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Story by Bob Church
Seasons Beckoned Unto
Night
Three hundred eighty two days passed while I paused to once again
allow the world back into my life. Oh, consciously I would have
denied my feelings. A fifty-year-old man doesn't stop functioning
because he loses his father. Sure, there are those times when
the still of night or pang of conscience disrupts my routine
and hurls me down the slope of despondency towards the pits of
despair. Usually, I find a way to hang by my knuckles on the
ledge of hope until reason comes to rescue me. That's just what
you do… nothing is served by letting go. If I didn't let
go in Vietnam, I'm damned sure not going to let go over a man
who spent eighty years on the planet.
Besides, I always seem to manage to find a rationale for my ambivalence.
My friends and family had lots of available bromides-- 'He's
in a better place' or 'Finally, he can be with Betty' or even
'Jim wouldn't want us to be sad'. Plus, I've managed to provide
a few of my own; 'Why wouldn't you listen to reason?' or 'How
do you feel about that three-pack-a-day habit, now, Dad?' or
even 'What a horrible way to die'.
Sometimes, though, I just see his face. And it's not the old-man
face, either. It's the 1945 version, the smiling rake with the
wavy black hair and slightly receding hairline; the handsome,
devil-may-care soldier who stole my mother's heart. It's the
face of a man who's just come back from the war, battle ribbons
adorning his Army dress uniform and beer-powered legs willing
to dance the night away. Plus, he has that damned Kirk Douglas
cleft-chin that he refused to pass along to me. Truthfully, I've
always felt that he was glad he didn't, too. I've always perceived
it to be his way of telling me how disappointed he was in me--
how I fell short of expectations.
Three hundred eighty two days passed until I stood in Section
7, Row 6 of Fort Logan National Cemetery, and first saw the white
marble stone with the words:
James C. Church III
Specialist 1st Class
US Army, WWII Pacific Theater
November 14, 1920 - March 20, 2001
Admiring the quality of the marker, I bent down and allowed my
hands to run along the edges, enjoying the military smoothness
of the sharp, contrite edges.
"I didn't think you'd come."
I looked over my shoulder, but saw nothing. Now convinced that
I'd taken leave of my senses, panic overtook me, and I hurried
back to the curb where my car was parked. There, my father stood,
resplendent in the suit we'd buried him in.
"Why don't we sit inside," he said. "I think it's
time we had a talk."
* * *
The tripper bar of my car door succumbed to my trembling fingers
and the release caused the door to stand ajar. I looked inside
my Blazer's tinted windows and saw nothing I wouldn't have expected
to see under normal circumstances, so I pulled the door open
and paused, scanning the interior for further signs that I may
be certifiably mad. Then, satisfied that my crisis of sanity
had subsided, I sat down in the driver's seat.
The leather seats, warm from the sun radiating into the closed
compartment, comforted and consoled me. Fumbling for my keys,
I heard a match strike in the back seat. I turned around in time
to see my father waving the match in the air to extinguish it,
sucking hard on the cigarette he'd just lit.
"Hey, Buck-o, what say we go down to the Blue Lady? I haven't
been in there in years."
I looked into the coffee-brown eyes of James Charles Church,
III. The man called me 'Buck-o' the first fourteen or fifteen
years of my life. I didn't like it then, and I didn't like it
any better now. Whomever or whatever sat in the back seat of
my Blazer knew this, too, and the smirk on his face gave testimony
to it. There could be little doubt- this was my old man. But
how was this-- what-- possible?
I don't think I can do this… My heart screamed inside
my chest and I fought for breath.
"Oh, you can do it, all right…" his words took
on the same tone I'd heard whenever he demanded my attention.
"What's the matter, Buck? Chicken?"
Those words thrust me back to the summer of 1959, when he'd called
timeout and walked out to the mound. We were one run ahead in
the last inning of our ball game. I'd gotten two men to strike
out, but Eddie Dodge was at the plate, the league's leading hitter.
