by Rick R. Reed
I felt a curious rush of emotions as I stared down at the man who’d fathered me. There was a time when he seemed huge in all ways—his loud voice, his demeanor, his physical mien. When I was growing up, he scared me.
But now, as he gripped the wooden handrail to make his way up to my place, he was simply a frail older man. I realized, maybe for the first time, he was short, no more than five eight, I’d guess. His wispy gray hair lifted in the wind. He didn’t have much left. His face was wizened, wrinkled by all the time he spent on the river in the summer, fishing.
This was not the man I’d grown up with, the one who never hesitated to raise a hand or his belt to me or my sister. The hard-drinking tough guy who spent weekends in front of the TV, drinking beer and eating sardine sandwiches just to annoy the rest of us, had perhaps moved away.
There was something gentle, maybe even cautious about the soul making his way slowly up the stairs. I felt like I was seeing my father for the very first time, this version of him, anyway.
He looked up at the door, and our eyes met before I had a chance to duck out of his range of vision. Through the glass I heard him call, “Hey, son! You gonna open the door or just stand there?”
He hadn’t changed all that much. I swung the door open and held it as he ascended the last few steps. He was wheezing and huffing by the time he passed by me, smelling, as always, of Old Spice. Once upon a time, he would have smelled of Camel cigarettes too, but those days were long past, thanks to a touch of emphysema and a triple bypass three years earlier.
He stepped inside, and Ruth, toenails clattering on the hardwood, rushed over to greet him. She jumped up, and I was shocked to see the little dog, weighing only about twenty pounds, nearly knocked him over.
“Ruth! Get down!” I shouted, and she complied. She went over to the couch and hopped up on it, where she glared at me. I didn’t yell at her often.
“Ruth? What kind of a name is that for a dog?”
I shrugged. “It suits her.”
Dad chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was the ugliest cat I’d ever laid eyes on.” He laughed at his own joke and then thrust the bag into my hands. “Here. I brought beer.”
“Thanks, Dad. You want one now?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
I moved toward the kitchen area. “Glass?”
“When did I ever use a glass? Just pop the can open, for Christ’s sake.”
I did as he asked and handed him his beer. He settled on the couch near Ruth, who eyed him warily. I didn’t expect my father to try to make friends with her. His sole experience with dogs lay in his past, as the owner of a series of beagles he kept in a run in the backyard. Those dogs were strictly utilitarian—for hunting.
My father no longer hunted, so no more dogs. What would be the point? I imagined him thinking.
“This place is tiny!” He laughed.
“Yeah, it’s kind of all one room.”
“One tiny room. What is this? About 400 square feet?” He took a long swallow of his beer.
“That’s probably about right.” I moved back to the kitchen, noticing that the journey took fewer than half a dozen steps, and fished out a bottle of Chardonnay from the minifridge and poured myself a glass. I came back and sat down with Dad. I very much wished Mary Beth would get there soon. I could probably count on one hand the times I’d been alone with him, and I had to admit I felt anxious, my stomach churning. What on earth would we ever find to talk about?
“The place is nice, I think,” I said, in my—and its—defense. “I don’t need much right now.” I shrugged. “It’s easy to keep clean.”
My dad looked over at me. “I thought you said that Ross left you some money?”
“Well, he didn’t leave me money, Dad. He’s still alive. We divided it up, and he was gracious about giving me my share.”
“What a prince.”
I was surprised Dad even knew Ross’s name.
“Why did you guys split up, anyway? I thought the big goal with you people was to get married. And here you are, already getting a divorce.” He craned his neck around to gape at me. “You did divorce the son of a bitch, didn’t you?”
I laughed. I don’t know why. Or maybe I do. My dad’s rancor against Ross seemed like a gesture toward me. And that felt fine. “Yeah. I don’t see any hope of reconciling. It’s official.”
We were quiet for a long time, and I couldn’t stop myself from glancing down at my watch and wondering where the hell Mary Beth was. We did say four o’clock, didn’t we? It was now almost half past.
