Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

“Thirty-two,” he answers before I can figure it out.

  “Thirty-two? That’s—”

  “Younger than you, I know.” Apparently, he’s prepared for this conversation, whereas I am completely in the dark.

  “Her children are, like—”

  “Six and two. I know. I’ve spent a fair amount of time with them both. I know this is unsettling for you and I’m sorry. I haven’t known how to tell you.”

  I can only shake my head. My dad is dating a woman thirty years younger than he is, a woman with two small children. He’s twice her age! I hate to admit it, but this is more shocking than finding out he’s had a heart attack.

  “Did you tell Sandra?” I want to find out if my sister has been in on this little romance, if she found out the same way I did.

  He seems surprised and shakes his head. “Why would I tell Sandra?”

  I shrug, feeling a bit of pleasure at hearing this.

  “Like I said, we haven’t told anyone, and besides, I haven’t seen Sandra in months.”

  “She was here for the surgery,” I tell him, wondering why he wouldn’t remember this.

  “Oh, well, I didn’t talk to her,” he responds. “And I’m pretty sure Dixie didn’t tell her.”

  I think about Sandra and Dixie meeting, how my younger sister probably thought of her as the help, asked her to fetch things for her, make arrangements for her, oblivious to anything that did not directly alter the axis of the earth that she thinks revolves around her.

  She will not be happy about this at all. She will think of it as some blight on her reputation, and even though I am pleased that she’ll come completely unglued, I do not want to be around for that little enlightening conversation between my dad and his youngest daughter. As hard as this is for me, I’m certain it’s been easier for my father to break the news to me than it will be to break it to Sandra.

  “I don’t really care about Sandra and what she thinks. I haven’t told her because I don’t think it’s any of her business.”

  I’m nodding, since I totally agree.

  “But you, Al, I haven’t told because I do care about you and what you think.”

  I stop nodding.

  “Well, I don’t really know what to think,” I tell him. “It’s kind of a surprise, you know.”

  He bites his lip and looks away.

  “Wait,” I say. “Is this part of the reason you’ve felt nervous and upset? Has worrying about my reaction to you and Dixie caused your blood pressure to spike? Is it the reason for your heart attack?”

  He shakes his head. “I wanted to tell you before you left; but I just couldn’t.” He closes his eyes. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I just couldn’t ever find the right time, the right way.”

  “Well, having a heart attack will certainly get my attention.” I sigh. “It must not feel very good to Dixie that you’re embarrassed about the relationship and won’t tell anyone.”

  He seems surprised. “Al, I haven’t kept this a secret because I’m embarrassed.”

  I don’t really believe him, but I don’t say this.

  “Honestly, I could care less about what other people think about me. I have very deep feelings for Dixie. I love her. In fact, I asked her to marry me a month ago.”

  “Marry?” The room starts to spin.

  “Yes, marry me.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Dad. If you’re not embarrassed about the age difference, then why haven’t you told anyone? Why is it such a secret?”

  I watch some of the lines in his face soften. “Because of you, Al.”

  “Me?”

  “I guess I kept hoping that you’d find somebody and you’d have a meaningful relationship and then you wouldn’t mind so much that I had one.”

  “Wait, what?” Suddenly, the conversation has taken another surprising turn. “You put your life on hold because you thought I couldn’t take you being involved with someone? You sacrificed your relationship with Dixie because of me?”

  “No, that doesn’t sound right,” he replies. And he appears to be gathering his words before beginning again. He takes in a breath and then exhales. “I just wanted you to be happy, and I didn’t want to make things worse by me being happy.”

  I shake my head. “But why do you think I’m unhappy? Why do you think that I need a relationship to be happy? And even if I was unhappy, why would your happiness affect me anyway?”

  He seems to be thinking. “It’s not that I think you’re unhappy, exactly. But I don’t think you’re happy, either.”

  All of this seems to be coming out of nowhere. I feel off center and out of balance. The lack of sleep, the trip out west, the hospital, the sugar spike from lunch, finding Dixie and my dad . . . as the nurse comes in to announce that Dad is doing well enough to be transferred, and that a room is ready in the step-down unit downstairs, all I can hear is Dillon’s voice rumbling in my head: “Dude, this is jacked up.”

  chapter forty-eight

  I am home and nothing has changed but everything feels different. Old Joe sits and stares at me from the hallway, only he’s blind so it’s not really staring. It’s the feline cold shoulder; I’m used to it and I don’t press for affection. I know he’ll come around when he feels he has punished me enough. Casserole greets me and then heads back to the bedroom, choosing to retire for the day without supper.

  There is a little dust on the shelves, mail and newspapers piled on the kitchen counter, a long note from Millie telling me how much my cat ate while I was gone and that she watered my plants inside and out. It’s a bit stuffy so I turn up the air-conditioning.

  A couple of sodas and a few containers of leftovers are in the fridge. Ben dropped off my suitcase by the front door and there is dry food in the dog bowl, water in the dish near the sink. It is quiet for an early evening hour and I pour myself a glass of wine, take a seat at the table, and pull out my phone.