I'd thrown two pitches, neither of which was even close to being
a strike. Taking the ball from my hand, Dad looked at me and
said, "Bobby Ray, if you walk this guy, I'm going to let
Debby come out here and get this guy out. I'll give her your
uniform and you can wear her dress and play dolls on the sideline.
How about that? Can you do it-- or are you chicken?"
Debby is my little sister, age 4 at that time. As I recall, I
shrugged, the tears welling in my eyes. He put the ball back
in my hand and walked off the field. Eddie Dodge launched the
next pitch over the tops of the trees in centerfield. So, I was
a loser… but I wasn't chicken.
"Okay, whatever you say… Dad…" I started
the car and put it in gear. Slowly, I proceeded along the road
leading through the vast fields of identical white markers, being
careful not to hit any of the ever-present Canadian geese attempting
to cross and pulled out into traffic on Sheridan Avenue. After
checking my side-view mirror, out of the corner of my eye I saw
my father now sitting up front, adjusting the seat.
When he caught me looking at him, he grinned, held up his cigarette
and said, "No ashtray in the back seat. I wouldn't want
to get ashes all over your nice new carpet."
* * *
The traffic in Denver is horrendous, even on Sunday. I worked
my way through town, trying to avoid the major arterials. I'd
been gone for years, but some things never change; and the heavy
flow of traffic is one of the immutable eventualities that Denver's
residents learn to put up with. At each traffic light I'd look
over at him. He had his legs crossed and his arms folded at his
chest as if he were sitting on the sofa, watching TV. All the
while, he peered out the side window; taking in the sights of
the city he'd seen thousands of times, like some erstwhile tourist.
At least he wasn't smoking.
"Dad, I need-" he held his hand up, demanding that
I stop. He didn't look at me, but the signal was obvious. Don't
talk now. With the advantage of hindsight, as I think back
upon it, I now think he realized he'd been given a chance to
see his beloved town one last time.
Lakewood became Englewood became Denver became Aurora. Soon,
we drove down Colfax Avenue to the neighborhood I grew up in.
At the intersection of Montview and Florence, he pointed for
me to turn left. A short two blocks later, I pulled up to the
curb in front of 2264 Florence Street, my boyhood home.
Dad continued to look out the window. "Why did you do it?"
he said, still not looking at me.
"Why did I do what?" I inquired, honestly.
Now he looked at me, inquisitively. "You really don't know,
do you?"
"Well, Pop, there were so many devious, hateful,
despicable things I did as a boy, I just didn't know which one
you were referring to."
He snorted a little, nodding his head and exhaling through his
nose. "I guess I had that coming…"
"Care to be a little more specific?" I pushed the button,
lowering my side window.
"Once, when your mother and I were having a little spat,
you said you wished I'd die."
I didn't remember ever saying that and told him so.
"You always took her side."
"Dad, I was twelve; and you came home drunk, night after
night, refusing to eat and falling asleep at the kitchen table.
When Mom tried to get you to go to bed, you swore at her and
told her to leave you alone, which she did. One night you almost
burned the house down when you passed out and your lit cigarette
fell in the trash. I guess you don't remember that, huh? Whose
side am I supposed to take?"
He wrung his hands a little. "Okay, I drank some-- but I
always put food on the table, didn't I? I don't remember you
ever going to school with your butt hanging out!"
I paused to look at him again, craning my neck to get a better
angle. Sure enough, it was Dad's face; that much was unmistakable.
"You've returned from the dead to find out why I took Mom's
side-- does that about sum it up?"
Dad looked at me, his eyes suddenly sad. "Please don't hate
me."
"I don't hate you, Dad, how can you say that to me? I've
always loved you. Sometimes I didn't like you very much,
but I always loved you…" My voice trailed off at that
point.
"Enough to buy your old man a beer?" Again, the leprechauns
danced in his eyes.
It was my turn to snort. "Sure, why not… I'm sitting
in my car in front of a house I haven't lived in for nearly thirty-five
years, talking to a dead man; I might as well buy him a beer
at a bar which may or may not even still be there. I guess the
cell can't get any more padded."
