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CHAPTER 1: HE WALKED AWAY (Excerpt)

As a small boy, I remember playing in the front court of the apartment building where my mother and I lived. This was the South Side of Chicago, where life was mostly peaceful and safe if you stayed close to home, but where things could get dicey if you strayed too far. It was a typical Chicago summer day, hot and humid. I don't remember any adults from the neighborhood around, only a handful of kids playing hide-and-go-seek in the smothering wet air. I was hiding behind a huge oak tree. As I peeked out from behind the tree, I spied a man across the street staring at me. I ducked behind my tree, waited for a moment, and then took another peek. He was still there, staring at me. I wasn't afraid. He looked like an insurance man in his suit and hat. In those days, insurance men went door-to-door peddling policies and collecting premiums and this man was surely one of those. Nothing to be frightened of.

The man strolled across the street. He called my name, and it surprised me. The closer he came, the more familiar he looked. He was only a few feet away when he asked if I knew who he was. I thought of my mother and the way she scolded me to stay away from strangers. She was unlikely to care that he wore a fancy hat, that he was polite, or that he knew my name. Only this man wasn't a stranger. I didn't know who he was, but he wasn't a stranger. He watched me hesitating, unable to do much of anything but hold my ground behind my tree and look up at him.

"Byron," he said. "I'm your daddy, boy."

Then I recognized him. I smiled and ran to him. He picked me up, hugged me, and told me how much he'd missed me. I was too stunned to talk. I'd missed him so much, and as he held me, I missed him even more. It had been so long since I'd seen him that I'd forgotten his face, his voice.

Months earlier, I had asked my mother about him. She'd told me that he was dead. I remember thinking it didn't make any sense. I didn't remember a funeral. All I remembered was getting on a train and riding for hours. Before that, I remembered mom and dad arguing, but I certainly did not recall anyone dying. None of that mattered now. I was in my father's arms and I was safe. His powerful chest was alive and exciting. He was big and strong, and he could protect me from anyone and anything.

Just as I began to feel that everything was settling into place, my mother came to the window. She shouted my name in the voice she used when I'd done something wrong. But what could be wrong with being held by your dad?

She shouted louder. "Get down and come in the house."

"But mom . . ."

"Now!"

Dad put me down, and said, "Obey your mother."

When I got inside, I stood next to the first-floor window beside my mom, and we gazed out the open window at my dad. He had taken off the hat and held it at his side.

She called out to him, "How did you find us?"

"I came to see my son."

"I told you I never wanted to see you again."

"What about my son?" he said. "I have a right to see my son."

"You don't have any rights," she said. "You lost your rights when you lied."

He placed the hat gently on his head.

"You knew the situation. Why are you being unreasonable?"

"I'm not being unreasonable," she said. "Do me a big favor: leave and never come back."

My dad stood in his suit and hat staring across the court into the window. There was a long, silent pause. Then he said, "This is your last chance. Think about how this is going to affect the boy."

"Don't worry about the boy," she said. "He'll be just fine."

My heart dropped as I watched my dad turn and walk away. My mother leaned down and sort of whispered to me, "Everything's going to be all right," but deep down I knew it wouldn't.

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