by Edward Fays
Charlie owned a little antiques shop. It was quaint and somewhat off the beaten path, but that’s the way he liked it. Together he and his wife ran the place. They didn’t get many customers, but the ones they did have were loyal. I don’t know much about antiques, but it seems that the items he sold were fairly priced and could be found at almost any antiques shop. What Charlie offered that was unique was a delightful environment. When a customer came through the door, a little bell chimed, signaling Charlie that it was time to offer an enthusiastic welcome. He made all his patrons feel like they were being welcomed home after a long ocean voyage. It was a refreshing change from walking into a store and not getting any acknowledgment at all.
Charlie and I rarely discussed money, and I assumed he was getting by okay. Some days, as I took the elevator to the forty-third floor and marched into my posh office with the panoramic view and my company name, DAVID Mc CLINTOCK & ASSOCIATES, engraved on the bronze plaque in the entranceway, I thought of Charlie. Our daily lives couldn’t be more diverse. We each had a son, and although we’d hoped they would become friends, they never really hit it off. I wasn’t surprised. They grew up in different worlds.
The years passed, and Charlie and I continued to have dinner or go fishing every month or so. In between, my days were booked with board meetings, business lunches, and travel. It seemed like my son was growing up and I was missing it all. I justified it by saying that my connections would open a lot of doors for him and that one day he’d secure a nice inheritance.
Even in my sixties I was still clamoring away at the office, trying to stay on top of my game. Charlie still owned the store, but he worked there only part time. His son was married and Charlie had a new granddaughter whom he just couldn’t resist. I thought his life was cute, but somehow felt above all that—like my purpose was a nobler one. Charlie warned me that grandfatherhood would tamper with my priorities. He said I wouldn’t have a choice and that the innocence of my grandchild would pull me in; I’d succumb to his or her “baby charms.” I sneered and jokingly said, “We’ll see.” I wouldn’t have to wait long before I found out. My son and his wife were expecting their first child.
The birth of my grandson, Jamison, was thrilling, but nothing could induce me to cut back my hectic schedule. I was sixty-six, and my family pleaded with me to slow down and “smell the roses.” Their words failed to persuade me. My attitude strained my relationship with my wife and especially with my only son. But it took something more for me to realize the damage I was inflicting.
Charlie and I were the same age. During our midfifties he was diagnosed with a heart murmur. It wasn’t serious, just something he needed to monitor closely. At seventy-three the problem caught up with him and Charlie died of a heart attack while preparing lunch for a family picnic.
I loved Charlie, and at his funeral I learned how the world really felt about him. His son spoke of how Charlie had always been there for him. “We never had an abundance of money,” he said, “but when my dad was around you could feel the love in the air. His priority was always his family and making sure people felt welcomed when they walked into his store. I think that little antiques shop would have gone under years ago if Dad wasn’t such a welcoming soul.”
When the funeral ended, I shared a tearful farewell for my dearest friend. As I stood there staring at the picture of Charlie surrounded by a border of exquisite flowers, I realized that he was not only my best friend, he was my one true friend. I could confide in him, feeling safe that he wished me only the best. My son also attended the funeral; he’d always liked and respected Charlie. And as I gazed at Charlie’s picture and my eyes brimmed with tears, I heard a voice behind me say, “Why couldn’t you have been more like him, Dad? Why couldn’t you have been more like him?”
I turned and saw my son standing there weeping, his lower lip quivering. I wanted to feel angry at my son’s remarks, but I couldn’t. I only felt sorrow, because I knew he was right.
My old life came to a screeching halt that day. I retired from steak lunches with business partners and held my grandson’s bottle instead. I no longer put on a suit and tie each morning, but tied a bib around Jamison at dinnertime. I traded in handshakes for hugs. I finally came to know what I’d been missing.
Sometimes I think that Charlie passed on before me because his purpose here was complete. He always knew what was most important in life. People tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. Now I know, and it is wonderful. I have a new purpose—my family and their happiness. It was one Charlie always had, and I’ve come to understand that his was the nobler one.
Inspired by DAVID MCCLINTOCK
Where All the Roads Lead
Twenty-four years had passed since I last saw him, and although I was a pigtailed little schoolgirl when he vanished, I recognized his face instantly, perhaps because it hadn’t aged in all those years. He left my mom and me when I was six; said he was going out for groceries, never returned. That night is alive in my mind, like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
My mother was initially concerned: “I wonder where Daddy is? He’s been gone a long time.” As the hands on the clock ticked by her questions grew more intense, her voice crackling, “I hope nothing happened, my God I hope he’s all right.”
She called some friends, checking if he had dropped by for a visit. Later, with midnight looming, she phoned the local hospitals and the police department. No one had seen him.
The next morning was Saturday and although there was no school I awoke with the sunrise, eager to greet my father and see the relieved smile on my mother’s face. Sunbeams danced on the bedroom’s wood floor as my curtain swayed on the windowsill, shielding and then admitting bursts of light. I hopped out of bed and scurried down the hallway to my parents’ room. Their bed was made, untouched, so I hurried to the kitchen and saw my mom sitting there, her knees tucked under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins with a cup of coffee braced in both hands. She was wearing the same clothes, a blue sweater embroidered with a rainbow of flowers on the front and a pair of black stretch pants.
