I tucked in my undershirt, buttoned my raggedy flannel, and zipped up my brown coat, which was starting to lighten up from the rounds of bleach my mom used to get rid of the ketchup stains. Sauntering over to my dresser to grab my rusting fishing pole, I paused to admire the photo of my dad and me from our previous fishing trip. I was only ten, and struggled to hold up the 20-pounder. My dad, Charlie Wycott, was a pro at fishing. In 1952, at age fourteen, he held the Columbus County record for the largest hook-and-line-captured grouper- a whopping 470 pounds- and earned the title “The Wycott Wonder.” I kept the old, browning photo of him and grandpa standing next to the big guy beside the photo of my measly catch. They looked like dwarfs compared to their fishy monster. Unfortunately, you couldn’t say the same of my photo.
I didn’t see much of my old man then. When I was seven, he and mom got divorced, and he moved back to Lake Waccamaw- I guess to be closer to the fish. Mom, the brats, and I lived in Raleigh, ’cause she worked at Capitol Broadcasting Company headquarters. Our three-bedroom, two-bathroom house was one of those cookie-cutter ones so clean that it looked like a life-size dollhouse. I must say, sometimes the twins were so prissy that I thought they were life-size Barbies.
After hearing dad beep his horn three times- his signal to me- I grabbed the fishing pole with one hand and my baseball cap resting on the door handle with the other before leaving the warmth and safety of my room.

I beeped the horn thrice to get Woody’s attention. There’s no way in hell I was walking up to that perfect-looking house and ringing that fancy-ass doorbell just to be greeted by my former partner with her smug little grin. She’d been going to an aerobics class ever since I left her, and knew that she looked better than ever. No way was I giving her the satisfaction of me looking her up and down. I opened the window and lit a cig. The brisk December air that trickled down my spine like a cold stream of water made the warmth of the cig that much better.
He yanked the front door open and waved with this huge smile plastered on his face. I couldn’t help but return the expression. There’s something about your own kin that makes them so much better than all other kids- that is, except for those twins. I swear somebody took my ex’s DNA when she was young, saved it for all these years, and then made two little clones. I bet you any money they would give me the same nasty grin their mother would if they saw me.
Woody almost snagged his rod on a bush as he speed-walked to my truck. He threw it in the back, and hopped in the front seat next to me.
“Hey kid. You have enough layers on? It’ll be colder by the lake.” He nodded vigorously, like a toddler on a sugar-high being offered more candy. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

His truck smelled like a mixture of McDonald’s french fries and cigarettes. I liked it. All I smelled at home back then was roses and CVS perfume.
“Dad, guess what?” He raised his eyebrows, prompting a response. “No, guess.”
“I don’t know, kid. You tell me.” He sounded a little exasperated, and started coughing into his handkerchief- a wheezy cough, like our next-door neighbor, 89 year-old Mr. White, who had had pneumonia when he was younger. When he pulled the handkerchief down from his mouth, I noticed its creamy whiteness had been ruined by a blotch of red.
“I have all A’s right now. You know Mrs. Stevenson, that crazy math teacher of mine?” I paused long enough for him to nod hesitantly like he actually remembered who she was before continuing. “Well, she really didn’t like me after I forgot to do my first homework assignment of the year, but I’ve been getting all A’s and B’s on her tests, and did some extra credit- not to mention the fact that I befriended her son, who’s in my grade. He’s a little weird, but nothing I can’t handle. Plus, next to him, I’m like some Mark Hamill to all the girls. Anyways, now that things are all patched up, I’m on my way to getting a five-point-O.”
Dad smiled. “I think you mean a 4.0. GPA is out of four.”
“Dad, I think I would know. I’m the one who is actually going to high school.”
“Ouch! Zinger!” He laughed, and sounded a lot more enthused until he started coughing again and pulled out the handkerchief. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and said, “Now, I may not have a diploma, but I know a thing or two about life, and one of those things is that your mother was one of the smartest and most conceded women I know, and she always bragged about having a 4.0.” Damn I thought. Mom’s always right.
“Oh. Well, then I’m going to have a 4.0.” I could feel my cheeks turning the same color as the blotch on his handkerchief.
“Woody, I’m proud of you.” That comment yanked me out of my embarrassment, and I turned to face him. “You’re a hard-worker. That’ll take you far in life. And you’re smart- book and street. Not many people are both.”
I started to thank him but my voice was squeaking out in a high-pitched tone, so I covered it up by coughing before saying in a deeper voice, “Thanks, dad.”
We settled into silence, content to be with each other. I glanced outside and watched as the terrain turned from city-suburb to country. As we left Raleigh, I started feeling lighter, more at-ease. Maybe it was the bright blue sky, or the rural landscape, but I’m pretty sure it was having my dad next to me. He turned up the radio, and the car filled with the voices of Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder singing “Ebony and Ivory.” Before I knew it, dad started bopping his head and singing along. To my surprise, I joined him, and we started belting out “We all know that people are the same wherever you go. There is good and bad in everyone. We learn to live, when we learn to give each other what we need to survive, together alive.” When the song ended, I started laughing, and he did this half-laughing-half-coughing thing. Then, the voice on the radio started speaking.
“This just in. New evidence has identified the murderer of Senator Robert Connelly as forty-four year-old Charles Wycott. Police are currently tracking Wycott down. Wycott is 5-foot-eleven, with gray-blond hair and blue eyes. If you have any tips, contact your local police. Stay safe, everyone.”
I couldn’t move; I wasn’t breathing; All I felt was the soles of my feet pressing against the car-floor carpeting. That murderer had the same name as my dad. How on Earth was that possible? Dad was silent, but I saw out of the corner of my eye that his grip tightened on the wheel. I finally took two deep breaths before squeaking (and this time allowing myself to squeak like the boy that I was), “Dad?”

