Chapter 4

The memory of Uncle David's death was a raw, open wound in our family, and Arthur had just poured salt all over it. As my father stared him down, the scene from all those years ago played out in my mind with horrifying clarity.

It was a hot summer afternoon. Arthur had been drinking since noon, boasting about his swimming abilities, his business acumen, his superiority to every other man on the planet. He decided to take his boat out on the lake, alone. He didn't secure it properly at the dock, and when he stood up to cast off, he stumbled, lost his balance, and pitched headfirst into the water.

He was a terrible swimmer, despite his boasts. He came up sputtering, flailing his arms, his face a mask of pure panic. David, who had been grilling burgers on the patio with Carol and a very young Leo, didn't hesitate. He was a trained firefighter, a man who ran toward danger.

He kicked off his shoes and dived in. The water was cold and murky. Arthur, in his panic, was a dead weight, clawing and scratching, pulling David under with him. It was a desperate struggle. From the shore, we could hear Arthur screaming, not for help, but curses, blaming the boat, the dock, the world for his own stupidity.

David was strong, but Arthur was fighting him, dragging him down. Still, David managed to get a proper hold, to start towing the sputtering, thrashing old man back toward the shore. He got him to the shallows, where my father and I could grab Arthur and pull him the rest of the way onto the grass.

Arthur lay there, coughing up water and bile, gasping for air. But David... David was still in the water. He took two steps toward the shore and then he just... stopped. His face went slack. He clutched his chest, a look of immense surprise on his face, and then he collapsed, half in and half out of the water.

We all screamed. My father performed CPR while my mother called 911. But it was too late. The paramedics said it was a massive heart attack, brought on by the sudden exertion and the cold water. He had sacrificed his life to save a man who wasn't worth the air he breathed.

The funeral was the ugliest day of my life. Aunt Carol was a ghost, shattered into a million pieces. Little Leo didn't understand where his daddy had gone. And Arthur? Arthur sat in the front pew with a look of profound boredom on his face.

Later, at the reception, I overheard him talking to one of his old cronies.

"It was a spectacle, I'll tell you that," Arthur said, sipping a glass of whiskey. "The man wasn't very bright. All brawn, no brains. A poor swimmer, really. Panicked."

He was describing David, the hero, as if he were the one who had been incompetent. He was rewriting history in real-time to absolve himself of any responsibility, any guilt. He never once spoke to Carol, never once offered a word of comfort. He acted as if David's death was a minor inconvenience that had interrupted his summer afternoon.

That was the man my father was now facing down in the middle of a crowded restaurant. A man who had stood by and watched his family crumble over a tragedy he caused, and felt nothing.

"You are no longer welcome in my house," my father said, his voice like flint. "You are no longer welcome in my life. You will not see me, you will not see Sarah, and you will not see Ava ever again."

He pointed to the door. "Get out."

My mother and I stood with him. For the first time, we were a united front, an unbreakable wall. Arthur looked from my father' s face to mine, to my mother' s. He saw no weakness, no hesitation. He had finally pushed us too far.

With a final, venomous glare, he turned and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving behind the wreckage of his own party and a family that was finally, blessedly, free of him.