* * *
The Blue Lady held a charm that, apparently,
only he could see. It was dark, seedy and nearly empty. Granted,
most neighborhood bars probably don't do a rousing business on
a bright August Sunday afternoon, but had it not been for the
bartender, it would be deserted. We found a seat next to the
shuffleboard machine, and I ordered two draws of Coors. I hated
Coors, but that was the only beer Dad drank, so rather than argue
with him, I just ordered it.
The bartender, an older lady with big hair
(I suspect it was a wig) placed the cold glasses in front of
me on the bar and said, "Pardon me for buttin' in, but your
friend looks pale."
"You don't know the half of it."
I picked up the over-full glasses and sloshed my way back to
our table, after making sure that I tipped her a buck.
As I walked away, she picked it up in both
hands and commented, "Oh, boy! A whole dollar! Now I can
get that heart transplant!"
I walked, noticing my father's expression.
He was now Humphrey Bogart, with a sardonic grin and Camel Filter
100 dangling between his fingers. "You seem to have a way
with the ladies," I chided, my intonation caustic.
With pinkie-finger extended, Dad quickly offered a perfunctory
toast, lifted the glass to his mouth and took a sip. "Ahhhh,
yes… Good ol' Adolph… I could always count on him to
tickle my taste buds." Then, the grin-- again.
Tickle? Adolph Coors spent more time
in your mouth than your teeth.
"How do you do that? I mean, come on, Dad… you're not
real. I can see you, but I can't touch you. Yet, you can grasp
objects, take up space; annoy me-- just like you did when you
were alive. What's happening here?"
Now he stared at the jukebox and absent-mindedly
swirled his glass in small circles on the table. Presently, he
looked back at me and paused, no doubt assessing me. After a
bit, he offered, "You look just like George Copeland."
Uncle George-- Mom's brother-- was my favorite
uncle. Even as an adult, I went out of my way to visit Aunt Frances
and him. He was a big, gentle man with a heart of gold. Plus,
he was friendly, out-going and loved to sing. At family gatherings,
it never failed that someone would ask him to sing or dance.
I always suspected Dad was jealous of him, because he tended
to leave the room when George was on a roll. I lost Uncle George
in 1990; they found him dead in the liquor store he worked part-time
in. A robber killed him for $14. The storeowner said he thought
George probably refused to open the safe for him. That's the
sort of man he was.
"Oh, so that's my fault, too, I suppose."
I tried to remain calm, but inside I was seething.
Quickly, he put both hands up in front
of his face, palms toward me, as if to fend off my words. "Why
do you take offense at everything I've ever said to you?"
"Why didn't you ever say anything
that I could interpret as being complimentary?" I drained
the remainder of my beer in one gulp, quelling my impulse to
throw the glass. "Just once, I would have liked to hear
you say, 'Way to go, Bob'… or 'Hey, Bob, interesting car
you bought'… or "Well, Bob, I hope you're happy as
an engineer, although I can't understand why you wasted all that
time in school'… just anything, Dad."
The lady with the big hair and green teeth
placed her hand on my shoulder. "Can I get you two another
one?"
I glanced over my shoulder at her, looked
at Dad, and back at her. "Why not, it's still early, isn't
it, Pop-- for some of us, at least."
* * *
I suppose I'd probably put two or three dollars in the jukebox
(and learned the bartender's real name was Myrtle, but around
1965, her professional name had become Trixie) before I felt
the call of nature. We'd re-hashed the Cub Scout years by then,
and, truthfully, I had gained little, if any, insight that I
hadn't known when he was alive. Suddenly, I felt the need to
drain the lizard.
"Pop, I need to whiz. I'll be right back. Promise me you
won't wander off, okay?" I thought that was pretty funny,
but he didn't even look up. He was checking out the laminated
menu card held up between the salt-and-pepper shakers, squinting
the same way he did when he was alive. Dad couldn't focus on
anything closer than three feet from him, but he'd always refused
to wear glasses for any reason, because he didn't need them...
unless he wanted to see, of course. Dad probably couldn't spell
'stubborn', yet he was one of nature's best examples of the word's
true meaning. As I said, some things never change.
