Page 67 of That Weekend in Paris
“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” I say. “You’d have every right to be hating me right now.”
“Not me,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. And for a moment, everything around us drops away, and it’s just the two of us standing there taking each other in.
“Good job, man,” André says, breaking the spell. “You two still up for some clubbing tonight?”
“More so than ever,” Klein says.
“One thing has to be true,” André says. “If you can ride like that, I know you can dance.”
Klein
“Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears.”
?Marcus Aurelius
WE HAVE A late lunch in the château restaurant, both of us still full from breakfast, despite all the activity. Dillon feels guilty for what had happened, but the truth of it is, I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in a very long time.
“Where did you learn to ride, Dillon?” I ask her once our salads arrive.
“My grandpa had a farm when I was growing up. He mostly raised cows, but when he discovered how much I wanted a pony, he bought one for me, and whenever I visited them on weekends or during the summer, that’s pretty much all I would do. I never had any formal lessons or anything. I probably spent as much time falling off as I did actually riding, but she was the cutest little pony. I couldn’t have been prouder of her had he bought me a fancy European imported horse. We weren’t rich, my mama and I, but I have pretty wonderful memories of things I used to do on my grandparents’ farm. He had this pond that he built and put some fish in. I would ride my pony out there on hot summer days and let her go in for a swim. She loved it so much, and I felt like the richest person in the world getting to do that with her.”
“What happened to her?” I ask softly.
“She died when I was a senior in high school. She colicked one night, and no one found her until the next day. I felt so guilty because I had stopped going out there as much. I guess I felt like I had abandoned her.”
“I’m sure no one else saw it that way. That’s kind of what happens during those years. Things that had been so important before taking a backseat. But it’s just the nature of growing up and trying to figure out how to make your way in the world.”
Tears well in her eyes. She shakes her head as if to try and push the memories away.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up painful stuff.”
“No, it’s okay,” she says. “It’s just one of those regrets I have in life, and hopefully, I’ve tried to do better by the things I’ve loved since then.”
“We all have regrets like that somewhere in our past, Dillon. You’re not the only one.”
I glance out the window toward the green expanse of lawn. “I was probably seven when my dad went to jail. He was really an abusive son of a bitch, but he was still my dad. I guess, honestly, I was happy and sad when they arrested him and put him in the back of the county sheriff’s car. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to be coming home any time soon, he sent word through my mom that he would like for me to come and visit him. She tried to get me to go on the days that she was sober, that is. And I knew that I should, but there was a part of me that really didn’t want to. That was the part I went with. And so, on the night we got the call that he had died in his cell, I was probably eight by then. I realized I was never going to have the chance to redo that decision. At first, it seemed like it couldn’t actually be true. And I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit that some part of me felt glad that I would never have to deal with him again. But what eventually won out was regret, of course, that I hadn’t gone to see him. It was the last thing he ever asked of me.”
“You were just a little boy. How could you have known?”
“I couldn’t have, but I didn’t go because, truthfully, I hated him. It’s something I’ve had to live with for the rest of my life, and sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I had gone. Would it have given him the will to turn away from the drugs and try to start over?”
“That’s an awfully big burden of blame to put on yourself,” she says. “We’re all responsible for the choices we make, and sad as it is, your dad’s choices are what put him there.”
“I know,” I say. “There’s absolutely no doubt about that, but I guess maybe I’d like to entertain the notion now and then that maybe he would have loved me enough to give it up.”
“He should have loved you enough to give it up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He should have.”
I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. “Whatever his faults, Klein, he did a great thing by giving you to the world.”
Riley
“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley.
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