One minute, we were singing along to Paul and Stevie, and the next thing I knew, my son was staring at me like I was Satan. Did I kill somebody, and was it malicious? Yes and yes. But was it deserved? Also yes.
It all started about eight years ago. My wife, Woody, the twins, and I had just moved to Raleigh after my wife became a stage manager at CBC. I wanted to stay by the lake, but sacrificed for the greater good of my family by moving to the city and working as a stay-at-home dad- unheard of then, I know. I started seeing less and less of my beloved lady as the weeks passed, slowly and much too peacefully. The spark between us fizzled out, that is, until she told me she was pregnant. We hid the news from the kids for the time being, waiting for her first trimester to be up. I thought that this new life would bring our relationship new life, but she seemed distant, like the lake I grew up on and left for her.
Turned out, the baby wasn’t mine. The father was none other than rising politician Robert Connelly, who apparently had developed feelings for my wife when CBC interviewed him for the ‘74 election. My wife had always been good at customer service.
I had to leave then. The baby wasn’t mine, and neither was my wife any longer. I knew she would gain custody of the kids considering I was jobless, so I abandoned everything I had sacrificed for and moved back to my original home. I was content- until I heard that Mr. Perfect had left my ex when she had a miscarriage just days after I left.
As bitter and pissed off as I was at my wife, the hatred I felt for the man who screwed her over festered inside me, a feeling I had never experienced before. I needed to take him down from his pedestal, so I took him out. I waited seven years so I could do it right, so I could do her justice.
But I can’t tell the kid that. Where would I begin?
“Woody, you have to calm down and listen. I’m still the same man you were singing with a minute ago. I’m still the same father who wanted to take his son fishing.”
“I- I don’t understand. How could you kill a man? A senator? Wh- why would you do it?” He stuttered. I could hear his voice shaking, like we were driving on a gravel road, but we weren’t that far into the country yet.
“This may be hard to understand,” I began, trying to keep my tone calm and fatherly, “but I did it for your mother. That senator was terrible to her.”
All of a sudden, he hardened. “Quit treating me like a kid, and cut the tone. You better explain yourself, dad.”
How dare he. My own son. “Now you listen here, son.” I could feel my heart pounding on my chest, searching for a way out. “You need to watch your tone. You think I’m some monster, but everything I do in life is for you, your mom, and your sisters.”
“You’re the one who left us out of nowhere! How the hell do you expect me to believe you make sacrifices for us? How do I even know you aren’t going to come for us next?” His last words made me catch my breath. He grabbed the spare fishing hook that I had put in the cup holder, and pointed it at me like a knife. I turned to look him square in the eyes, as a last-ditch effort to get him to calm down. His bright blue eyes pierced mine almost as sharply as I imagined the fish hook would feel. All of a sudden, he broke eye contact, and looked back at the road.

He looked at me with his light blue eyes- the same ones I had- and I could tell he was trying to connect with me, trying to calm me down. It started working for a little bit, until I noticed something moving toward us out of the corner of my eye. Looking back at the road, all I could see was a semi coming straight toward us- or rather we were going toward him. “Dad, look out!” I yelled.

I turned my attention back toward the road. There wasn’t even enough time for me to comprehend that it was too late.