Father of the Rain (26 page)

“Belated, actually. My birthday was two weeks ago.”

“All right then.”

“This is a real opportunity for you, Dad.”

His eyes are looking straight ahead, unfocused. He nods. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

I’ve spent so many years swallowing my feelings for my father, constructing a glib false self that sloughs off his jabs, evades questions, conceals facts that would displease him, that now I have a hard time finding the truth in his presence.

“You have been so strong this week. I know you can keep going.” Ninety meetings in ninety days is what they say. If you can make it that far, a return to drinking is much less likely. “Ninety in ninety. Do you feel like you can do it?” They also say, of course, one day at a time. Maybe I should shut up.

“Everyone leaves me.” He says it so quietly it takes me a second to understand what he’s said. It’s less than a whisper, as
if it has just emanated up through him, despite his efforts to quell it.

Everything is silent after that. Even the dogs’ collars, a steady white noise in my father’s house, are still.

I put my hand on top of his, the raised veins pulsing hard against my palm. “I’ll call you every night.” And then I add, awkwardly, it has been so very long: “I love you, Dad.”

He nods and lets out a long breath.

The dogs chase my car down the driveway, then turn back to my father, who is still standing there, his hands in his pockets, in the shadow of the garage. He isn’t yelling at them as he usually does. When they reach him, he puts his hands on their heads and then turns toward the house. The slope of his back disappears behind the trees.

People are already walking up the hill to the beach, even though it’s only nine-thirty on an overcast day. The Ferris wheel is motionless. A big banner announces the carnival will open up again at noon. I have missed my chance. Kids are already circling the area on bikes, waiting. Lighthouse Books has a
CLOSED
sign dangling from its door-knob. The Congregational Church’s doors are flung open, the organ playing. The Bridgetons will probably ask my father over for cocktails this week. On Water Street the shades are down in the front windows of our old apartment. I turn up Middle Street, toward the highway. The green signs appear, the regular white paint replaced now by a reflective silver. Route 4 North and Route 4 South. I’ll take Route 4 South to 95 to 90, fork off to 80 in Ohio, and take 80 all the way to Berkeley. My father will not go to another AA meeting. I pass the Route 4 North on-ramp, put on my blinker for the next, but go straight under the overpass toward the town dump. Beyond the dump, in what used to be woods, a new subdivision has gone up. I turn into the long, newly asphalted drive and follow its smooth perfect circle past the freshly built houses, then turn back on Middle Street, back toward town.

He is standing at the pool when I pull up. There’s a thick cord that runs from the poolhouse right into the water. I walk across the grass. At the bottom of the pool is a little white box moving all by itself, sucking up all the dirt in a straight line. When it hits the side it turns and goes in a different direction. It is only when I am standing right beside him that he lifts his eyes.

“You know who the Sox are playing at one, don’t you?” he says.

“The Yankees?”

“But you’re going to make me go to that meeting.”

“Yup.”

“Shit.”

Then we watch the new vacuum make its clean random tracks across the bottom of the pool.

I call the chair of the anthropology department that afternoon. I’ve rehearsed a few phrases in my head, but once the phone begins to ring I forget them. A teenager answers eagerly. I didn’t imagine Oliver Raskin with a family. He’s out in the field for years at a time, has written over twenty books. This young voice gives me hope that as a family man, Dr. Raskin will understand my situation. The phone is dropped on a table and more than a few minutes later he picks up an extension.

“Please forgive me for calling you at home on Sunday, Oliver.”

“Not at all.” He speaks from a small silent room. “I’m sure you have questions, Daley. Fire away.”

“I am not able to come to California right now.”

“The project doesn’t start until Wednesday. I thought that was clear.”

“It is clear. I can’t get there by then. My father is sick.”

“I’m sorry, Daley.” I can’t tell if he means he’s sorry about my father or sorry that my father’s sickness doesn’t change anything. “What’s the matter with him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m listening.”

I’m not sure why I thought he might understand. I can tell by his breathing he won’t.

“He’s going through a rough—”

“Is he
dying
, Daley? Because for you not to be here on the ninth of July he would have to be dying.”

