Sam!”
It was cold. But, so was the truth. I could not retort. She wished Sam never existed. She hated him. That was my only conclusion.
My wife had tears streaming down her face. It surprised me. Not that she was crying. That I was not. She shook her head and stormed past me down the hall. I followed her into the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” I asked, swallowing my frustration to attempt civility, if not love.
My wife was flustered. She slung her purse over her shoulder and smacked her keys off the counter.
“I need some fresh air to think,” she said, slamming the paneled wooden door behind her. The screen door screeched a snicker at me as it retreated and clattered against the frame in a mocking giggle.
Our small house felt smaller. It should have felt the opposite without my wife or son inside it, but that was not the case. Without the distraction of family, I noticed how the wallpapered walls crowded the small kitchen and served as a reminder that things fall apart without care and attention. Our IKEA furniture in the shag-carpeted living room clashed with the relics that were the brass overhead light and rickety wooden fan embedded in the popcorn ceiling. At some time I had made it all work. Now, I failed.
The lone quality piece of furniture we owned was a leather reclining chair almost always occupied by my Pop then. He was over there, watching his game. No one believed in his team like my father. No matter how many losses piled up, he would sit in front of that tube television and live and die with every moment. That was what he was doing then - living and dying with his Alma Mater’s football team.
I walked over and slumped onto our cloth couch. Pop was so enraptured with the game that he did not notice I was in the room, not to mention my wife and I’s fight a moment ago. His eyes shone with hope, and his mouth hung open in that stupid look. That look of belief.
“Go,” he whispered.
He clenched the arms of the chair as the tension built.
“Go,” he willed.
He slowly began to rise from the chair.
“Go. GO!” he prayed.
Sure enough, an exhausted player on the television screen dived past the goal line just before a defender could stop him. Pop shrieked and hopped around like a goon.
“We did it, son!” Pop yelled.
I remained pasted to the back of the couch. Pop did not detect my lack of enthusiasm, or he ignored it in his celebratory jig. He settled back into his chair and prepared for another bout of life and death with his team.
“I think things may be different this go ‘round,” Pop proclaimed.
I sneered at him as he watched and waited, and then I redirected my gaze to his stupid game. Nothing would be different. This game started but was over before kickoff. Everything was.
7. THE HERE AND AFTER
Now, you are caught up.
As I said in the beginning, I do not know if this is a happy story. I hope it is, but in the deepest darkness light is imaginary. I am in darkness. I would say it is the deepest of my life, but I am finding ways to slip still deeper. The funny thing, I realize as I sit on this miserable couch and watch my father, is that I envy him. Part of me still wants that. I just do not think I will ever have it again since Sam is gone.
“You should go after her,” Pop says.
I look at him. He shifts in his chair and keeps his eyes on the game.
“If you’re mother were here, I’d sure go after her.”
I snort and look at the tube television. It is all too familiar. Pop’s Alma Mater is kicking off and will probably yield a return for a touchdown. Any hope is false hope. I wish it were different.
“You said some awful things, son,” my father says.
I shake my head and watch the game. To my surprise, the opponent has a crease. The return man breaks through the seam and heads up the sideline like I have seen a thousand times before. He cuts in at the fifty-yard line to beat the kicker. The return man traverses field with a defender on his hip. He outruns him. The return man scores. It is exactly as I had predicted. I look at Pop in disbelief, but he is not watching the game. He is watching me.
“Did you hear me?” Pop asks.
“They just scored!” I protest.
Pop throws a dismissive hand at the television. “We’ll be back,” he says.
I am dumbfounded. My father is not living and dying with his team. My mind throbs with dissonance. I realize it is not the weekend. It is Wednesday. Morning. There is no way this game is live. I check the VCR. It is playing. This is a tape. It has always been a tape.
“Your team always loses,” I whisper.
“This one. Yeah,” Pop agrees. “But it’s a beautiful game. We come all the way back and almost win it.”
