Miles to Go (16 page)

“Karma sucks,” I said.

She laughed. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“I have some tax papers I need signed, where should I send them?”

“I’m staying at a friend’s house. You could send the documents here.”

“How about if I just brought them?”

Her offer surprised me. “You don’t need to go to that much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. Besides, I have the week between Christmas and New Year’s off, I’d love to see you.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Then I’ll come.” She sighed. “I better let you go. Have a happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you,” I said.

“It is now,” she replied.

I hung up the phone. I had forgotten how good it was to talk to her.

Long conversations (and most short ones) were not a part of my experience growing up with my father, so I wondered what we would talk about that afternoon. My worries were in vain. My father arrived around noon and immediately started poking around Nicole’s house for something to repair, which is his favorite pastime. His discoveries necessitated two trips to Home Depot. He repaired a leaky faucet, weather-stripped two windows, and replaced a refrigerator bulb before he sat down with me to watch the Alabama-Auburn game.

Nicole came home from work at her usual hour. We ate a dinner of Thanksgiving leftovers, then my dad and I decided to meet at noon for lunch the next day.

After he left, Nicole and I popped some corn, then sat down and watched
Citizen Kane
.

When it was over, Nicole said, “Did you know that
Citizen Kane
was about William Randolph Hearst? He owned dozens of newspapers, and when the movie came out, he not only banned them from mentioning the film, but he threatened to cut advertising from any movie theater that played it.”

“Can’t say that I blame him,” I said.

“It does make him look pretty ruthless. The film never did well at the box office. In the end, the film destroyed both men—Hearst and Welles.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Remember, I’m a film major.”

“Oh yeah.”

“That was also true of
It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Hearst didn’t like it?”

She laughed. “No, it also bombed at the box office. People thought it was just too depressing.”

I thought about this. “But we like it now.”

She smiled. “We most certainly do.”

True to his nature, my father arrived at the house the next day precisely five minutes before twelve. “If you’re not five minutes early, you’re late,” he always said, and he was as punctual as he was thrifty—which would impress you if you knew how thrifty he really was.

Even though it was lunchtime, we went to the IHOP for pancakes. IHOP was a tradition for me. Whenever we pulled an all-nighter at the agency, we’d all end up at IHOP, sometimes at three in the morning.

We both ordered a tall stack of pancakes—him buckwheat, me blueberry. When we’d gotten our meals, he asked, “How are you dealing with McKale?”

“I have my moments.”

He looked at me knowingly. “You know, after your mother died, some of my colleagues tried to get me to start dating, but I didn’t. That was a mistake.”

“I’m not interested in dating right now,” I said.

“I’m not saying you should be, it’s too early. But I hope you would someday consider it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, there are the lies we tell ourselves and then there’s the truth. I told myself that I didn’t want to confuse you by bringing home a strange woman. But the truth was, I was afraid of throwing the dice again. I was always shy, so your mother was the only woman I had ever dated. I got lucky with her. I didn’t think a man should hope to get that lucky twice in one lifetime.” My father poured maple syrup on his pancakes. “I’m just saying, don’t be a coward like me. Life is short. You should find love when and where you can.”

I was surprised to hear this from him. “You’re no coward.”

“Sure I am. Cowards always hide behind bravado or
stoicism. It takes courage to show emotion.” He took a bite of pancake. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about your walk. How’d you come up with your destination?”

“It was the furthest point on the map.”

He nodded as if he understood. “Have you ever been to Key West?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Anyway, I’m not against it—your walking there.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“I guess it was never really set. When I first heard, I didn’t know why you’d want to do such a crazy thing, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I think I know why you need to walk.”

I was curious to hear his reasoning, especially since I wasn’t totally sure myself. “Why?”

“When I was twenty-something I read this book written by a German psychiatrist. He was a survivor of the Auschwitz concentration camp.

“That book had a profound effect on me. Something that he said has always stuck with me. Maybe this is just my interpretation, but basically he wrote that when a man loses his vision of the future he dies.

“There’s a lot of talk these days about living in the now, but if you don’t have a future, there is no now. You see it all the time. Men retire from their jobs and a few months later the paper runs their obituary.

“I’ll be honest with you, when I lost your mother, there were days I wanted to put a gun to my head. But I still had you. And I had my job and my buddies at the Rotary. All that kept me from derailing.

“But you weren’t so fortunate. You lost it all. Lesser men have given up under such circumstances. But you found
something to keep you going. I think that’s admirable. I think it’s more than that, I think it’s manly.”

That may have been the greatest accolade I had ever received from my father. Almost instinctively, I tried to deflect it. “I almost gave up.”

“Almost
has no consequence in this world. None whatsoever. You didn’t give up, that’s all that matters.” He set down his fork and leaned forward. “Do you know why men climb mountains?”

I looked at him blankly. “Because they’re there?”

“Because the valley is for cemeteries. Sometimes, when tragedy strikes, people give up hope that they can expect anything more from life, when the real quest is finding out what life expects from them. Does this make any sense?”