I found my way to the 4 x 5 enclosure laughingly referred to
as the men's room. It contained a toilet and a urinal. I was
afraid to ask about a sink. I guess I should be grateful that
they even had indoor plumbing at all. I returned to find Dad
talking to Trixie, her arm wrapped around his shoulder.
"You want me to leave you two lovebirds alone?" It
took my best efforts to keep from losing my lunch.
Trixie smiled coyly and patted her hair, giving me her best kiss
my ass attitude. "Whazza' matter, Junior, don't know
how to treat a lady? Or are you jealous?" She smiled at
me and rubbed my old man's shoulder. "This tiger here does…
maybe you should take some lessons."
For a few seconds, all I could do was stare. My suddenly mute
father, the same man who always had something to say, sat stock-still.
That's right, let me dangle in the breeze.
"Uh, you want to tell her, or should I, Pop?" Now,
the remains of the man who I call Dad was gritting his teeth
and shaking his head fervently, in the time-honored shut the
hell up, I think I'm getting somewhere signal.
"Okay, I think it's time for me to go. Pop, need me to float
you a loan for a room or can you just snap your fingers or something?"
I'd seen just about all I cared to take in for one day when Trixie
decided that I hadn't quite suffered enough.
"Yea, you can run along, baby boy-- daddy and I are going
upstairs."
I don't know whether it was the beer or the smell of this place
or maybe just my mind trying to get around the concept that my
dead father was sitting at a table, copping a cheap feel from
the world's ugliest woman; but suddenly the room started to spin
and I needed to run for the commode. I pushed the door open and
hugged the porcelain for what seemed like twenty minutes as the
waves of nausea overtook me. Dear God, make it stop! Then,
thanks be to God, I passed out.
* * *
I recalled the night my best friend, Ernie, was killed in
an auto accident in 1970… somehow it was superimposed over
the other-worldly sounds of Corpsmen loading litters of Marines
onto my helicopter in Quang Tri province. Technicolor parades
of taunting North Vietnamese soldiers marching down the Ho Chi
Minh Trail in battalion strength between Laos and the DMZ greeted
me. Their smiles and waves promised we'd meet again, as I flew
over. I felt my femur snap as my chopper went down in an unsecured
landing zone thirty-four clicks northeast of Khe Sahn. When they
loaded me on the deuce-and-a-half to carry me to the aid station
at Hue, the guy on the litter next to me asked me for a cigarette.
I turned my head and saw my father lying there, eighty years
old with eyes shut, taking his last labored breaths; even then
all he could think about was smoking a cigarette.
"Get up, you damn drunk!" Trixie's clammy hand slapped
my face lightly. "Why can't you behave yourself like your
father?" She helped me to my feet and showed me the front
door. "If I were him, I'd be a little more choosy about
who I spent my time with. Now get the hell out of here!"
On the jukebox played I Love You So Much It Hurts Me.
John Prine croaked out the last bars of the ballad as I heard
the door shut behind me. I love you so much, it hurts me…sooo.
Walking around the building to where I parked the car, I contemplated
whether this was truly the end of-- whatever it was that was
happening. At least the air was fresh. I felt invigorated just
being able to extricate myself from Trixie's haunt. Plus, as
an added bonus, there was no sign of Dad.
I pulled out of the parking lot, and headed west. I knew a little
pizza joint called Paisan's located about a mile down Colfax,
and right now, the thought of one of Paisan's gourmet pies was
enticing.
"You know I don't eat pizza, let's go to Pfeiffer's and
get a steak."
Dad's voice nearly caused me to rear-end the car in front of
me. Quickly, I veered over to the curb and slammed on the brakes.
"Look, goddamn it, I've had about all of this I can take!
Either tell me what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing,
or get your ass out of this car and go haunt somebody else! I've
got three sisters whose heads you can go screw around with, you
know. Go give them a chance to bare their souls."
In an impulse born of frustration, I grabbed the rim with both
hands and thrust my forehead into the center of the steering
wheel as hard as I could-- the horn blaring at passing pedestrians.
Again and again I bashed my head into it, the staccato blasts
an insane neighborhood cacophony.
