind. He could make anyone feel special ... even those of us who weren't. I'll never forget the time I'd had too much to drink, and I started to sound off about how life wasn't fair and ..."
I tune her out. I've heard that story so often, it's embedded in my brain.
The barrage never lets up. Everyone feels compelled to corner me, pay their respects, share their fond memories of Jim Castle--his kindness, his gentle way with people, his humility, his willingness to step in and help. As if I somehow didn't already know what he was like.
Mary Ellen Camp, our mayor, pumps my hand with her two-handed candidate's grip. "Nick, your dad's smile always lit up the room. He will be missed."
Charley Hanson, the town pharmacist and Dad's frequent golf partner, leans in close to remind me: "Jim Castle was truly an honest man. Might be the only guy I know who never once cheated at golf." I reward his hearty guffaw with a forced smile.
Mom's sister, Eloise, sincere as always, drunk as always, covers me with sloppy kisses and tells me, "Your dad was one of a kind. He could make anyone feel special ... even those of us who weren't. I'll never forget the time I'd had too much to drink, and I started to sound off about how life wasn't fair and ..."
I tune her out. I've heard that story so often, it's embedded in my brain.
###
Okay, they were going to miss him. I got that. But now that gathering and those songs of praise were long gone. Those well-wishers had moved on as if nothing had happened. Their day-to-day activities shifted back to normal. Mine wouldn't. My mentor, my role model, my best friend ... my dad was dead. And now, my life had a cavernous void in the middle of it that would never be filled.
Dad and I did everything together. I was his shadow. For my whole life, the adults in Shoat Valley have referred to me as "Little Jim," "a chip off the old block," "the apple of his dad's eye," or "a spittin' image of the old man." Some still applied, but tired clichés couldn't begin to describe our relationship.
As a young child, I was a fixture at Dad's side at our family bookstore, Book Castle, and I tagged along while he ran errands. Even when I was only three or four, Dad would let me "help" by carrying packages back to the car, including some that were probably too big or awkward to trust me with. A proud moment. When I was older, I realized he most likely secretly spotted me the whole way, but he never let me know that.
I still remember, early on--I must have been five or six--my first Little League game. I'd failed miserably that day. I missed a couple of grounders, made a bad throw, and my performance at the plate should have earned me the nickname "Whiff." On the way home in the car, I stared straight ahead trying to hold back tears.
Dad pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. After a moment, he laid his hand on my shoulder. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Nick. It takes time to master this game."
I looked over at him, my lower lip quivering my response.
He pulled me into a hug. "You've got to remember, Kiddo, baseball is a game of failure." He ruffled my hair. "The best hitters in the big leagues average only three hits for every ten at-bats."
"Wait. So, they fail seven out of ten times? Really?"
"Yep. But don't worry, you've got the skills. You just need some help developing them."
"What do you mean?" I wiped away the remnants of tears with my sleeve.
"Means you need some personal instruction." He chuckled. "And you're in luck. I know just the guy who can do it." He threw his hands out to the side, grinned.
We both knew who he was referring to.
When we got home, he took me out to the backyard and showed me the basics of playing the game. We laughed, kidded around, had a lot of fun. No pressure, no disappointment. It was just the two of us. And we were out there nearly every day for weeks.
He taught me plenty of skills--how to place my feet in the batter's box, how to generate power when I swung, all that stuff. But most of all he taught me how to have fun playing the game. It was a lesson in baseball and in life that I've tried to hang on to ever since.
I've never been as close to anyone in my life. Guess that's why it's been so hard for me to let go. Even at Sonoma State, I regularly Skyped with my parents, most often Dad on Book Castle's computer. And when I returned to Shoat Valley with a degree, we picked up right where we left off. My degree was in English, which, if nothing else, made me a good candidate to run a bookstore someday. But Dad made sure I thought my career options through. Even an English major has some choices. I'm sure he knew all I really wanted to do was follow in his footsteps. Same as I always had.
But now, his footsteps were gone forever, and I wasn't sure what that meant for me. Everything I did, everything I believed in, everything I hoped to become was a reflection of Dad. Being Jim Castle's son defined me--like being Batman's sidekick defined Robin. And now? Well, now it didn't. Robin without Batman was just some weirdo in tights waiting for instructions.
Dad and I did everything together. I was his shadow. For my whole life, the adults in Shoat Valley have referred to me as "Little Jim," "a chip off the old block," "the apple of his dad's eye," or "a spittin' image of the old man." Some still applied, but tired clichés couldn't begin to describe our relationship.
