Winter’s End: That Saturday And This

That Saturday mid morning I am propped in my bed, my left knee again elevated. I once diligently tracked my miles, injuries, twinges. Now I cannot say how many times this knee has waylaid a day’s plans. Enough. The night before I prayed because I still believe there are miracles even for those of us whose needs are comparatively small. When I ask for my own healing, I also plead provision for Syrians, Yemenis, North Koreans, and when I wake with my knee to swollen to walk, I wonder if there was a choice at the front desk and it just made sense to nourish a child instead. For an hour or so, I think and write about the distribution of miracles, the needs of our world, the fear I have that I am blind to the good I have, the fear I have that I cannot hear what I must, in my heart, to live. And then I use crutches to go from one room of our apartment to the next, to see the children who are just fine, and perhaps glad, at not having to rise and dress for the day, or do anything at all.

The children are sunk in beanbag chairs with their little screens close to their little faces. I ask my girl to help make egg for breakfast. Egg and avocado. Egg and hash browns. Egg and ketchup. Scrambled or fried. Orange juice or milk. Their little faces look up, my girl gets up and she is helpful in the kitchen. My kids know I am broken today but my girl is tender in a way that surprises me, asking can she get this for me, or that, do I need anything, am I okay? My boy remains slouched in his beanbag chair. Unless I say otherwise, he will stay in underwear the entire weekend. My girl too. I look at them both, with their plates balanced on pale legs, screens blinking and singing, and return to my bed.

I make a heat pack from my husband’s sock and two cups of dry rice. I microwave the sock for four or five minutes. Ice does nothing for my knee. The heat feels so good. I arrange pillows to elevate my knee again. I have water within reach. I have a chocolate bar. I have my laptop and earbuds and a ranked list of the Oscar nominated movies.

For three days we eat rice and seaweed for dinner. There is a little restaurant on the block that sells bap for a thousand won and I send the kids to get three bowls. We sit in a line on our sofa and watch Isle Of Dogs, Apollo 13, Castaway. I send them to bed with kisses and lopsided snuggles, and heat my rice sock, prop my knee and watch another movie in bed. The pattern works in a way I don’t like.

That Saturday I was supposed to rise and run, return and make breakfast. Perhaps bacon and eggs, or crepes with whipped cream and strawberries. I was supposed to bike to a French cafe for lunch, a monte cristo or mushroom risotto. I was supposed to return home and make a coffee, write at the table while my children play outside or build a fort inside. That Saturday mid morning I think what is the point of being extra miserable when I am already miserable, and I eat two chocolate bars fast, and a lot of popcorn while watching Can You Ever Forgive Me, which is a truly terrific movie. Then I watch The Wife (Glenn Close is great, but the book is better). I read Moo by Jane Smiley. I write. I read Ephesians. I start a series I heard was good. Before the weekend is over I finish eight hours of an HBO series and one more movie. I cannot remember a more concentrated time of television watching. The last time I might have consumed so much of a screen was thirteen years ago when Justin and I bought the first two seasons of The Office, binged on a hot day with the curtains closed and ac cranked. Then we took a break to pick up pizza. Now I break to rewarm my rice sock.

On Sunday I sit on the couch and look at the smog. The air purifiers are both running high and the apartment hovers at an AQI of forty-seven. I hobble to the door of our drying room and feel a tiny slip of air at the jamb, find packing tape and tape the door sealed. Our AQI drops thirty points. I think about taking a picture of the smog. I cannot. For the same reason I cannot take a photo of my grossly swollen knee. I can remember both well enough, without proof. Years ago I read a blog post by a woman recounting her car accident while on vacation in Costa Rica. She included a photo of herself sobbing on the roadside. The equivalent for me is staring at the middle distance of our view, a forested hill made invisible by smog, and wondering how to write a sentence to explain the fear knotting my belly at the thought of staying in Korea for another two years of bad air, and all the tangential thoughts that follow: the utter selfishness of corporations banking their dirty, under(or un)regulated industry on China’s east coast, the impotence of regional governments to cut coal in favor of renewable or nuclear power energy options, my own careless use of plastic.

