Father Found - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

R.M. Johnson is the author of ten books, including bestsellers The Harris Family, The Harris Men, and The Million Dollar Divorce. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Chicago State University. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

With the same passion and insight he brought to The Harris Men, RM Johnson offers a gripping look at a pressing social issue -- and a rare window into the contemporary male psyche.

As founder of an organization that tracks down deadbeat dads and holds them accountable to the children they abandoned, Zale Rowen is no ordinary nine-to-fiver. Fiercely devoted to Father Found and its mission, he is all but obsessed. And though Zale's heart is in the right place, his life begins to spiral out of control as he is pulled further into Chicago's underbelly in his pursuit of homeless youth and delinquent dads. Soon he is ruining his most valued relationships, jeopardizing his life, and undermining the very organization for which he has sacrificed everything.

Forced to take a step back and examine his behavior, Zale is finally beginning to face the dark, long-repressed secrets motivating him when he is blindsided by a shocking revelation that challenges everything he holds true.

As in his acclaimed debut, RM Johnson weaves a deeply engaging novel of family and self-sacrifice. Unflinching yet compassionate, FATHER FOUND is a testament to the power of forgiveness, and a striking commentary on our times.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

It was dark and late, and Zale's body was telling him to go home, but his mind, his heart was telling him to continue the walk through this poor, run-down neighborhood. He would continue the walk, at least a little farther, and if he didn't find what he was looking for, he would turn around and go home.

One block to go, he told himself as he passed under a dim circle of light from a streetlamp above. He stopped, pulled the collar of his trench up around his ears in a weak attempt to defend against the soft rain that started to fall on his head. He began walking again, then halted, seeing something, not twenty feet ahead, and he already knew what it was without taking another step. He walked up to it, standing just over it, shaking his head sympathetically. It was a body lying across a soggy cardboard box, rolled up in a blanket. Zale knelt down over the end that he figured to be the head.

"Excuse me," Zale said softly. There was no response, just the faint sound of unrestful sleeping.

"You awake?" Zale said, then gave the lump a finger stick in the area where he thought his ribs would be.

There was a stir under the blanket for a moment, then nothing.

"Hey, you awake under there?" Zale put his hand on what he assumed was the shoulder and gave the person a shake.

Immediately, the body under the cover sprang up, whipping the blanket from over his head, his body retreating backward, sliding across the ground on hands and feet, like a human crab. He was shocked to have been awakened like that. He looked as though he thought he would be shot.

"Who are you? What you messin' with me for?" It was a boy, like Zale hoped it wouldn't have been, but expected it to be. A boy of maybe fifteen, if he was lucky, and Zale only gave him that much age because of the dirt that was smeared across his face, resembling facial hair.

"No, no, don't," Zale said, both his arms out, his palms showing, an attempt to show the boy he had no weapon. "I don't want to hurt you. I was just walking by."

"Then why did you wake me up?" the boy said. He was pushed up against the wall of a building now, his blanket up over his chin, a protective shield against evil.

"Did you know it's raining, you shouldn't be -- "

"I know it's raining," the boy said sharply. "What am I supposed to do, make it stop so I can go to sleep?"

"No. I know you can't do that, but you'll catch pneumonia out here."

"Aw, man," the boy said sarcastically, the blanket lowering. "What was I thinking about. Let me go up to my hotel suite where it's nice and dry, so I won't get sick."

"That's not what I'm saying," Zale said, almost apologetically.

"Then what are you saying? What do you want?"

"Look, you shouldn't sleep out here. Have you eaten? Let me take you somewhere to eat, and then you bunk out at my place tonight."

"I'm not doing you," the boy said.

"What?"

"I don't do that. I ain't no punk pleaser, you fucking pervert!" The boy started to roll his blanket up in a ball, getting up as he did.

"What?" Zale said, then finally understanding what he meant, said, "No! No! I'm not like that. I just want you out of the cold. I'm trying to help you." Zale reached into his trench. The boy jumped.

"I'm just getting my card." He pulled out his card and reached out for the boy to take it. The boy hesitated a moment, then plucked the card from the man's hand.

It was one of Zale's business cards. It read "Zaleford Rowen, President, Father Found."

"And, so what? Who are you supposed to be?" the boy said, pulling his eyes away from the card.

"Zale Rowen, like the card says. Where is your father?" Zale asked without explanation.

The boy looked thrown by the question.

"Where is your father? Does he live with your mother? Do you live with her? Do you live at home?" Zale stopped to slow things down, reading the lost look on the boy's face. "First, what is your name?"

"Billy."

"Well, Billy, I have an organization, and we try to find fathers that have abandoned their children and reunite them with those children."

Zale tried to read the boy's eyes, tried to decipher his expression to see if he was following along, and if Billy even believed what Zale was saying, but he saw nothing but dirt and shadows on the boy's young, white face.

"Does your father live with you?"

"Look around, do you see him?" Billy said, examining the ground around him.

"I mean, did he live at the home you left?"

"My old man left a long time ago. Ten years maybe, I forget. But it doesn't make a difference. I'm out here now, and this is where I'm going to stay, so if you'd just leave me alone so I can get back to sleep," Billy said, offering the card back to Zale.

"Come with me so we can at least get you something to eat." Zale extended his hand. "I'm buying, and I don't want anything from you. I promise."

It looked as though Billy was giving it some serious thought, but then he declined. "Naw, I don't want to. I'm fine right here. I'm fine."

Zale slid a ten and a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and held them out to Billy. The boy snatched the money out of Zale's hand like a wild dog snapping up a piece of meat from a stranger. Billy held out the card again.

"Keep it, please. I want you to call me sometime. Will you do that?"

Billy stood there watching Zale, the blanket balled up in his arms, the pestering drizzle still falling on both their heads.

Billy nodded his head.

"Will you promise me?"

"Yeah, I promise."

Zale gave the boy a long look, worried about what he would do for the rest of the night, for the rest of his life, for that matter. He wanted to get him home, get him some warm food, and find this man-child's father so someone could start taking responsibility for him. But he knew Billy wouldn't let him. The boy had either seen or heard too many horror stories to walk anywhere with a perfect stranger at past one o'clock in the morning, and Zale couldn't really blame him.

Zale turned around and headed back for home. After a number of paces, Zale heard the boy calling him.

"Mr. Rowen!" Zale turned around, barely seeing the figure in the darkness and mist.

"Thanks for the money. I really need it," Zale heard him call.

"Don't mention it," Zale called back, feeling a pang of sadness in his heart. "But I want to hear from you," he called in a louder voice, but something told him that that was the last he would ever see of Billy.

Zale planned on heading home, planned on finally crawling through the door of his house, lumbering up his stairs and falling into his bed without even first taking off his clothes or his coat, just letting himself drop, a small border of moisture forming around his body, the sheets and blankets absorbing the rain from his damp clothes. But he didn't do that, even though he was so tired that he could barely keep his eyes open or the car from swerving now and then on the slick street. He guided the automobile toward the building where he worked, and parked on a slant. He was led there almost subconsciously, like a lost dog finding its way home on senses alone.

He opened the door of his car, almost tripped up the high curb of the street, and stood in front of the building that housed the Father Found organization.

It was an old two-story building that used to be a store of some sort but had gone out of business, boarded up like so many of the other buildings that lined the streets of the South Side of Chicago. These were businesses opened up by African Americans, but without the support of African Americans, so they ultimately failed.

After the owners no longer wanted to invest in it, the building was bought by a real estate company, refurbished, and put up for sale. It...