As a young child, I was a fixture at Dad's side at our family bookstore, Book Castle, and I tagged along while he ran errands. Even when I was only three or four, Dad would let me "help" by carrying packages back to the car, including some that were probably too big or awkward to trust me with. A proud moment. When I was older, I realized he most likely secretly spotted me the whole way, but he never let me know that.
I still remember, early on--I must have been five or six--my first Little League game. I'd failed miserably that day. I missed a couple of grounders, made a bad throw, and my performance at the plate should have earned me the nickname "Whiff." On the way home in the car, I stared straight ahead trying to hold back tears.
Dad pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. After a moment, he laid his hand on my shoulder. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Nick. It takes time to master this game."
I looked over at him, my lower lip quivering my response.
He pulled me into a hug. "You've got to remember, Kiddo, baseball is a game of failure." He ruffled my hair. "The best hitters in the big leagues average only three hits for every ten at-bats."
"Wait. So, they fail seven out of ten times? Really?"
"Yep. But don't worry, you've got the skills. You just need some help developing them."
"What do you mean?" I wiped away the remnants of tears with my sleeve.
"Means you need some personal instruction." He chuckled. "And you're in luck. I know just the guy who can do it." He threw his hands out to the side, grinned.
We both knew who he was referring to.
When we got home, he took me out to the backyard and showed me the basics of playing the game. We laughed, kidded around, had a lot of fun. No pressure, no disappointment. It was just the two of us. And we were out there nearly every day for weeks.
He taught me plenty of skills--how to place my feet in the batter's box, how to generate power when I swung, all that stuff. But most of all he taught me how to have fun playing the game. It was a lesson in baseball and in life that I've tried to hang on to ever since.
I've never been as close to anyone in my life. Guess that's why it's been so hard for me to let go. Even at Sonoma State, I regularly Skyped with my parents, most often Dad on Book Castle's computer. And when I returned to Shoat Valley with a degree, we picked up right where we left off. My degree was in English, which, if nothing else, made me a good candidate to run a bookstore someday. But Dad made sure I thought my career options through. Even an English major has some choices. I'm sure he knew all I really wanted to do was follow in his footsteps. Same as I always had.
But now, his footsteps were gone forever, and I wasn't sure what that meant for me. Everything I did, everything I believed in, everything I hoped to become was a reflection of Dad. Being Jim Castle's son defined me--like being Batman's sidekick defined Robin. And now? Well, now it didn't. Robin without Batman was just some weirdo in tights waiting for instructions.
###
I stepped out of my studio apartment above Book Castle and descended the stairs to the back door of the bookstore. Once inside, I took care of all the opening chores: turned on the lights, checked the thermostat, started up the coffee maker and espresso machine, unlocked the big double door. I sat down at the store's old wooden desk--the one Dad and I refinished when I was twelve--and powered up the computer. Of the six file icons on the screen, the one labeled DAD-OBIT stared back at me, daring me to click it, but I didn't have to. I knew it by heart. I'd written it for the local newspapers following a standard formula. The highlights: James Franklin Castle. Succumbed to prostate cancer at sixty-two. Gone too soon. Loving husband and father, friend to all he met, owner of the popular Book Castle bookstore, model citizen, honored three times for his community service, named Shoat Valley's 1998 Citizen of the Year. Survived by Katherine Elaine Castle, his wife of twenty-seven years, and two grown children, Shelby Anne Castle, twenty-one, and me, Nicolas James Castle, twenty-four. I'd covered all the bases, but an obituary can only scratch the surface of a man's life. Especially this man.
The obit appeared in the Shoat Valley Register over a month ago, and the icon had been sitting on the computer desktop long enough. Seeing it every day wasn't helping me cope. Time to stash it away on the hard drive. The battery on the wireless mouse, however, had died overnight. The irony didn't escape me.
I took some deep breaths, waiting for the tightness in my chest to subside. Then, rummaging around in the top desk drawer for the charger, I spied the corner of a white envelope at the back. Dad had given it to me almost two years ago when the doctors first slammed us with the diagnosis of inoperable prostate cancer.
The obit appeared in the Shoat Valley Register over a month ago, and the icon had been sitting on the computer desktop long enough. Seeing it every day wasn't helping me cope. Time to stash it away on the hard drive. The battery on the wireless mouse, however, had died overnight. The irony didn't escape me.
I took some deep breaths, waiting for the tightness in my chest to subside. Then, rummaging around in the top desk drawer for the charger, I spied the corner of a white envelope at the back. Dad had given it to me almost two years ago when the doctors first slammed us with the diagnosis of inoperable prostate cancer.