I briefly consider another fast, for the sense of control. To show I am doing something to heal my body, in petition. I tell the children we need to tidy the apartment. The girl helps. The boy helps, but grumbles. I say to him, I would like to be able to do all of this by myself but I need your help. That is it, that I need your help. My husband is away, my body is broken, my mind is tired. When my husband messages me from Cuba I hate him just a little.

A friend and her son visit and for an hour or so we talk about the air and our fortune (we can monitor and control the air we breathe, while much of the world cannot), and about books or movies. Our boys play nicely. I tell her I’ve decided to quit drinking coffee and alcohol. I read that both cause inflammation. What I will miss is the ritual of an afternoon latte and open notebook, a glass of wine while I cook, or two glasses with a friend. I can do anything for a time. I can quit caffeine and alcohol. My body will heal. I cannot be inflamed forever.

Can I. There is a flame in my body. If I might have some oxygen to burn. When I do fast, I feel my body burn. I go warm at night, wake with sweat. It’s delicious to be warm of my own burning body.

I want to run. This thought is not far from any other thought. Between that Saturday and this the swelling leaves my knee and I learn to walk again. I watch my ankle and foot through the motion. Heel roll up outside ball big toe heel roll up outside ball big toe. I watch to keep my knee over my ankle. I watch to keep my ankle steady. I watch to keep my toes awake. My foot is tired after one day. Between that Saturday and this my husband returns from travel, marvels at the smog, unpacks souvenirs from Cuba. I want to run. He turns forty and I promise to celebrate better when the air is clean and we can go for an afternoon bike ride along the river, and we will. But also, this year I did not I want to run have the energy I want to run to go out with the kids to let them I want to run choose a gift or decorate the apartment for his birthday with I want to run a banner or balloons. I bake a cake, make a promise and the next morning he is sick.

This Saturday my husband lays on the couch, unmoving. Drink water, I say, and he does. He takes medicine. He sleeps. I take the kids on a bike ride, what we might have done last Saturday if, and I go slow behind my boy and girl, watch my knee when I drive the pedal down, watch my ankle when I drive the pedal down, watch my knee and ankle through the motion to keep the joints aligned. And it is perhaps too much work to heal at all. I am mildly annoyed my husband traveled to clean air and warm climate with health and returned to be sick so that my run of solo parenting extends to the small interventions of a Saturday afternoon. The children squabble while we are out. I speak loudly so they can hear all the way down their bodies that love is a choice. And you cannot control the other. Love between two is never equal. Sometimes you give more. Sometimes your brother or sister gives more. You love without supposing to earn anything. Be nice even if you don’t have to be nice. Be kind. Generous. I am loud enough I see a woman turn to look at me. I am loud enough to hear all the way down my body.

The kids apologize to one another, and to me, and I say what I say, that I love them very much. My girl is put in her own thoughts on our ride home, hopping off her bike to walk for a stretch before resuming at racing speed. My boy asks if his sister is okay when she stops again to walk and we continue on, and I say, She knows the way home.

Sometimes I am afraid I am too honest about how much work it is to be a person, to love at all, to follow Jesus. I am afraid I discourage my children. Or I am afraid that what they might take on as natural and easy, I turn to a hard way because for me being a person, loving, following Jesus is hard.

When I am home again I balance on one leg, and then the other. I do this because I want to run. Yet this Saturday I am made to be slow. We eat two dozen strawberries. I finish reading a book. My boy kicks a soccer ball with a friend. My girl rearranges her room again. My husband rests his body on the couch. I feel how my belly and thighs go soft now. I see the middle distance return to our view. Before the children go to bed they come to me to snuggle and we lay together in my bed. I am glad for my children. They are lights. They tell little jokes they have between themselves or the three of us. We tickle and nuzzle. We sigh because sleep is near, and they leave to their separate rooms to dream. I stay awake a little longer to do this, to remember that Saturday and this Saturday at the smoggy end of winter.