“I worry that he will die if I don’t stay.”

“If you stay, he won’t die. If you leave, he will die.” I can hear him take a sip of something. “Are you a god, Daley?” I wonder if he’s drunk. “You signed a contract, if you will remember, in which you agreed to begin your research here in a few days. You may have ten more, if you think you can work your magic in that time.”

“I’m going to need more than that.”

“How many more?”

Ninety in ninety. “Three months.”

Silence. Another sip. More silence. “In other words, you’ve called to resign.”

“It’s a family emergency. I’d hoped I could have some sort of deferment.”

“This is not like applying to college. This is not a custom design situation. This is one of the most coveted positions in the country. We considered over a hundred applicants. We flew five candidates out here. The selection process took up the whole year.”

“I understand that.”

“Are you really my next suicide, Daley?”

I don’t want to work with this man. He’s a prick. “No, I’m not, Oliver. I guess I’m your first defection.”

The phone rings during dinner. My father answers.

“Yup, she’s right here,” he says, holding the phone out to me. But there is only the dial tone.

I put the phone back on its cradle.

“What happened there?” my father says.

“We got disconnected, I guess.” I’m trying to keep my voice steady.

“That your boyfriend?”

I nod.

I can’t eat what’s on my plate. I have no way to call Jonathan back. He’s already on the road by now. I’m not sure talking would help anyway.

The next morning my father is in a coat and tie. “I’m going to go in and meet with Howard this morning.”

“Howard Gifford?” The name of his divorce lawyer brings back pains in my stomach.

My father nods. “I want to get this thing moving.”

“If that’s what you’re sure you want.”

“Christ yes.”

After he leaves I unload the dishwasher. I carry the stack of plates into the pantry where Catherine kept them and stop in the middle of the room. I don’t have to put them there anymore. She isn’t coming back. Everything—silverware, napkins, glasses, salad plates, cereal bowls—can go back where they belong. As I work, I catch myself in conversations with Oliver Raskin or Jonathan or some amalgam of the two, trying to convince them that I have no choice but to stay here for a little while, that it is my duty not just as a daughter but as a human being.

When everything is back in place, I dig out the leashes in the coat closet and clip them on the dogs. They don’t know how to behave on leashes; my father only uses them for trips to the vet. As we make our way down the driveway, they weave themselves into tight tangles over and over, little Maybelle practically dangling off the ground.

“You guys are pathetic,” I say to them when we reach the street, and honestly their heads seem to lower in shame. “This is what we need to do. Sadie, you need to walk out that way, to my right; Oscar, way out to my left; Yaz, in front, and Maybelle, I’m attaching you to my waist like this.” I thread the small handle of her leash through
my belt loop. “And now we walk.” We take up the whole sidewalk and the grass on both sides. Anytime Oscar looks interested in Sadie’s grass I tell him to cut it out and keep his eyes ahead. They obey me. Yaz, the biggest of all of them, pulls us all forward like a sled dog.

We pass the Vance sisters’ old driveway, filled with bright plastic tricycles and trucks, an enormous garage where the chaotic garden used to be, then take the shortcut, down Lotus Lane to the sandy path, ignoring the new
NO TRESPASSING
signs. I am having some trouble breathing properly. It feels like there’s a baseball in my lungs, taking up most of the room. I can really only half believe that I had that conversation with Dr. Raskin, and only half believing is shocking enough. The dogs, hearing the waves, smelling the smells, strain hard on their leashes. When we reach the boardwalk, the sea suddenly below us, I unhook them all and the two big dogs take off down the weathered wooden steps. They sprint to the water in a spray of fine white sand. Maybelle stays by my feet, taking each deep step down with brave caution.

Warm air rises from the sand and cold air comes off the water. Gulls screech and waves swell and break in gorgeous white diagonals all the way down the beach. Farther out the water is pale and glossy or a rumpled deep blue, depending on how the wind is touching it. Seeing the Atlantic is always like seeing an old love: a familiar ache, a tremendous pull, and a deep sadness. It’s so vast, so muscular, so devastatingly beautiful. Jonathan and I have never seen any ocean together. We were waiting for California. Our cottage is 2.4 miles from a beach. He clocked it when he was out there.