  I turned it off when I was with Dad at the hospital, and with everything that happened, everything I saw and then discussed with him, I never turned it back on. I wait until the screen lights up and check the messages. Blossom texted three times, wants to talk, of course, is glad I am home safely, and is eager to hear about my dad’s condition. She was out with Dillon when I tried to contact her earlier, she wrote me.

  Ben needs information right away to make sure the paper comes out in time. I glance up at the clock. He called a couple of hours ago; I’ll get back to him in the morning. The futures calendar isn’t done and he’s not sure how to manage the makeup, the arrangement of headlines and illustrations. My gym membership, which I bought at the beginning of the year but never used, apparently runs out at the end of the month. And Dad managed to phone, just making sure I made it home (which I did thanks to Jasper, who was willing to come up to the hospital and drive me back to Clayton).

  The last message came in about an hour ago. Phillip called; he wants to know if my dad is okay. And I don’t hesitate to call him back.

  “Hey,” he says, when he answers. “How is he?”

  It’s like we’ve been in touch for years, not days. This is the first time I’ve smiled since lunchtime when Milton dropped me off at the All-State Truck Stop on the outskirts of Raleigh to meet Ben.

  Before we parted, Milton handed me a CD by Bill Black’s Combo, a white band that was popular with black listeners in the early days of rock and roll. “Smokie, Part 2,” the band’s first single, was released in 1959 and rose to the number one position on black music charts. He gave me the album because I’d told him that I had been to Graceland. It had been a religious experience, I’d said, though I didn’t give the details.

  “If you like Elvis,” Milton said, “you need to hear his roots. Bill Black was a great influence on the King, helped him get started. White man who sounds so black they wouldn’t put his photograph on the album covers. You’ll like it, I
promise.”

  And I took his offering, gave him a hug, and smiled.

  I had traveled all the way across the country and made it safely back to Clayton. And it was all because of the kindness of strangers: Tony, organizing my trip home; Luna, with her bag of pork chops and rolled dollars; Clyde, hurrying home to be at his granddaughter’s birthday party; Milton, and his extensive knowledge of rhythm and blues and Bill Black and Elvis. It all just made me smile.

  But since then I’ve been pretty down. Sitting in a hospital room, seeing my dad after surgery, discovering his secret romance, which he’s hidden from me because he thinks I’m unhappy—that was the rest of the day, and I haven’t felt cheerful since the truck stop on the outskirts of Raleigh. Until now.

  “He’s okay,” I tell Phillip, taking a sip from my glass of wine. “They moved him from ICU this afternoon. When I left, he was in a regular room watching CNN, eating a cherry Popsicle.”

  “Cherry Popsicles are good.”

  There it is again. I’m smiling. “Well, it’s not a hot fudge sundae from the Dairy Barn; but it’s close.”

  There is a pause and I watch Old Joe think about coming to say hello.

  “I’m glad everything is okay, Al. I know you must be relieved.”

  “Yes, it’s been a long twenty-four hours.” I hold out my hand, but my cat just sits and cleans his front paws.

  “So tell me about the truckers. That’s crazy,” Phillip says.

  The truckers. I see them, their kind faces, three strangers giving me rides. “It was my friend’s grandfather who set up the whole trip.”

  “Blossom.”

  “Yeah.” I forgot that he knows about my teenage companion.

  “He was driving from Arizona, heading east for a ways, so he picked me and my dog up from Grants and drove us to Oklahoma; then a second trucker got us to Arkansas, and a third dropped us off in Raleigh. I have to say I feel a little disoriented driving across the country in only a day.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that might confuse your biorhythms.”

  “It was good, though. A good trip.”

  “Did you bury Roger?”

  “We scattered his ashes. I found out where he had lived and Blossom and I went out there and returned him to his place.”

  “That’s nice,” he replies.

  I think again about the fine black dust as it lifted on the breeze and then settled on the ground around me. It was nice.

  “I bet Oscar is glad you’re home.”

  I think about my conversation with my dad, but decide against pulling Phillip into that little private drama. “I think he is. I’m glad I am, too.”

  “You know, you could have stopped in High Point.”

  “What?” I’m confused.

  “On your way back. You could have stopped in Winston-Salem or High Point.”

  I guess I could have. I take a sip of wine.

  “I would have brought you home.”

  Well, this is a surprise.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back to Clayton until the Fourth of July.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “So, it would have been a lot to ask you to come this afternoon.”

  “Actually, it wouldn’t have. I’m already here.”

  I sit up at the table. “Here? In Clayton?”

  “Here at your door.”

  Old Joe glances at me and then flips his tail and walks down the hall toward the back of the house. There will be no welcome as long as someone else has arrived.

  I am still holding the phone to my ear when I see Phillip Blake through the curtain behind me. He waves and once again I am smiling.

  chapter forty-nine

  “SURPRISED?”