Twelve of thirty-nine. 1894 words.

Fiction Workhorse Week Three 4041 Words

I should tell you where I found the workhorse model. In “The Getaway Car,” Ann Patchett talked about one of her professors who required  students to write one story a week. Later in the essay, Patchett said writing (and rewriting and rewriting) articles for magazines made her a workhorse.

Oh, and I should tell you I used a first sentence I posted months ago. Go find what’s languishing in your notebook or files, waiting.


It Happened Like That

The photo Tim showed me was creased, a line from hair to chin. He pointed to the man’s cupid lips and then to his own. “I think this is my father,” he said.

“Where’d you find him?”

“In my mom’s underwear drawer.”

I blushed. Tim knew his mom did that to his friends. She had Tim when she was sixteen and anyone who didn’t know thought she was the older sister. He punched my arm. “Sorry,” I said. “You want to know what else I found?” he asked. I shook my head. I’d gone through my own mom’s underwear drawer once, big white cotton flags you could send up in surrender, nesting nude bras. Mrs. Hayes picked up Burger King on the way to watch our soccer games. She made Tim let me choose what to watch when I was at their house. Knowing she wore boring underwear or lacy bits, either way, I’d die.

“What makes you think he’s your dad?”

“Look at us!” Tim held the picture up, tried on the somber gaze of the man. I shrugged. “It is,” he said, “You know it is.”

“Then who is he?”

“My dad.”

“You don’t know his name.”

“Not yet.”

“You tell your mom?” I said that just as Mrs. Hayes pulled up in Carl’s Mustang. Tim put the photo in his backpack, put a finger to his lips. Mrs. Hayes leaned across the front seat and opened the door.

 

We were fourteen, the summer before we started freshman year at St. Peter’s. We were skinny kids, two only children who’d made one another siblings in elementary school. In sixth grade, Tim told me Carl wasn’t his real dad. He’d only just found out, overhearing a conversation between his mom and Carl. He looked like he was going to cry. It was a bad time for Tim to find out his dad was not his father. He started calling Carl Carl.

Later, in college, Tim told me how dumb he felt. “I should have known as soon as I did math,” he said. His mom married Carl when Tim was a toddler and he had no memories of life without a dad. In sixth grade, whenever Tim got mad at his mom he screamed about the lie he’d been living. It wasn’t a lie, though, just a kind of fragile armor. They had the same last name. Carl tickled and wrestled Tim. The two of them went fishing up north. Carl didn’t change. He was always kind. After one fight I was there for, Tim and Mrs. Hayes ran to their rooms, slamming doors, leaving Carl and me at the kitchen table. Carl sighed, slumped a little. He dished casserole onto our plates, bowed his head in silent grace. When he looked up he said, “Sometimes I forget. He looks like me, you know?”

Tim did look a little like Carl. The same coarse straw colored hair. Wiry build. I wondered if that was what Mrs. Hayes saw in Carl, a good substitute.

 

A year or two before we started high school, Mrs. Hayes met with a class of tenth grade girls. She talked about the holiness of marriage. She emphasized abstinence with her own teen pregnancy as a prop. This one assembly proved popular enough with the school administration that Mrs. Hayes was invited back each spring. When we were sophomores, Mrs. Hayes told Tim she wouldn’t go if he didn’t want her to. “Everyone knows, Mom,” he said. Neither of us were dating girls anyway. A year later when Tim got a girlfriend, Katie stopped his hand at her waistband. “Your mom,” she whispered, “Made me sign a purity pledge.”