“Good. The guy’s an ass.”
“Dad! You don’t even know the man.” I had brought Ross around once during our relationship and didn’t think my father had exchanged more than a dozen words with him.
“I don’t see why you want to defend him.”
“I’m not! I just think you don’t know.”
He took a drink of his beer. “What I know,” he said, and took a gulp of air in, “is that any man who cheats on my son and casts him aside isn’t much of a man. He’s not someone I’d want to know. You gays want marriage? Marriage isn’t that. Marriage is what your mother and I had—we stuck it out through the good times and the bad times. Neither of us went looking for a little somethin’ on the side, neither.”
He shook his head, and I noticed how he patted his pockets. I guessed he was groping for his cigarettes, even though, far as I knew, he hadn’t had one in at least three years. I was shocked when he reached toward me—I actually flinched—grabbed hold of my shoulder, and gave it a squeeze.
“My boy deserves better.” He took a sip of his beer.
I was truly at a loss for words. My first thought, when I could shake the numb shock I felt, was that my father hadn’t disliked Ross because he was gay, as I had always assumed. No, my father disliked him because he could immediately see what I couldn’t—that Ross was not an honorable man.
Could it have been so simple?
I had to ask him. “So you never liked Ross…because why? I just always thought you hated him, hated us, because we’re gay.”
“Ah.” He waved a hand at me. “I don’t understand why a man wants another man when there are so many beautiful gals in the world.” He shook his head and chuckled to himself. “But then, as I got older, I did come to see that there were lots of things I didn’t understand and probably never would.” He shrugged. “I won’t lie—it took me some time and several good talkin’-tos from your mom to make me realize that you were who you were—the son I raised.” He looked over at me and said in a rush, almost a whisper, “The son I love.”
I bit down on my lip. I wouldn’t let myself cry in front of him. I was hit with the realization that I was pompous in thinking that my parents never really knew me when maybe the case was just as true, if not more so, that I didn’t really know them. I wanted to fling my arms around my dad, but I restrained myself. One thing I did know: he would not appreciate such a Hallmark moment.
Instead I did what we always did in my family when emotions ran high—I changed the subject.
“I’m gonna call Mary Beth. See what’s keeping her.”
“Mind if I get myself another beer?” Dad belched and, without waiting for a reply, moved toward the fridge.
Mary Beth answered, breathless, after the second ring. “Hey! Sorry I’m not there. I was just gonna call you.”
“Everything okay?”
“Not really. Brad’s come down with something. He woke up last night with a 102 temp, and today he’s all chills and upset tummy. I kept hoping he’d feel better, at least a little, so I could get out of the house without feeling guilty, but it’s not looking good for that. Do you mind if I stay here?”
“Oh, come on, you get your fat ass over here.”
“Beau!”
“I’m kidding. Of course not. You take care of Brad. Do you need me to bring you guys anything?”
“Nah. I ran out this morning and got Gato
rade and Mrs. Grass. We’re good.”
I moved to the window and looked outside. The snow was gone, and the sky had cleared. It was actually sunny. The river sparkled before me, the sunlight shimmering like diamonds on the water. “Tell Brad we hope he feels better soon. I’ll stop by tomorrow with leftovers, okay?”
“You do that. Listen, I gotta run. I think he’s throwing up.”
“Go.” I wanted to ask her if this was a ruse, a plan to get my father and me alone, but she’d already hung up. And yes, I knew it wasn’t a ruse. But the alone time with him did have its value, I guess.
“She can’t make it. Looks like Brad has the flu.”
Dad grinned. “More beer for us, then.” He lifted his can in a toast to me. “What the hell are you making, anyway? I’m hungry.”
“Pork chops and smashed potatoes with a little salad. Sound good?”
“It’ll sound better when I can smell it. Show me what a good cook you are, son.”
I smiled. I turned and dumped my glass of wine in the sink and cracked open a can of Bud for myself.
I got started on dinner.