Soon, I heard a tap on my side window and looked up into the
sunglasses of a Denver policeman. I guess the fun just never
stops around here. Delicately, I punched the button, lowering
the window and raising the possibility that I might be in custody
very shortly.
"Y-yes, officer?
"Is there a problem here, sir?"
Oh, God, if you only knew. "Uh, no-- I'm, umm, fine--
very, uh… good, actually." I said, shaking my head
up and down like a ninny.
"Yea, uh-huh… may I see your driver's license and registration,
please, sir?"
Resignedly, I reached in my back pocket, pulled out my wallet
and handed my driver's license to the officer. My registration
was in the glove compartment, so I stretched over to unlatch
it. Dad was nowhere in sight. Reaching inside the plastic pouch
I keep my important vehicle documents in, I took out the registration
and proof of insurance and handed them to the officer.
"Okay, Mr. Church, just stay in the car, I'll be right back."
I leaned back in my seat, forcing my head and neck onto the headrest,
and sighed audibly. Feeling quite lost now, I turned my head
slightly and again my father was sitting in the front passenger
seat.
"It was only a suggestion." The leprechauns
were back.
* * *
Pfeiffer's Pfamily Restaurant was anything but-- half of the
organized crime figures in Denver ate there. In Dad's defense,
I must admit that it was elegant, in a 1950's sort of way, complete
with red flocked-wallpaper, waiters only, maitre d', and soft
classical background music. Oh, did I mention over-priced? Of
course, this was not a concern for Dad, given his present state
of existence, but as we sat eating bread sticks and sipping Idlebrook
red table wine (Dad refused to drink anything but New York wines,
something about unionization of the grapes), I realized my MasterCard
would soon be smoking from the balance being added.
I resented the maitre d insisting I select a dinner jacket from
their collection of 'loaners'. Nevertheless, I'd resisted the
urge to comment upon the myriad stares I received as they seated
the older gentleman in his natty Brooks Brothers suit and his
jerk buddy in cut-off jeans and t-shirt; covered, of course,
by a puce loaner with sleeves three inches too short. Perfect.
Dignity aside, I kept thinking I needed to write this up and
send it to New Yorker.
"Dad, I have to know. Is there anything I've ever done that
you've approved of?"
He looked up from his French onion soup long enough to let me
know he was, at least, formulating an answer. Upon resuming his
culinary attack, he offered, "Well, do you want the novel
or the Readers' Digest version?" Slurp.
"Nice touch… a literary reference. Death becomes you."
Instantly, I regretted the remark; it was mean. He stopped eating
and stared at me, a brief flash of recognition passing between
us.
"Yea, I didn't read much, that's true. Reading is for pussies…"
Now his spoon scraped the last of the soup out of the bowl. "…besides,
you don't learn much about literature and such in three years;
not starting from scratch."
The words delivered a blow more devastating than a sucker-punch
from behind. "I-- I didn't know, Pop-- why didn't you ever
tell me?"
He buttered his bread and laid it on his plate. "Bob, get
that damn waiter over here, I want some peanut butter."
I grabbed the busboy's arm and asked him to send our waiter over.
Patting his mouth with his napkin, he said, "You're a father,
tell me this. Why would a man tell his only son something like
that? Did you tell Blake that you damn near flunked chemistry
in high school? When did you share with Brian that you wet your
pants on a fishing trip because you were too prissy to go into
an outhouse that stunk? Haven't you ever wanted to keep any of
your inadequacies to yourself? That's the problem with society,
now, it's so damn 'touchy-feely'. It just wasn't something that
I wanted you to know-- pride, I guess."
This revelation was more than I could remember Dad ever saying
at one time, except when he attacked Richard Nixon or the New
York Yankees. I wouldn't be sidetracked. "Can we get back
to the original question?"
"Remind me again, will ya', what exactly did you ask me?"
A throaty horselaugh accompanied the statement; greedily, he
snatched the small bowl of peanut butter from the waiter. "Hey,
wait a second, Slick, I want smooth, not chunky." As he
placed the bowl back on the tray, he gave the waiter a knowing
look and said, "It's the choppers-- you'll understand some
day."