Tim told me about that when we were in our first year of college together. Our childhood fantasy of sharing a room worked out okay at first. The day we moved in, our moms took us out for lunch while my dad and Carl built the lofts. The two of us were sitting across from the women who’d made us both dinner, cheered equally from the sidelines, put up with our shit, as my mom said. Mrs. Hayes would never say “shit.” The diner was full of parents having last lunches with their kids, all the years gone to this minute hoping everyone had said enough of the right things. I kept looking around, at the girls. I hadn’t gotten a girlfriend in high school.

“Hey,” Mrs. Hayes said. She smiled when I turned to her. “Be careful, okay? Watch out for each other.”

 

Tim liked to drink. This was something I knew but hadn’t been a part of in high school. This was our one split, that and Katie. But now Katie was in Green Bay and Tim had unpacked on one side of the room. The first weekend, he found a group heading to a frat party. He didn’t ask if I wanted to go along. I had this stabbing pain, like maybe we shouldn’t have roomed together, maybe he wanted to do his own thing after all. But when he returned at one in the morning, drunk, I understood why he needed me in the room. I knew his story. I didn’t mind listening to it again.

He’d gotten his father’s name from his mom. He’d begged for years. He punched a hole in the garage drywall. He’d picked the filing cabinet lock. Finally, his mom relented. She said he probably wouldn’t find Alan Smith. She’d barely found him.

“He left before he knew,” Tim said to me in the dark. “Before he knew he had a baby on the way, he was gone. He left.” When Tim talked about Alan or his mom, he’d take long pauses. Sometimes he’d fall asleep in his clothes. Sometimes he’d start talking again and the narrative thread worked into me dream so that I was Tim too, and I was looking for Alan and I despaired that my father had the last name Smith. “Effing Smith! Smith!” Tim said and sometimes laughed, sometimes went sullen at the impossibility of tracking down a man with two common names.

“He’s from Canada,” Tim said, “Which narrows it. By millions.”

Tim put up a map of Canada in our room and started disappearing to the computer lab in the basement, googling Alan Smith Canada. He printed out a list of hundreds. He spent a week narrowing the list by age. This was before Facebook was big so he couldn’t look at pictures. He wasn’t sure it was okay to email or call the Alan Smiths and say maybe they were traveling through Wisconsin nineteen, twenty years ago.

“Mom said he was working, logging maybe. He was twenty-two. Think I can cross off the college professor?” Tim was hunched over a stack of printed pages. It was three in the morning. I had a test at eight. I said that. Tim kicked back his chair and turned off the desk light, stomped into the hall. “Good night, Sleeping Beauty,” he said before slamming the door.

He got a little mean. I didn’t know if it was how much he drank or if it was Alan Smith. I was beginning to think it might be Alan Smith, the nature part growing in thick like Tim’s torso filling out. He didn’t look much like Carl anymore.

 

Every other weekend Tim drove across the state to see Katie. After first semester, I waited for those two or three days of solitude. One Friday night a group of Tim’s friends pounded on the door. A couple of them were already swaying. When they found out Tim was gone, they insisted I come along. “The phantom roomie,” one of them called me, putting an arm around me. We stopped briefly to pick up two girls, each of us doing shots, crowded between two bunks and laughing hysterically. It was like a movie I’d seen.

We walked to a dumpy frat house on the edge of campus, paid five bucks for a red Solo cup, and walked single file down warped steps to the hot, damp basement. I got drunk quickly because I didn’t know how not to. I leaned against a cool cement wall and watched the people around me pair off, disappear. Soon was the only one there who wasn’t in the frat. The guy who’d been pouring tiny shots all night told me they were going to turn the lights on. “Won’t be pretty,” he said, “I think a few people threw up.” I went into the cold night. I wasn’t as drunk as I’d felt in the basement. I put my hands in my pockets and made my way back to the room where I stood in front of Tim’s map and looked at the stars he’d drawn over all the possible addresses his father kept.