“But you lose,” I say. “Why do you keep reliving a loss?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
I take a moment. I do not feel heartwarming epiphany. This moment is like many others. Like any other. It is a moment.
“We don’t get to choose the outcome of our games,” my father tells me, “but we get to choose how we’ll participate. Will we turn off the T.V., ignore it, act like we don’t care, pretend none of it matters? Or. Will we watch the game? Will we pick a side? Will we root for a team? Will we hope? Even against all odds, even when we’re outmatched and overwhelmed, even when we know it all ends in a certain loss, will we still hope?”
He turns back to the television. His Alma Mater returns the ensuing kickoff. The return man sprints down the sideline. He looks like he will score, too. But. At the ten-yard line, he is run down and tackled.
“So close,” Pop says with a smile.
I sit back on the couch and stare at the television. My mind is clear but crowded. I have so many thoughts I cannot think them before I am onto the next one. They are all good thoughts. They are all what I need. I need to change. I need hope. Hope is the light. Hope is the buoy around my waste that can pull me up to the surface. Hope is the adult standing over the toddler drowning in the pool. Hope is everything.
After my moment, I realize I should not be on the couch. I do not know where I should be, but I need to move. I stand, walk to the door, and exit.
I am not going after my wife. Maybe Pop is right and I should, but I am not going after my wife. I get in my car and turn over the engine. As I begin to pull out of the driveway, I notice her car is missing.
The road is familiar as I drive. My car squeezes through my congested residential street like the remnants of toothpaste out of the tube. I emerge to a wider road. My car stays straight. It does not turn to the left or to the right. I pull forward into the park and park my car. There are several people here. Couples stroll around the pond. Children play in the open field and on the play set. Mothers smile and watch. I feel at home.
My usual spot on the bench is open, so I walk to it. My feet have spring in them as I walk. For the first time in a long time, I do not feel tired. I sit. The bench is cool like an ice pack on my back. It will not snow this winter, but it is cool enough.
I see the three sons playing in the water. They cruise in a sort of circle. Then, Scrooge pokes Donald with his beak and swims off. Darkwing swims away, too. Donald chases after them like a game of tag. I think of Sam smiling and feel the lump in my throat. It is my old friend, and I welcome it.
After a moment, I realize Daffney is nowhere to be found. I scan the pond, and then look to her familiar hiding place. She lies in the shadow of the tree, behind the bush, but the palm frond has blown away, so I can see into her cave. I snort at her.
“Daffney, come out here; don’t you see your children playing?” I ask.
The duck does not move. She must think she is invisible. It angers me. There is no reason to try to be invisible. Her children are grown and do not need her anymore. Sulking will not change that fact. It will not bring back the past.
I rise
from the bench and move towards Daffney. When she sees me, she scoots in towards the bush. She is a silly duck who thinks people do not have eyes and cannot see. I take another step, and she pushes in closer to the bush.
“Daffney,” I say with a laugh, “it’s a beautiful day! Don’t you know you can do anything?”
The truth in my words blindsides me. Daffney can do anything. She can fly well beyond this small pond inside this small park. Daffney can swim the rivers of the world, cross through valleys and climb mountains. She can confront the marble quarries and pick them apart a pebble at a time until she mines the water buried deep within that dry mountain’s well.
Suddenly, I realize I am breathing heavy. I look down and see one foot pacing in front of the other and my arms swinging at my sides. I have never been an athlete and cannot recall the last time I ran. My body is rejecting the effort. Pain stabs the soles of my feet through my boots, and my jeans restrict my movement, making my thighs tighten and cramp. It strikes me that I must look ridiculous – running in jeans and boots. The runners at the park always wear the proper attire. They must think me silly to be running like this. But, it is important that I run, so I will.
As I round the pond and my bench comes into view, I realize I do not wish to be here. The world has sunshine for the first time in too long, and there is work to be done outside of this park. Instead of returning to my bench, I run to the parking lot, get into my car, and drive away.
As I drive, I realize the