“It makes sense,” I said.

“So, my CPA-trained mind must ask, do you have the financial means to carry out your trek?”

“I think so. I have about forty-six thousand dollars.”

“As long as you don’t stay at the Four Seasons, that should get you through. You’re not carrying all that money with you.”

“No. I use a credit card and ATM machines. Falene liquidated all our assets and put it in an account.”

“I don’t like the ATM fees,” he said, sounding more accountant than father, “but I suppose it can’t be avoided. The account is interest-bearing, I presume.”

“I really don’t know.”

He frowned. He never understood why I was so lax about such things. “Well, if, for any reason you come up short, you come to me. It may surprise you, but I’ve got quite a nest egg put away.”

“It doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re a hard worker and
the most frugal person I’ve ever met. If I were more like you, I wouldn’t be in such a mess.”

“If you were more like me, you’d be a bored, unhappy old man.”

I was surprised by his comment.

“I know I’ve come down on you more than a few times for being irresponsible with your money, but I’m being honest with you now—a part of me admires that about you. You and McKale lived. You had fun. And now you have those memories. I didn’t, and you and your mom suffered because of it. I suffered because of it.”

“We had good times,” I said.

“Course we did, but they were few and far between. I put things off with your mother that I regret to this day. One Christmas she wanted to go to Italy more than anything. She begged me to go. She said she didn’t want another thing for Christmas or her birthday, she said she’d cut coupons, get a side job and save her dimes. She even had a sitter lined up for you.” He shook his head. “Idiot I was, I told her ‘no.’ ‘Too expensive’, I said. ‘A waste of money.’ Instead we drove to Yellowstone Park.”

“I remember that trip to Yellowstone,” I said. “I have fond memories of it. Didn’t Mom want to go?”

“You wouldn’t know it if she didn’t, but I knew that her heart was set on Italy.” Suddenly, my father’s eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t know that would be our last vacation together.” He cleared his throat. “The kicker is, we had the money—even back then. I saved up all this money for retirement and for what? To give it to someone else? I live alone and still go in to work every day. I’ll never use the half of it, just leave it to you. I should just give it all to you now, you’d know what to do with it.”

“I’d just lose it,” I said. “At least I would have.”

“In the end, we all lose it. Remember that. In the end, we own nothing.”

It struck me odd hearing this from a man who had spent his career counseling people on how to keep their money. I didn’t know if my father had changed or if I’d just never seen this side of him. Probably both.

We finished our pancakes, then my father drove me back to Nicole’s. Idling at the curb, he asked in his direct, pragmatic way, “Anything else we need to talk about?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll go home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It’s settled,” he said.

I got out of the car. As I started up the walk, he rolled down the window. “Son.”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“I love you.”

I looked at him for a few seconds, then said, “I know. Me too.”

He put the car in gear and drove away.

My father came by to see me once more before he left. He was wearing his Lakers windbreaker again, with a Lakers cap. He came inside the building but not Nicole’s apartment.

“It was good seeing you, son.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Where’s Angel? I’d like to say goodbye.”

“Nicole,” I corrected. “She’s inside.” I called to Nicole and she walked out.

“I want to thank you for taking care of my son,” he said.

“My pleasure. And thank you for all the things you fixed around here.”

“I like puttering around. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just call.”

“Thank you,” she said.

They looked at each other for a moment, then Nicole stuck out her hand. “Travel safe.”

“Thank you.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come out to the car with me.”

I followed him out. When we were at the curb, my father said, “Three things I ask of you. First, take this.” He handed me a small cell phone, the inexpensive kind they give you when you open a new cell phone account. “Just for emergencies. No one needs to know the number and you can keep it turned off. I won’t call you, but you call now and then. I don’t mean daily, but every couple of weeks just to let me know you’re okay.

“Second, if you need help, you come to me. I want you to promise me that.”

“I promise,” I said, and I actually meant it.

“Good, good. Third.” He reached into the car’s trunk
and brought out a small bag. “Here’s the charger for your cell phone. And here’s something else you’ll need.”

I looked at what he was handing me. “A handgun?”

“Nine-millimeter. The safety’s on, clip is empty.”

I pushed it back to him. “I don’t do guns.”

“If you’re going to live on the road, you better have it. You didn’t even get out of Washington without almost getting killed. You’ve got thousands of miles to go and I’m betting you’ll be walking through places a whole lot tougher than Spokane.”

I looked at the gun skeptically. “I don’t know.”

“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. For my peace of mind.”

“Is it even legal?”

“It’s registered in my name. But I’m guessing your next mugger won’t care much.”

I balanced the piece in my hand. After a moment I said, “All right.”

“Good. Don’t forget the shells. One box should be ample.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Are you going through Colorado?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“If you do, drop by and see the Laidlaws. I haven’t seen them in years.”

“If I’m in the neighborhood I’ll be sure to do that.”

He stepped forward and hugged me. “Take care of yourself. I’m glad you’re my boy.”

All I could say was “Thanks.” I’d wanted to hear that for the longest time.