The next weekend when all the guys came for Tim, one of them said, “Hey, Phantom, you gotta come along. Come on.” Tim looked at me and shrugged. A couple of beers later, he leaned into me and shouted above the music. “I’m sorry! I was such a dick! I don’t know why!” In third grade, I ate a wood chip from the playground because Tim said he’d do it after me. When I swallowed the last of it, Tim looked very sad and said he couldn’t do it. Maybe he’d always been a little like this. “That’s okay!” I yelled back. We didn’t talk about Alan Smith all night.

 

I didn’t get a girlfriend that year. And Katie broke up with Tim. We packed up for summer, two boys who’d finally gotten to share a room. I was going home to work with my dad but Tim decided to take a road trip through Canada. “You can come, if you like,” he said. I thought about it. I really needed some cash. “You think you’ll find him?” I asked. He shrugged. “What’ll you say?” Tim grinned. “’Daddy? Is that you?’ Scare the fuck outta him.”

He called me twice. The first time, so pleased I thought he’d found the Alan Smith. “No, no. I wish. But this guy, this Alan Smith was really nice. Doesn’t look anything like me. He’s a First Nation. I don’t know how he got a name like this.” The second time, a little whispery, from a pay phone in a vestibule. “I think it’s the Alan Smith. I got a picture.” Later we’d look at that picture – not even the full profile of a man – and the creased photo from his mom’s underwear drawer and go back and forth how likely it was the same man. We saw what we wanted to see, given the night. Both photos were tacked on the map.

 

Mrs. Hayes and Carl surprised us one Friday afternoon. They’d gotten a letter from Tim’s advisor. Tim wasn’t doing well. I wasn’t in the room when they showed up. My stomach goes ice to think what Mrs. Hayes thought when she saw the map, that long ago stolen photo. By the time I got back from my afternoon class, Mrs. Hayes was sitting on the futon, her face splotchy from crying. Carl stood by the window, looking out at the parking lot and a row of trees beyond. Tim was at his desk.

“Did you know?” Mrs. Hayes asked me. I looked at my shoes. “I told you to look out for each other,” she said.

“He just wants to know,” I said, the first time I’d ever talked about Alan Smith with anyone other than Tim.

“He knows enough,” Mrs. Hayes said. Even crying, with smeared make up, she was beautiful. It reminded me of something mean my mom said, about how Mrs. Hayes was only invited to speak to the St. Peter’s girls because she’d made it through pretty.

“The name,” I said. I heard myself say Alan Smith. “Maybe he would like to know he has a son.”

“Would you? After twenty years?”

“I don’t know.”

Carl turned from the window. “I would,” he said, “But we came here about the grades. Tim, we’re worried about you. That’s all.”

“What did I do?” Mrs. Hayes said to Tim. “You have a dad. You went to a good school. What are you doing?”

“Mom. I’ve said it. I just want to find him. I love Carl –”

“But what did I do?” Mrs. Hayes’s hands were fists in her lap and tears ran down her face again. Tim got really still. I knew what he was going to say. He’d said it to me after nights of drinking. What his mom did. He said, “You fucked a transient man six years older than you, Mom.” Carl took a step forward. I think Tim wanted to be hit. Mrs. Hayes slid from the futon to the floor, kneeling at Tim’s feet, her hands covering her face, sobbing. When she stood up, she looked at Tim and said, “I wouldn’t take it back.”

“You didn’t have to say it like that,” I said, after. Tim stayed in his chair, clenching and unclenching his fists.

 

He dropped out at semester. I returned from winter break to find a Korean roommate. The next year I moved off campus and invited Tim to come back, take a job in LaCrosse. By then, he’d decided to get his commercial license and drive rigs across North America. For a few years he emailed occasionally. He came to my wedding, sent postcards from places I’d never been. When I moved my family to Colorado, I emailed our new address but didn’t hear back. No postcards. A few more years went by like that. When we went back to Wisconsin, I drove by Tim’s house. I didn’t see Mrs. Hayes or Carl. The last time I’d spoken with either was at my wedding. When my parents bought a house in Phoenix, we had no reason to return to my hometown.

