door.”
“It’s still there,” he said, incredulous at the unavailability of his toy more than at any of the possibly more substantial issues of our father’s behavior. “He could have replaced it by now with something permanent.”
“Right,” I said. He rolled the ball toward me, and I stopped it by putting my foot on top of it. “There’s that, and now you’re only coming to me because you don’t have him to play soccer with you.”
“Not true,” he said.
I kicked the ball at him ferociously.
He didn’t even move. He waited for the ball to come rolling in and bump into him.
“He isn’t finishing these things because he doesn’t do these things, Walter. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know Dad? He isn’t one of those hardware-store guys. He doesn’t do things. He isn’t a doer. He doesn’t even like doers. He likes to sit in his chair. He likes to go to flea markets and maybe walk on the beach with us once in a while and go to stupid movies and play Parcheesi and backgammon. He likes soft socks, and he does not like overalls.”
Walter kicked the ball back to me. I kicked it back to him. Then we did it again, never gaining any speed or force. It was like we were playing under water.
“Maybe he’s just spreading out a little. Maybe he’s trying out new hobbies.”
“Spreading out? He spreads out from his bedroom to the kitchen to the basement, and that’s about it. Hobbies? His fingernails are dirty, Walter. Have you seen those fingernails? When did he ever have dirty nails before? He doesn’t like dirt. He likes baths, remember? He likes showers and baths, lots of them, and he likes his bathrobe. He doesn’t like dirt and overalls and hammers. He doesn’t like hobbies.”
I decided enough was enough with this nonsense. I opted not to kick the ball from afar, and instead charged him with the ball, which I was always better at anyway. I ran in, shifted left, shifted right, went straight in at him.
And banged right into him, without ever getting a shot off. I bounced right off Walter’s chest, went back in the direction I came from, then landed right on my backside.
I sat there looking up at him.
Walter’s healthy, round, happy face, sometimes mean face, always there face, puckered and pulled in, collapsed on him as he stood looking down on me.
I felt my eyes go wide, my throat lump up when I saw. He didn’t do this, didn’t show it anyway, and certainly wouldn’t do it over just bumping me to the ground.
He reached down with both hands and pulled me up, his face still all strangled up as he asked, “What’s wrong with Dad, Vee? What’s going to happen?”
When I stood, I was just about eye to eye with him. I figured it was only a matter of months before I was going to have to start looking up at him. But he still had a long way to go to really catch up.
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “But I know it will be all right. Dad is Dad. He is always going to be Dad, no matter what. We didn’t get all the way to here, from all the way away where we started, through all the everything we went through just to suddenly go poof. Right?”
He looked at me a little bit harder then, as if to see if it was, in fact, right. As if the answer to the rightness of all was to be found just a little deeper inside my eyes.
His face uncrunched. Not all the way, but enough to make my own stomach feel a little less filled with bowling balls and bees.
“Right,” I said.
“The fish are all dead,” he then said.
“What?”
“They’re all dead. All three of them. They’re gone. Dad says the rat got them.”
“God, not the rat again,” I said as I spun away from Walter and headed for the goldfish pond. “He blames everything on the rat. The rat broke the garage windows, the rat stole the garden hose, the rat scratched his car, the rat’s been making screeching noises outside the windows at night. Like, we don’t have just a rat anymore, that’s not enough, now we have to
“It’s still there,” he said, incredulous at the unavailability of his toy more than at any of the possibly more substantial issues of our father’s behavior. “He could have replaced it by now with something permanent.”
“Right,” I said. He rolled the ball toward me, and I stopped it by putting my foot on top of it. “There’s that, and now you’re only coming to me because you don’t have him to play soccer with you.”
“Not true,” he said.
I kicked the ball at him ferociously.
He didn’t even move. He waited for the ball to come rolling in and bump into him.
“He isn’t finishing these things because he doesn’t do these things, Walter. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know Dad? He isn’t one of those hardware-store guys. He doesn’t do things. He isn’t a doer. He doesn’t even like doers. He likes to sit in his chair. He likes to go to flea markets and maybe walk on the beach with us once in a while and go to stupid movies and play Parcheesi and backgammon. He likes soft socks, and he does not like overalls.”
Walter kicked the ball back to me. I kicked it back to him. Then we did it again, never gaining any speed or force. It was like we were playing under water.
“Maybe he’s just spreading out a little. Maybe he’s trying out new hobbies.”
“Spreading out? He spreads out from his bedroom to the kitchen to the basement, and that’s about it. Hobbies? His fingernails are dirty, Walter. Have you seen those fingernails? When did he ever have dirty nails before? He doesn’t like dirt. He likes baths, remember? He likes showers and baths, lots of them, and he likes his bathrobe. He doesn’t like dirt and overalls and hammers. He doesn’t like hobbies.”
I decided enough was enough with this nonsense. I opted not to kick the ball from afar, and instead charged him with the ball, which I was always better at anyway. I ran in, shifted left, shifted right, went straight in at him.
And banged right into him, without ever getting a shot off. I bounced right off Walter’s chest, went back in the direction I came from, then landed right on my backside.
I sat there looking up at him.
Walter’s healthy, round, happy face, sometimes mean face, always there face, puckered and pulled in, collapsed on him as he stood looking down on me.
I felt my eyes go wide, my throat lump up when I saw. He didn’t do this, didn’t show it anyway, and certainly wouldn’t do it over just bumping me to the ground.
He reached down with both hands and pulled me up, his face still all strangled up as he asked, “What’s wrong with Dad, Vee? What’s going to happen?”
When I stood, I was just about eye to eye with him. I figured it was only a matter of months before I was going to have to start looking up at him. But he still had a long way to go to really catch up.
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “But I know it will be all right. Dad is Dad. He is always going to be Dad, no matter what. We didn’t get all the way to here, from all the way away where we started, through all the everything we went through just to suddenly go poof. Right?”
He looked at me a little bit harder then, as if to see if it was, in fact, right. As if the answer to the rightness of all was to be found just a little deeper inside my eyes.
His face uncrunched. Not all the way, but enough to make my own stomach feel a little less filled with bowling balls and bees.
“Right,” I said.
“The fish are all dead,” he then said.
“What?”
“They’re all dead. All three of them. They’re gone. Dad says the rat got them.”
“God, not the rat again,” I said as I spun away from Walter and headed for the goldfish pond. “He blames everything on the rat. The rat broke the garage windows, the rat stole the garden hose, the rat scratched his car, the rat’s been making screeching noises outside the windows at night. Like, we don’t have just a rat anymore, that’s not enough, now we have to
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