The big dogs stay in the shallows, barking at the waves as they grow and retreating when they shoot to shore. I take off my shoes. The wind flaps my T-shirt and shorts. I try to take in deep breaths.

There is a smattering of people down the beach near the main entrance, setting up their umbrellas, spreading out their towels. But down here there is only me, the dogs, and an old couple in coats,
walking toward the rocks. I wonder if my father will have lunch in Boston with Howard Gifford. The dogs see the old couple and begin to run toward them. They will go to Locke-Ober’s and Howard will order a drink. When I call the dogs, my voice is thin and they don’t hear me.

Back at the house I sit at my father’s desk with a blank sheet of paper—it wasn’t easy to find one that didn’t have his name and address embossed on it—and a ballpoint pen. I have to write Jonathan, and I have to get the letter in the mail this afternoon so that it arrives in California when he does. I want to tell him that I need a little more time here, less than three months. And then we can go to Crater Lake. Maybe we both can apply for jobs in Philadelphia for next year. I can see him in his truck, the truck he couldn’t drive when I first met him, heading toward a job he didn’t even want. He wanted to get back to Philly. That had been his plan.

But nothing about me was in Jonathan’s plan. And he always has a plan. It’s the way he copes with fear. The way I cope is to never have expectations, so I’m not disappointed. Even with Berkeley I never let myself get attached to the idea. I wanted it, but I didn’t expect it. Maybe that’s why I can let it go now. I never really believed it was mine. And with Jonathan, too, I held back, until he called me on it.

“I want to have a relationship with you.”

I laughed. We were both naked. “I think we are having a relationship.”

“But these things need to be said. I think you don’t think I’m serious. Or maybe you’re not serious. What are your intentions toward me?’

I laughed again.

“I’m serious, Daley. What are they?”

“My intentions? You act like I’m angling to marry you or something.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He was quiet.

“Aren’t you relieved?”

“No. I’m not interested in being glib.”

“I’m not being glib.”

“I’m not sure any of this is meaningful to you.” He put his hand on my chestbone. “You’re all sealed up in there.”

It was true. I loved him so much, and I was desperate to hide the extent of it. But slowly, he cracked me open. He pulled out all my feelings and made me talk about them. He had the ability to articulate emotions that most people simply feel as a clump in the belly. Carefully, patiently, he built a strong platform for us, and I came to trust that I could put the whole of my weight on it. It’s because I am standing on that platform that I am able to help my father now.

I stare at the page. It all feels so raw and wordless and unbelievable. He is driving west and I am not there. I am not going to open the door. I have broken my promise. I put my head on the paper, and soon the page is wet and buckled. I toss it in the trash and go up to my room.

On my bed I think back to our last night together, before Garvey called, lying with him, his finger slipping up into my underwear. He is on me, heavy, hard, his lips on mine. I want to fuck you, I whisper, and he pushes in and I come quickly. Too quickly. I lie there for a minute, sadness pooling, and then I take it slower, and come deeper. I can feel it spread everywhere this time, beneath my toenails, across my scalp. I feel close to him, lying here. I don’t want to stop and feel the distance between us again. I start moving my fingers again in the syrupy wetness until I hear hard knocking on the kitchen door.

I zip up my pants and smooth down my hair in back. My limbs feel loose but strong as I go down the stairs.

It’s Barbara Bridgeton. She frowns at the sight of me through the screen door.

“Have I woken you?”

No, but you did interrupt my third orgasm. “I was just cleaning.”

I let her in, and fortunately the kitchen is spotless from all my rearranging.

She swoops her laserlike gaze over everything and then puts a stack of Tupperware on the counter. “I made three meals for your father, but maybe he doesn’t need them now. Is he out?”

“He’s gone into Boston.”

“By himself?”

“Yes.”

She pinches her lips together. She wants to know why he’s gone to Boston. She looks unhappily at her meals on our counter. “I thought it was Sunday you’d be leaving.”