My wife answered the phone one Saturday and put a hand over her mouth, passed the receiver to me. It was Mrs. Hayes, telling me that Tim died yesterday, an accident north of Winnepeg. I listened. I couldn’t speak. When I hung up I found my wife already booking a plane ticket. My parents flew to Wisconsin too, the three of us staying at the Holiday Inn. Mrs. Hayes asked if I’d speak at the memorial. Tim didn’t want a mass. I don’t remember what I said. I had an idea before I went up, a few lines on a piece of hotel paper, but I can’t remember if I said what I wanted to. I said he was a brother. When I said that I looked out at Mrs. Hayes and Carl, the two people who might have loved him more than I did.

I hadn’t missed him as much as I could have. Being in our hometown again, that made me remember what I lost. He was a brother. I kept thinking that. And I saw him everywhere. By the fourth day, I wanted to go back to Colorado, to my own wife and boys. I didn’t want to keep seeing Tim. I felt like I’d said goodbye years ago. I thought Tim would live on wherever he was, driving lines across a map, drinking black coffee, reading paperbacks in his bunk. I pictured him like that, away and alone, but alive. Now that he was dead, I didn’t want to see him at all. I’d rather he stay the brother I found in grade one.

It would’ve been rude to leave without saying goodbye to his parents. I parked the rental in front of their house and rang the doorbell. I couldn’t remember ever ringing the bell before. Mrs. Hayes answered. She stepped aside and I went in to the house that’d been my second home all of my growing up. They had a new dining table and living room set. The pictures on the walls were the same. A new TV. Carl got up from the recliner, extended his hand. “Appreciate what you said,” he said. I nodded. He gestured for me to sit and Mrs. Hayes went to the kitchen for drinks.

“Laura was hoping you’d come by,” he said, “She has something to show you.”

Mrs. Hayes came in with a tray, sodas and glasses with ice cubes. She pushed aside a stack of sympathy cards on the coffee table. “Here you go,” she said and smiled. She wasn’t wearing any make up and that made her look softer.

“Laura, I said you had something,” Carl said.

“Oh. Yes, I do. Just let me.” Mrs. Hayes poured half a can of Pepsi in a glass and handed it to me. She came back a moment later with an envelope. I set my glass down. The letter was handwritten, Tim’s cramped print. He found Alan Smith in Sudbury. He was sure it was the right Alan Smith because one of the sons looked like Tim. I could feel Mrs. Hayes watching me. Tim decided not to approach his father. Having found the Alan Smith, he wrote, he wasn’t sure which line of the many he’d rehearsed would come out of his mouth. After a day thinking, he left Sudbury, having only driven by the Smith house a few times, catching glimpses of his father’s life. He ended the letter saying he wouldn’t contact Alan Smith but if you want to, here is his address.

I turned the envelope over to check the postmark. A couple of years ago. “Did you?” I asked. Mrs. Hayes shook her head. “I wish I had,” she whispered. Carl said, “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“I didn’t think so either, at the time,” Mrs. Hayes said, “But now.”

“We’ll probably write a letter, send a picture,” Carl said.

“I could go,” I said. I remembered all the stars on Tim’s map. One must have been on Sudbury. I could change my flight, take the rental up for a few days. I said all of this on the phone to my wife while Mrs. Hayes packed a small cooler with food. It was midafternoon and if I left now, I could make it to Canada before it got too late. Spend a whole day driving east to Sudbury. Meet Alan Smith. Give him a photo of Tim, tell him what his boy had been like.

I didn’t think about what I would actually say. I stopped at a hotel and showered, watched tv until I fell asleep. I left before the hotel staff had finished setting out the breakfast muffins and cereals. The highway was roughed up by winters, stretches of it potholed. I drove through and around little towns. I stopped for coffee at a Tim Horton’s. Around noon I checked GPS. I had at least another six. I wanted to stop. I thought I could finish the trip tomorrow. It was midweek. Alan Smith must work. I couldn’t just show up at his house at eight a.m. anyway. But I continued, made to the edge of Sudbury.

