We've all been down this road before - in the back of the truck, on the motorcycle, on horseback, even sitting on a sled Daddy made out of the rusted hood of a car and that he pulled behind his truck with a chain. As children, the four of us each spent our summer vacations here at Silent Valley. My brother, Gary, and I, with our sister Dorene, spent five summers here more than two decades ago; my son, Joe, and my daughter, Jenny, have come here each summer for the past five years. This curving, rutted dirt road is where we all learned to steer, clutch, shift gears, and step on the brake. We sat up tall behind the steering wheel of the green Ford pick-up with Daddy on the right, insisting that he had learned to drive when he was a kid, and we could do it, too.

Today, Gary, Joe, Jenny and I drive up in our shiny rented green sedan with an automatic transmission, stop our car in front of Daddy's weathered house trailer and get out. I see the big flat rock up behind the trailer where I used to climb as a teenager, sitting alone, looking out over Silent Valley, wondering and not understanding.

Pointing to the large iron lock that has been fastened to the door, I say, "This must be where they found his body."

Three days ago, Monday afternoon, mid-November, 1985, the phone rang at our home in Washington, D.C., interrupting my determination to spend my afternoon dealing with a basket of clothes awaiting ironing. Joe and Jenny were home after school and we were discussing Christmas plans. Jenny, twelve years old, was sitting on the kitchen counter next to the phone. She picked it up and said, "It's for you, Mom."

I was at the sink trying to clean the corroded steam iron. Handing the iron to Joe, a lanky fifteen-year old, who was leaning against the stove, I took the call. My father's older sister, Edith, spoke gently across two thousand miles. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said, "but they say your father committed suicide - shot himself with a gun." She was called by the sheriff with news that Daddy had been found dead in his trailer. She wonders if his children want to come to Colorado to go through his belongings. I tell her we will take care of what needs to be done.

There are no tears. "Grampy killed himself," I tell Joe and Jenny. "I need to go to Colorado."

Joe and Jenny have known their grandfather since they were babies and he would come from Colorado to visit us. They have sent him drawings and letters, birthday and Father's Day cards. Twice, when they were little, I took them to Colorado to visit their Grampy. Other times he came east in his truck and on his motorcycle to visit us. And for the five summers previous to this year, Joe and Jenny had traveled, on their own, to spend summers with him at Silent Valley. They want to go with me and be part of this final journey.

I move naturally and efficiently into my familiar "taking care of business" mode. Call my work to say I will be away; start the laundry so there will be clean clothes; begin to boil water for macaroni and cheese for dinner; drink a cup of coffee.

Calling Gary, my brother who is just a year-and-a-half younger and is my favorite and closest family member, I ask if he will come from North Carolina to fly to Colorado with me. Gary is a Vietnam era veteran who used his GI bill education benefit to learn welding. He now lives in NC with his wife Linda and works as a welder on small fishing boats. He agrees to come to D.C. tomorrow by bus and says, "I guess it's all over now, isn't it?" Our conversation has the familiar flat emptiness of all conversations that mention our father. No emotion, no adjectives, no expletives. Just the facts.

Dorene, our younger sister, lives with her new husband, Rick, in Ohio. They do not yet have a telephone so I call the local police department to ask for help. A police officer leaves a note on her door to call the police department. When Dorene calls, the officer tells her, "We have a message for you. Your father is dead."

Dorene immediately calls me when she hears the news of Daddy's death, but she declines the invitation to go to Colorado with us. Her quick response is, "He left the family when I was just four. Except for our summer visits I don't even know him. He's not part of my life." She says she will get a phone installed tomorrow and call me with her new number.

I wonder about the part of her life affected by Daddy's absence, about her not knowing why he was absent. I wonder about Dorene not having childhood memories of the first four years when he did live with her. But reluctantly I accept her decision not to participate in the trip.

Then I call my mother to tell her the news. She divorced my father almost forty years ago, but I know she will want to know about his death. Because my mother is deaf I must call her on an electronic teletype machine. I wish I could tell her in person and see her face.

"Daddy's sister Edith called to tell us that he committed suicide. Gary is coming and he and I and Joe and Jenny will go to Colorado tomorrow to take care of the belongings," I type.

"He must have been terribly lonely," she responds by typing. I'm sorry you all have to go through this. I love you. Have a safe trip." I wish we could hug each other.

Then, I call Freeman, a kind and gentle man I have known just two weeks, but who already seems important in my life. He comes immediately from his apartment, which is only ten minutes away. Now, late at night, dishes done, plane reservations made, children asleep, I seek comfort in his embrace. Finally, in his arms, I cry. He stays and holds me through the night.

Tuesday morning, waiting at home for Gary to arrive, I get another phone call from Colorado. I am alone in the kitchen this time. Joe and Jenny have gone to school for the day. Just coming from the shower, I am wearing my green terry cloth robe; water drips from my hair onto my cheeks. A woman speaks carefully. "You don't know me," she says, "but I heard that your father died. Some people here are starting ugly rumors, saying that he killed himself because he was going to be charged with molesting a little child and he might have to go to jail. I just want to tell you that I know he was a good man and that it's not true what they're saying."

"Not true. "Not true." How I wish it could be 'not true,'" I think to myself. I search the walls, the counters, the tiny piece of sky visible above the curtain over the window for guidance, for the "right thing" to say. All I see is a list of tasks to do before our trip: stop paper, stop mail, get Mom to tell Daddy's friends about his death, give milk and other perishables to neighbor.

My response comes from a deep place of knowing. "My father molested me all through my childhood. He's molested other children, too. I'm sure what the people are telling you is true. He did molest that child."

There is a heavy, empty silence. The woman hangs up. I never receive any other calls or letters about the child and the accusations. I wish I could tell the little girl I'm sorry about what my father did and that his suicide is not her fault.

After the phone call I am flooded with waves of nausea. My eyes will not focus and I cannot will myself to continue my tasks. The kitchen adjoins my bedroom and I take the few steps necessary to go and lie down on my bed. When I close my eyes I see a circle, like a woven wreath, of limp penises. These are not the kinds of feelings and images a daughter should have when her father dies, I tell myself.