“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” I asked. My voice at the time was squeaky, innocent. “Didn’t he come home yet?” Looking back, that was possibly the worst moment of my mother’s life. Not a day goes by when I don’t imagine myself in her shoes, staring at a little girl in frilly pink pajamas, barefoot, pudgy little toes curled up on the cold linoleum floor. How could my mom have answered that question without her heart splintering into a thousand pieces? It was a simple question, but carried with it the weight of the world.
She scampered throughout the house that morning, endlessly peering out the front door. Checking the phone for a dial tone. Watching the cars pass by, hoping my father’s would swing into the driveway. Answering the phone with, “Dean, is that you?” whenever it rang. It never was. Every noise was a pinprick, the possibility that it might be him, but it was always something else. Her friend Ruth came over, a welcome distraction as they sat off in the living room, whispering. Investigating from around the corner of the room, I watched silently, rigid as a suspect in a police lineup, and that’s exactly how I felt—guilty. Guilty of driving my father away.
Sitting there with Ruth, my mom’s hand gestures were hurried and unfinished, as if she didn’t know what to say. They leaned toward each other; their fingers laced together, one giving support, the other receiving, and my mother breaking down crying. Reflecting back upon that day, I recall almost nothing except the dread in my mother’s eyes as she imagined the worst possible scenario. I know she must have cried alone in her room, throwing pillows, rifling through his clothes in the closet, but in my memory her wails of sadness are silent, as if muted behind thick walls of cotton. I remember her face, her teary eyes, and her mouth taking on sad contortions as the history of the life she and my father shared together spun through the picture frames of her mind.
For a while everyone was confused, unsure if my father would return, but eventually they accepted the harsh truth t
hat he wouldn’t be back. My mom tried explaining it to me, saying it was no one’s fault, but I couldn’t help feeling that my father left because of me.
From that day forward until my teen years, each weekend was spent with my maternal grandparents while my mom worked to earn extra money. That’s where I learned the reality that sometimes we lose the people we love most in the world.
“Honey,” Grandma said to me one Saturday, “your father loves you very much but sometimes we lose the people we love. Most of the time they join God in heaven, but once in a while they are still here on earth searching for the things that will make them happy.”
“But isn’t being here with us the thing that makes Daddy the happiest?” I remember debating my grandma’s reasoning, desperate to find an answer that would stop the hurt. Of course, there wasn’t one.
“Oh yes, dear,” she said, “but Daddy felt the need to explore and find other things that might make him happy. Sometimes people feel like they’ve got a hole, right here”—with her index finger she drew a big circle across my tummy—“and they feel the need to fill that hole. When you’re hungry you go to the refrigerator or the cookie jar and grab something to eat. That’s because you want to satisfy the empty spot in your tummy. Well, this is kind of the same thing, only what’s needed to fill the hole is a lot harder to discover. That’s why people leave, to find what they are looking for.”
As my grandma shared those words my grandpa held me gently in his arms. I felt helpless, like a bird whose wings were being pinned down. I’d hide in my room scribbling notes to my father, apologizing, begging him to come home. With no place to mail them, I stuffed the letters in my sock drawer. I guess it was good to get my feelings out any way possible.
The worst part of the day was dinnertime with my mom; sadness fell over us like darkness in the forest. I set the table for three, hoping that the door would burst open and my father would spring in wearing a toothy grin. My mother let me keep a place setting for him on the table, and when dinner was over she silently put the plate back in the cupboard and the silverware back in the drawer. The pain of what happened froze inside us like ice overrunning the shelves inside a freezer. The weekends at my grandparents’ house were where I thawed out. Their hugs, love, and insights were helping me become a wise young girl, better able to cope with the challenges I was facing.
The years passed and I grew into a teenager. The night my father left became preserved in the tomb of my memory as nothing more than a blur of apocalyptic sadness. I remember sobbing at night sometimes, the guilt I felt gnawing at my heart like a rat nibbling a discarded piece of cheese. By my twenties the pain I felt as a child had healed.
And when I was thirty years old my father suddenly reappeared, a broken man seeking forgiveness. He knocked gently on my front door.
No longer the impressionable child he’d abandoned so many years ago, I was confident with myself, with my place in the world. Standing there in the doorway, he looked helpless, his chin tucked low and his hands buried deep in his pockets, hoping that during his time of need I wouldn’t abandon him. I didn’t. I remembered my grandmother’s words. I remembered the compassion she felt for him. My heart melted and my eyes dripped tears like icicles melting in the sun. I welcomed him into my home. The following morning was Saturday, and although I didn’t have to work I awoke with the sun peeking through my window. Stepping into the kitchen wearing a pink robe and making fists with my toes on the cold Mexican ceramic tile I saw my father standing there, staring out the doorway, blinking back the tears. I hugged him, the way my mother hugged me the day he left. And that morning I shared with him the notes I had scribbled and stuffed into my old sock drawer twenty years earlier. The pages were parched with curling edges; the paper crackled in his hands but was soon moist with his tears. Perhaps it was the words I had written, words that can arise only from the innocent, forgiving heart of a child. Perhaps it was the first time he felt loved since the night he left, twenty-four years earlier.
