Faron
kept his eyes open just enough to catch any movement towards the door.
Through the screen door haze of his eyelashes he watched his son tiptoe
around the recliner, pressing his hands against his thighs to still the
car keys and coins in his pockets. God how he wished he had the power to
make Jack’s phone, always new and increasingly full of tiny things
Faron did not understand nor care about, ring out loud the instant he
slid his hand inside his pocket or held the phone inches from his face
to see the settings in the shadowy room. He wanted to blink like Jeannie
or wriggle his nose like the witch and then bark out with delight when
Jack jumped startled, wide-eyed, fumbling to silence the phone.
Sometimes Faron got so caught up in thinking it could happen just as he
wished that his son would look back, forehead knitted, concerned at the
spasms on his father’s face. He would cross quietly back to the chair
and softly, slowly brush away the unseen hair or dust tickling the now
calm, settled face. Faron played along, relaxed his eyebrows and did his
best to express contentment in a long, slow exhale.
Jack
moved on cat feet around the room, watching without appearing to study
his father as he settled down. Sometimes the old man spoke just as Jack
thought he was finally asleep, carrying on their afternoon conversation
or reliving an event from ten, twenty, thirty or more years ago and
either way expecting the appropriate response no matter who, and when,
he was talking to. Jack had become well practiced in the generic reply,
showing Faron he was listening without getting caught pretending to be
someone he was not -- Goddamn hot in here sure we can’t crack a window? Just a sec Dad, I’ll let in a little breeze.
You can’t open a window on a goddamn B-52! What the hell, trying to get
us killed? Never put on a uniform one day in your life and now you’re
telling me about U.S. of A. fighter planes? Jack
dusted shelf edges with his fingertips, straightened frames that didn’t
need to be, stepped with care on the alert for empty cups, candy
wrappers, a fallen cane, anything that might create noise on his way to
the door. Leaving before Dad was asleep, or worse, waking him when he
really was, could splinter a good afternoon, send both men careening
backwards out of their hard-won peace. After several trial and error
disastrous endings Jack had honed his pre-door knock routine, preparing
as a ________ for any possible problem. It’s not that he didn’t want to
see his father, or wanted to turn on his heels to leave as soon as he
walked in the door, but when he was ready to leave, or his father was
ready for him to leave -- Well, I’m home, don’t you wish you were?,
he really needed to leave. He turned off his phone, put his keys in a
different pocket, cracked his knuckles and did a few deep knee bends,
slowly and thoroughly so no joints would pop and creak when he stood to
leave. He used to take his shoes off and leave them outside the door but
after his father noticed -- What are you, a mama-san? Why do you have to be so sneaky? and he lost a new pair of Nikes to Mrs. Fleeg down the hall (Really
Mrs. Fleeg, you wear a size 12? They go nice with your housecoat and
walker.) Jack simply wore his quietest shoes and hoped for the best.
Usually it worked, the two old rivals had wordlessly choreographed a
truce, a meeting of the picket line sentries, an acknowledgement of
mutual love
and need that more often than not sifted into afternoons of calm, ease,
affirmation. Nonetheless, after every visit it was a relief to slide
through the barely opened door and step back out into the hall, which
despite the stale air and echos of winding down lives allowed Jack his
first deep breath since knocking on his father’s door.
No comments:
Post a Comment