* * * *
We’d finished the chops, the salad, and the mashed potatoes when there was a knock at the door. Dad looked toward it, and I wondered aloud if Mary Beth had changed her mind and at least come for dessert—homemade chocolate pudding.
“Who the hell is that?” Dad said, after pulling a toothpick out of his mouth long enough to speak. He stared at the window in my door.
I turned around, because it obviously wasn’t Mary Beth. Dad, I think, would recognize his own flesh and blood.
My eyes widened a little in surprise. Maisie Rogers stood outside, smiling. When she saw me looking, she held up the blue Le Creuset Dutch oven I’d left at her place last week, as if she needed to justify her visit.
My father and I had talked about a lot of things over the course of our meal—how I got the pork chops so tender and juicy, what my secret was for my mashed potatoes (a whole block of cream cheese), the state of the roads in Fawcettville, and how wild Grace was becoming now that she was an adolescent—but I never mentioned my short-lived foray into employment, if it could even be called that. There had been no point, because I wasn’t even sure I’d see the Rogers again. I still wasn’t certain what I wanted to do about realizing I remembered meeting Jack or Jackson.
Seeing Maisie at my door was disconcerting and almost surreal.
“Are you gonna let her in or what?” Dad said out of the corner of his mouth. “Looks like she’s got a pan for you.”
I hopped from the table and opened the door. Ruth jumped from the couch to see who had come to call.
“Maisie! Hi.” I stepped back to let her in and keep the cold air out.
We stood there, a little awkwardly, for several seconds, while Ruth sniffed at Maisie’s legs and then looked up at her as though to say, “Well, aren’t you going to at least scratch me behind the ears? Say I’m so ugly I’m cute?”
Maisie handed me the Dutch oven so she was free to squat down and give Ruth some love, which Ruth ate up, just like the pork chops and mashed potato scraps she’d had earlier. My father had scolded me for feeding the dog from the table.
Maisie looked up. “You left that at our place, and I thought I should get it back to you.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to come all the way over here. I have two of ‘em, anyway.”
“All the way?” Maisie laughed. “It’s like five minutes.” She stood up and wiped her hands on her coat. She glanced at my father and smiled. “Hi.” She moved toward him, her hand outstretched. “I’m Maisie Rogers.”
Dad stood up to shake her hand, and I watched their eyes meet, their gazes lock for a few seconds more than I would have imagined. “Niles St. Clair,” he said. “You a friend of my boy’s?”
Maisie glanced at me, as if seeking guidance on how to field that one. “I guess we are.”
“Yeah!” I said, a little nervous and not sure why. I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the table. “Can you stay and have some dessert? I made chocolate pudding.”
“My son is an incredible cook. He gets that from me.”
I stared at Dad for a second. I’d never seen the man do so much as boil water. I suppose that had changed since Mom passed. Who knows? Maybe the old man could show me a trick or two in the kitchen. Tonight he was chock-full of surprises.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maisie said. “I don’t want to impose. I just wanted to drop off the Dutch oven.”
“Impose?” Dad just about bellowed. “Don’t talk crazy! This little joint could use some prettying up, and you look like just the gal to do it.”
Maisie laughed, and I saw a quite charming blush rise to her cheeks. Good Lord, was my dad flirting?
“Here, let me take your coat.” Dad helped Maisie out of her coat while I set the Dutch oven on the counter. I squatted down to reach in the fridge to get out the mugs of pudding I had set in there earlier. I also grabbed a carton of whipping cream and the bowl for it I had chilling. While I whipped the cream, working hard with my whisk, I listened as my father asked Maisie where she lived, since they were both only five minutes from me. Funny thing was, just about anyplace in Fawcettville was five minutes away from anyplace else.
“Really?” he said, as though Maisie had just told him she’d returned from a mission to Mars. “I’m just down the street from you! How do we not know each other?”
I didn’t know, and neither did Maisie. I was praying he wouldn’t ask her how she and I knew each other, because for some reason, I felt awkward about it. I felt like to bring it out into the light of day with my dad would force me to go back or something. Who knows?