There is a hole in my heart that will never be filled, the child in me that lost her daddy.
But there’s the adult part of me that needs a father, too, and so together we’re learning about each other and what each of us needs to feel complete. It begins and ends with family.
Inspired by SUSAN WILLIAMSON
The Shortcut
Richard’s home life was a dizzying display of drunken outbursts by his father, with his mother cowering in fear. Often she would leave for days, needing to flee the loathsome environment. If there was food in the house Richard made his own lunch, but most days he’d scrounge for half a sandwich from someone at school.
Today Richard skulked as he headed for home. A towering stack of books filled his arms with his report card jutting out from one of them. Two C’s, two D’s, and one F. He feared the wrath his father would lay upon him that evening and he didn’t want to face it.
The path home was just a few blocks, but the rebellious boys always took a shortcut through old man Riley’s backyard. Each day Mr. Riley protested as the kids trampled over his flower bed and well-manicured bushes, but he could never catch them—until today.
A few kids coaxed Richard into running through the yard with them. Desperate to get home before his father, he decided to join them and scurry through the backyard. Richard was the only one hauling an armload of books, and as he scampered past the house he tripped over the thick, protruding roots of a weeping willow tree. His books careened through the air, and he hit the ground with a thud. His friends kept on running, jeering as they left him to face old man Riley’s vengeance. As Richard lay there, facedown in the grass with his books and papers strewn everywhere and rocks biting into the skin on his palms, he looked up and saw old man Riley looming above him. “You’re in trouble now,” huffed Mr. Riley.
Richard brushed the grass from his face and shirt and crawled around collecting his books and papers without making a sound. As Mr. Riley watched Richard on his hands and knees, his anger suddenly turned to compassion. Mr. Riley was a retired schoolteacher and knew when a young person was dealing with domestic troubles.
“What’s your name?” he asked sternly.
“Richard, sir.”
“Well, Richard, I’m Mr. Riley, and I’d like a word with you, so let’s have a seat over here.”
Mr. Riley pointed to an outdoor furniture set rooted in the grass a few yards away. Richard was bashful, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt and never looking Mr. Riley in the eye, but Mr. Riley had a way of coaxing young people out of their shells. Forty years as a teacher had taught him a few tricks. He scolded Richard for traipsing through his yard and then made him a surprising offer.
“I saw your report card when it fell on the ground,” he said. “It’s pretty bad. For someone carrying home so many books it seems like you would have better grades. Don’t you study?”
“I guess. Sometimes. It’s hard to concentrate at my house, there’s too much noise.”
“Seems like you could use some extra help with your studies. How about I make a deal with you? I was about to put up a fence to keep those pesky friends of yours from running through my yard. If you convince them not to use my property as a shortcut home, I’ll help you with your studies.”
Richard was stunned and graciously accepted Mr. Riley’s generous offer. More important, he persuaded the kids in his class not to use Mr. Riley’s yard as a shortcut, and the flower bed soon returned to its original splendor. In weeks Richard’s grades were improving, his self-esteem increased, and he was better able to cope with his precarious home life.
Over the next year, thanks to Mr. Riley’s tutelage and encouragement, Richard was getting B’s instead of C’s, D’s, and F’s. His confidence soared as he learned to contend with and even heal some of the wounds within his family. During that time Mr. Riley became a sage for Richard, someone whose respect and admiration he desperately wanted to earn.
A few years later, when Richard was seventeen, he and Mr. Riley s
hared a quiet Sunday morning together—and that’s when the truth was revealed about the day they’d met. “Mr. Riley,” he said, “do you remember the day I ran through your backyard and ended up facedown in the dirt with my books scattered everywhere?”
“Like it was yesterday,” exclaimed Mr. Riley, with a sentimental laugh. “I was angry, but something about you made me feel differently. I could tell you had a lot on your mind”
With a pensive look on his face, Richard confessed, “I was going to commit suicide that day. I was so petrified of what my father would do once he saw my grades that I couldn’t think of another way out. I took my books home because I didn’t want people going through my locker and feeling sorry for me. Mr. Riley, that day was the first time I ever ran through your yard. I was so scared of my father I just wanted to get home before him so I could take the sleeping pills I had stashed in my room. But when you caught me I knew I wouldn’t make it home in time. You offered to help me with my studies that day and no one had ever done that before. That gave me hope that things could change and they have, thanks to you. So now you know, Mr. Riley, you did more than catch me that day; you saved me from ending my life.”
Inspired by ALAN H. RILEY
CHAPTER NINE
GIVING OF OURSELVES
Understanding how selfless acts of kindness can cause our heart to overflow with gratitude and reacquaint us with all that we have in this world