I checked into the hotel and called my wife. I thought about calling Mrs. Hayes, but there was nothing to tell her. I walked down the street to a fast food place and ate a tray of onion rings, had a milkshake. Back in my room, I took a shower and turned on the TV, turned it off. I thought about my boys. And about Tim. A single vehicle accident. I looked at my phone. Ten days ago now. When we were kids, that was as long as we were ever apart, when our families took vacations.

 

The Smith house was an old two-story with a small porch and cracked sidewalk. I parked out front at seven in the morning, hoping I might catch Alan on his way to work. I watched the front door.

This is how it would go: Alan Smith and his wife would pause their morning. They’d send their youngest son out the door. Tim would be right. I’d see Tim in the boy’s features as he looked from his parents to me, then back at his dad to be sure it was okay to go. After he left, Alan’s wife – Janet maybe – would pour coffees and set out cream and the three of us would sit at table waiting for each of us to stir in the right amount of creamer.

Do you remember a girl named Laura Brillowski? I’d ask.

Alan’s brow would furrow. He’d run a hand through his hair, looking for a recollection. I’d wait a minute. Janet would ask what this was about. From Wisconsin? I’d say, Late seventies, like ’78?

Alan would shake his head. He didn’t remember. He’d apologize because this was clearly important to me. Janet would ask him if this was when he was pulping wood in the U.P. but it was another summer. Janet would ask again what this was all about. Then I’d have to say it. I’d have to say that Laura Brillowski had a son nine months after Alan had gone on, to the U.P. or wherever. That she’d married a man named Carl and they raised the boy as their own.

But Tim – that’s your son’s name, I’d say – Tim found a picture of Alan and then the name of his father. He looked for you for years. He found you, I’d say.

Alan’s hand would be too shaky to pick up his coffee cup. Janet would squint her eyes and ask if I was speaking in the third person, if I was a crazy. She might even half stand to find her mobile buried in her purse.

I’d have to raise my hands a little, show peace. No, I’d say, Tim was my best friend growing up, like a brother. I only just heard he found you. He told his mom – Laura.

Alan would pull a memory from a trip he and a few boys took on a rare long weekend. He would remember Laura’s lips like berries. He would tell Janet it was okay. He hadn’t known Laura’s last name. He hadn’t thought. It happened like things do, kids going to an old cabin on a lake. She was there. It happened like that.

Janet would bow her head. Alan would ask if I brought a picture and I’d show him one of Tim in our first year of college. It looked a lot like the one of Alan Tim kept. Alan would bring the picture closer. He’d put a hand over his mouth. Janet would lean over to see. They’d forget that I talked about Tim in the past tense and I’d have to tell them they couldn’t meet him. And then, watching them sit with that birth and death in the space of fifteen minutes, I would know I’d made a mistake. I’d understand why Tim only drove by the house, caught a glance at the man who’d fathered him and gone on to have more children he loved because he knew them.

Coming in late and unknown, it wasn’t fair. Tim must have decided that. It wasn’t fair to Alan Smith or his wife or his kids. If Tim had never learned this truth, not the worst truth to learn, but one that couldn’t go away, where would he be? Alan didn’t know yet, didn’t walk around carrying Tim. For Alan, it was all done when it happened like that.

 

The front door opened and a lanky teenager jumped down the step and walked down the street. A couple of minutes later, a woman in a pantsuit carrying an oversize leather bag walked across the lawn in her heels and got into a Honda, backed down the drive and didn’t look my way at all. Then Alan Smith came out and it was like looking at Tim, if Tim made it to sixty. He wore old jeans and a flannel, carried a lunchbox cooler. His pickup grumbled and backed down the drive. Smith Remodeling & Restoration stenciled white on red. I don’t think he saw me either. I sat for a while longer, then programmed the GPS for the long drive back.