By Larry Blumen
I never knew my father. Apparently my mother never knew him either. First he died in Vietnam. Then he disappeared in San Francisco. Then he killed a man in Tennessee and got the chair. He had different names at different times, none of them mine. These are the stories my mother told me before I was old enough to think. When I was old enough, I went looking for my father. I got a DNA test, thinking it would show his whereabouts. It didn’t. Then I searched the Wall in Washington for all his names. They weren’t there. Then, in Tennessee, I met a girl—she had her way with me. Before I went to sleep, she told me stories of her life. When I woke up, she was gone.