Dad slapped both hands down on the table, the tablecloth causing
a muffled thud. "Hey! How about I tell you who killed Kennedy?
It took a little doing, but I pried it out of Lee Harvey."
Now he was grinning broadly, his mouth shut and screwed into
an expression that was uniquely Jimmy Church. Clearly, he wasn't
about to answer my question, and this was all the answer I needed.
* * *
"Bob, did you ever stop to think that Jesus, perhaps the
most influential and controversial man who ever sucked in oxygen,
went missing for eighteen years? Of course, I can't personally
attest to it, but I've been told the Bible makes no mention of
his life from his childhood to the age of thirty or so. Why do
you suppose that is?"
We'd just left Dave Cook's Sporting Goods, where I'd added close
to $400 on my MasterCard, having purchased enough fishing equipment
to satisfy my father's insatiable need for state of the art lures.
Of course, when we got to Lake John, he'd cast one or two times,
not catch a fish, and immediately change to a worm or salmon
eggs, leaving me with ten or fifteen snell-hooked appurtenances
still in their blister packs. Lake John was a full three-hour
drive from Denver, so his question was welcome.
"The search for historical Jesus… that's a change.
I can't remember ever having a discussion with you about such
subjects. Found religion in heaven, did we?"
"Who said I was in heaven? For all you know, I may be a
jackrabbit in Arizona. Mind if I smoke?"
A rhetorical question, if ever there were one. He'd already punched
the button on the cigarette lighter. At least he wasn't lighting
a match this time. "Like I could stop you. Dad, have you
noticed that we have about three conversations going on at the
same time? Honestly, I don't think we had three conversations
in the last twenty years. Every question begets another question.
What does that say about us?"
"Yea, the shrinks call it avoidance, I think." He didn't
look at me, but his tone was all business.
"God, you have been busy the last year. I'm impressed!"
Now, he saluted me with his cigarette as he spoke. "I appreciate
the respect, but you don't have to address me as God.
I'd have been willing to settle for Your Holiness. "
Then he chuckled as I shook my head. I think he enjoyed my exasperation.
"Bob, I asked you the question about Jesus, because I wanted
you to think about something. You see, even the rich and famous
have mysteries associated with them. Who's to say that Jesus
wasn't running numbers for the Roman mob? Hell, I've been dead
for over a year, and no angels have presented themselves, asking
me if there's anything in particular I'd like to know about anyone.
Maybe nothing was written about Jesus because no one felt it
was important enough to comment on."
All this time, he thought I didn't care. I felt my eyes
well with tears. "I'm-- sorry, Dad."
Dad pointed out the window. "There's a 7-11 on the right.
I'm just about out of cigarettes. Would you mind buying me another
pack, for old times' sake?"
I pulled in next to a Mustang convertible with the top down.
An attractive woman sat in the passenger seat making eye contact
with Dad. I considered asking him which particular brand he wanted,
but, with her body language and my father's grin, I knew my question
would fall on deaf ears. To hell with it, you'll smoke whatever
I buy and like it.
* * *
Squatting at water's edge, Dad cast his line into the lake and
adopted his characteristic pose, kneeling in a catcher's stance,
feeding line from the Shimano open-bail reel I bought him. He
could stay in one position for hours. Fishing was always serious
business for my father. Of course, a cigarette dangled from his
lips as he concentrated. He's willing the fish to his bait.
I don't know if he could really do it or not, but I'm certain
that he believed he could. I remember many times, as a boy, watching
him, my own line sitting at the bottom of the lake-- completely
ignored, while he put some sort of double-secret whammy on the
trout. Sometimes, I'd try to utter something, only to have him
raise his hand and stop me. Shush! You'll scare the fish…
Yea, right. My voice is going to affect creatures lurking thirty
yards away and fifteen feet below the surface of the water. No
wonder they make hearing aids from dead trout.
Truthfully, Dad usually preferred that everyone remain silent
whenever he was present, unless, of course, he initiated the
conversation. Then, he expected prompt attention from whomever
he addressed. Funny, though, it didn't seem to bother the fish
if he had something to say.