But Dad didn’t. I suspect he liked what he saw in Maisie, and I wondered if he was affected the same way I was when I first laid eyes on her. I was reminded of Mom. Maisie looked good tonight too—in a pair of black leggings and a big bulky cable-knit gray sweater that looked very soft. I noticed how small her feet were, in a pair of leather ballet-style flats.
I put a dollop of whipped cream on each of the three mugs of pudding, then grabbed my microplane from the crock on the counter and grated some dark chocolate on top. I thought the garnish would most likely be lost on Dad, but Maisie might appreciate it.
When I set it down before her, she bit her lip. “Oh, this looks delicious, but really, I should go. I need to see to Jack’s supper.”
“Jack? He your husband?”
Maisie laughed, and there was something of the young girl in her voice. “Oh no! I’m not married. Jack’s my son.”
“Little tyke?”
I caught the way he oh-so-obliquely hinted at how young Maisie must be. Dad, you dog!
“No, he’s all grown up.” Maisie glanced up at me.
“Well, then he can get his own supper. You sit awhile with us, okay?”
Maisie patted Dad’s hand. “I’d like that, Niles. But maybe we can do that another time. All right?”
“Sure thing.” Dad tucked into the pudding. “Jesus, this is damn good!”
“I can’t let you leave without some of this pudding.” I dumped her mugful, along with what was still in the pan on the stove, into a Tupperware container and presented Maisie with it. “For you and Jackson.”
She looked at me, the surprise clear on her features as she stood up. “Jackson?”
I nodded. “You off tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“How about I pick you up around eleven thirty? We can take a walk around the park on the hill and maybe grab a bite. I wanted to talk to you about something.” I guess my decision was made about at least telling Maisie about my revelation. Perhaps I’d been working on it in my subconscious?
“That would be wonderful, Beau.” Maisie got into her coat. “It was nice meeting you, Niles. You ever get over to Rock Springs?”
“The track? Yeah, once in a while, when I’m feeling lucky. Why?”
“Well, I’m a cashier there. Maybe one night before I
start my shift, you and I can meet up for a drink or something.”
Dad’s eyes widened. “I’d love that. Tomorrow?” he asked.
“She’s not working tomorrow, Dad.”
“Tuesday, then.”
Maisie smiled. “Guess I’ll see you Tuesday, Niles.” She looked to me, a question in her eyes. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter 12: A Walk in the Park
Laughlin Park had been part of Fawcettville for more than a hundred years. It was a lovely parcel of land, with a long, winding path that meandered through wooded copses of maple, elm, and pine that stood atop a hill overlooking our town, the Ohio River, and beyond, the hills of West Virginia. There were a few picnic shelters scattered around its grassy open spaces, a small amphitheater for summer band concerts, and even a public swimming pool, where children and teenagers like my niece, Grace, hung out in the summer.
Today, Maisie and I walked the circumference of the park, a distance of about two miles, and now were taking a breather on a bench overlooking the river. The day was crisp, clear, and cold, and the river looked like a living thing, greenish-brown and twisting. I watched as traffic moved to and fro on the bridge that crossed the water, connecting Ohio and West Virginia, and wondered briefly where everyone was going. I would wonder such a thing, the man with nowhere to go…
Maisie was wearing the same black down-filled coat she had on last night, plus a bright pink muffler with matching mittens and hat. These made her look younger. She pulled the bodice of her coat closed with her hands and blew out a breath of steam.
“Cold! This late in the winter, I wonder if it’s ever gonna warm up again.” She smiled at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry! You want to head back to my car? It heats up really quickly.”
“No, no! I wasn’t complaining, just commenting.” She gestured toward the valley below us. “Would you look at this view? It’s somethin’, isn’t it? Whenever I get to thinking that I live in the sticks, a place where nothin’ ever happens, I haul my ass up here and get a load of this view. It puts things in perspective, you know?” She glanced at me. “We’re really lucky to be here. To have all this”—she reached an arm out to indicate the scenery—”to take for granted.”