  If I were writing an article about this, I’d probably use another word. Shocked, maybe. Or astounded.

  “Hey, you,” I say, suddenly mindful that I have been riding in trucks for twenty-four hours straight, and sitting in a hospital for six or seven more. I know I look rough. I try to figure out what to smooth down or straighten first, but it’s all for naught. I just stand at the door staring at Phillip Blake, who looks so good I have to blink hard to make sure I’m not just making him up.

  “Is it too late?” he asks.

  “For what?” I reply, because I’ve been thinking about romance at my father’s age.

  He seems unsure of how to respond.

  “I’m sorry. Not at all,” I say, finally understanding his question and moving aside so that he can come in.

  “I remember this place,” he tells me as he glances around.

  Right. There was that long-ago prom night with my sister. Of course, he stood at the front door, not the back; and I’m pretty sure he was never in my kitchen; but that certainly doesn’t matter now.

  “Yeah, not much has changed,” I reply.

  “Does it feel weird to still be in the same house you grew up in?”

  I shrug. “No, not really.”

  And it doesn’t, I don’t think. Wouldn’t it feel even weirder to live in another house but still in the same town? “Well, have a seat.” I motion to the table. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  He nods. “Thanks.”

  Casserole finally makes an appearance. He gives me a look that says, It is too late, but I ignore him. He walks over to Phillip.

  “Well, hey, there, buddy.” And he leans over and gives my dog a scratch. “Wow. He’s only got three legs. How did that happen?”

  I pour Phillip a glass of wine and walk back to the table. My hands are shaking. “Just showed up that way,” I answer.

  That’s enough for Cass. He walks over to his water bowl, takes a few sips, and heads back to his bed.

  “Well, here’s to your dad being okay, and . . .”

  He’s staring at me and I go all wobbly inside.

  “. . . to old friends.”

  Maybe I was hoping for a little something different.

  “To old friends,” I repeat and take a sip, watching as he takes a sip, too.

  “I guess you must be surprised to see me,” he says after making his toast.

  I nod.

  “I don’t know, Al, I think your trip out west inspired me or something.”

  I take my seat across the table from him, wondering what part of picking up teenage hitchhikers or stopping at the homes of long-gone country singers has been so inspiring.

  “I told you about me and Hillary.”

  I nod. Of course I remember the news about his divorce.

  He puts down his glass of wine and runs his fingers through his curly brown hair. It’s magnificent.

  “I have just felt stuck for so long,” he tells me. “Ever since she left me. It’s like I’ve been paralyzed or something.” And then he hesitates and looks at me intently.

  “I’ve been on antidepressants.”

  I shrug. “Aren’t most folks?”

  He drops his head. It seems that I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “It’s just that I never thought I’d be one of those people.”

  I’m not sure I’m following.

  “You know.”

  “No, not really. Do you mean a person who’s depressed?”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t imagine anybody who takes antidepressants thinks of himself as one of those people, either. Depression just happens.” I sound like a commercial. I hope I can stop myself from saying “and it hurts.” I bite my lip.

  “Do you take them?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I’m not one of those people. It could just mean I’m one of those people who doesn’t have good pharmacy coverage.”

  Again, the long face.

  “I’m sorry.” This must be the third or fourt
h time that I’ve apologized to him.

  “It’s just that I don’t think it’s such a big deal. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Do they make you feel better?”

  He shrugs and then nods.

  “Well, if they make you feel better, help you get out of bed, go to work, function, then that’s a good thing, right? You wouldn’t think twice about taking an insulin pill if you had diabetes, would you?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Of course, then you’d be one of those people.” And I give a thumbs-up, realize how stupid that is, and then stick my hand in my lap.

  “You’re funny, Al. I don’t remember you being this funny in school.”

  I give him the well, what do you know eyebrow lift. I would like to say something funny about growing into my humor or learning it in college, but I can’t think of a good comeback line. I wasn’t funny in high school because high school wasn’t very funny. I was one of those people.

  “So, what are you doing in Clayton?” I finally find the courage to ask.

  “It’s like I said, you inspired me with your trip and I just liked talking to you while you were traveling; so I thought I’d come home, see you, hear more about New Mexico, why you did it.” He drinks the rest of his wine in one gulp.

  I get up to fetch the bottle from the counter, and as I walk past him I feel his eyes on me. It’s exhilarating.

  “Why did you do it?” he asks.

  I pour some more wine into his glass.

  I shrug and take my seat again. “I don’t know. I just decided it was something I should do.”

  “Like you were meant to find those ashes.”

  I hadn’t really thought of it that way. “I guess.”

  “See, that’s what I love. And that’s what I’m missing. I need some purpose in my life. Something that calls to me.” He finishes his second glass of wine.

  I take a sip from my own glass, wondering if the rekindled call of my heart might finally be heard.

  chapter fifty

  “I want you to have the paper.” Daddy has been released from the hospital and I am driving him home.