###
He and I were sitting on the couch about a week after the doctors had given us the devastating news. We were pretending to watch some documentary about endangered species. I wasn't paying attention. My mind was still trying to process what life was going to be like ... without Dad.
"Jesus, this is too depressing." He clicked off the television and stood. "Follow me." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "I've got something for you."
I trailed behind him through the kitchen into the garage. He rummaged around on his tool bench, making me think he was going to bequeath me something both practical and manly, like a power saw. But when he straightened back up, he was holding a standard white mailing envelope. My name was written on the front.
He held the envelope out to me, and I took hold of it, but he didn't let it go.
He pulled it, and me, toward him and leaned closer. "Nick, you have to promise me something ... and you absolutely have to keep that promise."
"Of course, Dad. Anything. You can count on me."
He looked me in the eye. "Yeah, I know. I need you to stash this away somewhere private." He let go of the envelope. "Promise me you won't open this until after I'm deceased."
I winced. "But you're going to be around ... for a while. The doctors say you have--"
"Promise me."
I'd never seen such pain in his eyes.
"Okay, I promise I won't open this envelope until after you're ... gone." I looked away. That whole concept left a lump in my throat I couldn't quite swallow. The promise didn't matter much anyway, since I still refused to accept that he might not make it.
Dad wrapped his arms around me and held tight. We didn't need words.
I can still feel that hug.
"Jesus, this is too depressing." He clicked off the television and stood. "Follow me." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "I've got something for you."
I trailed behind him through the kitchen into the garage. He rummaged around on his tool bench, making me think he was going to bequeath me something both practical and manly, like a power saw. But when he straightened back up, he was holding a standard white mailing envelope. My name was written on the front.
He held the envelope out to me, and I took hold of it, but he didn't let it go.
He pulled it, and me, toward him and leaned closer. "Nick, you have to promise me something ... and you absolutely have to keep that promise."
"Of course, Dad. Anything. You can count on me."
He looked me in the eye. "Yeah, I know. I need you to stash this away somewhere private." He let go of the envelope. "Promise me you won't open this until after I'm deceased."
I winced. "But you're going to be around ... for a while. The doctors say you have--"
"Promise me."
I'd never seen such pain in his eyes.
"Okay, I promise I won't open this envelope until after you're ... gone." I looked away. That whole concept left a lump in my throat I couldn't quite swallow. The promise didn't matter much anyway, since I still refused to accept that he might not make it.
Dad wrapped his arms around me and held tight. We didn't need words.
I can still feel that hug.
###
Once I'd plugged the charger into the mouse, I headed over to the espresso machine, pulled a couple of shots, and made myself a double latte. Through all the chaos of chemotherapy, radiation, blood-count scares, and watching, helpless, as the disease devoured Dad from the inside more each day, I hadn't even thought about that envelope. But now? Time to open it. Now, Dad was ... gone. Forever. I sucked in a ragged breath, wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and set my cup on the desk. Slipping the envelope from the drawer, I placed it in front of me. I sipped my latte; somehow it seemed to soothe my sore, scratchy throat.
I took great care not to damage the contents as I removed a sheet of paper, folded in thirds to fit into the envelope. The sheet was blank. No letter, no note, no life-affirming instructions. Just a single small key taped inside the folded sheet. Scrawled on its tag was "SVS #12." I knew immediately what it was. A key to a storage locker at Shoat Valley Storage. Book Castle rented two storerooms there--twenty-seven and twenty-eight--where we kept inventory, shelving, and miscellaneous other crap. I'd been to those lockers more times than I could count. But I knew nothing about number twelve. Why would Dad be so secretive about that one? An icy wave rushed through me. A storage locker could hold anything.
Our part-timer, Janey Grimes, would be in at ten. Mom was due at noon. That's when could be spared. And that's when I'd be able to find the answer. It promised to be a long morning.
I took great care not to damage the contents as I removed a sheet of paper, folded in thirds to fit into the envelope. The sheet was blank. No letter, no note, no life-affirming instructions. Just a single small key taped inside the folded sheet. Scrawled on its tag was "SVS #12." I knew immediately what it was. A key to a storage locker at Shoat Valley Storage. Book Castle rented two storerooms there--twenty-seven and twenty-eight--where we kept inventory, shelving, and miscellaneous other crap. I'd been to those lockers more times than I could count. But I knew nothing about number twelve. Why would Dad be so secretive about that one? An icy wave rushed through me. A storage locker could hold anything.
Our part-timer, Janey Grimes, would be in at ten. Mom was due at noon. That's when could be spared. And that's when I'd be able to find the answer. It promised to be a long morning.