Eventually, he sat his rod and reel on the ground, the rod tip
balanced over a rock, his line taut so that the slightest bite
would cause it to move. The brisk mountain air chilled me a little
as I watched a suddenly-older representation of my father gaze
across the lake, his out-of-place black suit coat unbuttoned,
causing the dark tie to blow in the breeze. He looked ridiculous.
After a few minutes, he walked over to me. "That damn Jap
reel is only 6-to-1 gear ratio. Plus, you can't take the clicker
off. Every time I took up the slack, it reminded me that it's
not a Garcia-Mitchell."
"Dad, they don't make Garcia-Mitchell's anymore. The company
split about fifteen years ago. You can buy one or the other,
or both, but not a combination."
"Well, that's screwed up. Is Mitchell a Jew-name? I know
Garcia isn't--"
"Oh, another Jewish conspiracy, huh? That figures. Those
people are responsible for all the world's ills, aren't they--
them and the blacks. Dad, tell me, please; where do you come
up with this stuff? Hasn't God or someone taught you anything
since you've been dead? That's just the sort of crap that I carried
around for years, refusing to believe that my father was a bigot--
that he just was so badly treated by people that he just hated
everyone. Dad, what happened? Why were you at war with the world?"
The lines on his face had somehow become etched and deeper, giving
him an older appearance. He stared off into the distance, but
he did something I recognized. Cigarette between his fingers,
he began scratching the back of his head with his thumb; slowly,
as if it helped him focus. I'd seen him do it countless times.
He didn't look at me, but I knew this posture-- this was the
preamble for Mom's Soliloquy.
"Bob, you had the greatest mother who ever lived."
Here we go. I'd heard that exact phrase so many times
it no longer had any meaning. In the old days, for the first
few years after Mom died, it was the opening line in the Everyone
Feel Sorry For Jimmy Blues, normally uttered when he was
liquored up and about to pass out. Of course, there was no acceptable
response. I truly believe I could have spoken the first line
of the Hail Mary, and he'd have found a reason why I was being
disrespectful to my mother. Well, today I wouldn't allow it.
"Yes, I know. Too bad I had such a dickhead for a father,
huh?"
Unbelievably, he looked at me and grinned. "Still mad at
me, aren't you? You still blame me for Mom's death."
I could barely control my rage. My body convulsed and I began
sobbing. "You still don't get it, do you? Dad, if you weren't
already dead, I swear I'd kill you myself, right now. I've never
blamed you for Mom's death, and you know it, you son of a bitch!
It's the same self-indulgent bull crap that my sisters and I
have put up with for the last thirty years. Why do you think
Debby became a full-blown drunk with cirrhosis of the liver?
It cost me thirty-five hundred bucks to have her flown from Phoenix
to Denver with a nurse, just so she could come home to die! You
abandoned my sisters, Dad-- when they needed you most you jumped
in the bottle! I understood for the first year or so, but Dad,
you died right along with her and did it standing up! How can
you pretend to be a man, much less a father? You were never there
for any of us."
Simmer down. Jesus, you're going to pop an aneurysm over a
dead guy!
"So… you're an expert on grief as well as the Denver
Broncos?"
A deep breath allowed me to regain my composure. I grinned and
shook my head. There was no point in trying-- I couldn't hate
this man.
An eighty-year-old man walked over and wrapped his arm around
my shoulder. For the first time, I felt the touch of a father's
hand upon my face and thoughts and experiences of a lifetime
raced through my mind. Eyes clouded with glaucoma implored me
to listen. "Now you understand. Sometimes love and hate
are too close to call. My guilt took me away, never again to
feel the warmth of family. Don't make the same mistake."
Without another word, he turned and walked away. As he reached
the Blazer, he opened the door and took my mother's hand as she
stepped out. She smiled at me, touched fingers to her lips and
blew me a kiss. Hand in hand, they disappeared at water's edge.
Bob Church © 2008
Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri
with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla,
and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five
children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time
to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations
at notquiteright/
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