Homeland Elegies(91)

“Actually, I am.”

“Older guy? Brown, like you?”

“Yes.”

“On the couch under the mural,” he said, pointing at the part of the room opposite the poker nook. “He slipped me a few bucks not to tell anyone he was back there,” the man said. “But I think he needs you to take him home.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” I pulled out my wallet to fish for a bill, but he waved it away. “I don’t have that coming, but thanks anyway.”

He sauntered off, pulling the trash can along behind him as he went.

The mural in question was a Northwoods landscape in silhouette against a garish sunset. Sure enough, there was Father, lying on a leather couch under the outline of an eagle soaring into the disappearing sun.

“Dad,” I said, reaching down to nudge him. “Dad. You have to get up. Dad. Dad…”

“I’m not sleeping,” he groaned; he didn’t sound particularly surprised that I’d found him.

“Then what are you doing?”

His eyelids crept open now to reveal a leering, suspicious gaze. “Thinking?” He was clearly drunk.

“Well, you can do that back at the hotel.”

“Don’t. Tell me. What to do.”

“You have to be in court tomorrow.”

“I said: You don’t tell me! You’re not the parent!” Across the way, one of the poker players looked up at us from her cards. I sat on the couch’s armrest and lowered my voice.

“Dad. I don’t know what you’re doing, but you have to be in court at eight thirty tomorrow morning. Can we please get back to La Crosse?”

“Or else?”

“Or else? You were hungover in court today. It didn’t look good. Keep that up and you will lose this thing.”

“What do I care?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Serve that Quaker bastard right.”

“Who?”

“Quaaker Ooats…” he blared. The irritation seemed to rouse him; he sat up.

“Dad. I don’t know who that is.”

“You want to know why I was nervous?” he asked suddenly. I had no idea what he was talking about and said as much. “Christine’s mother. What’s her name?”

“Corinne.”

“Right. Corinne. She said I looked nervous when they all came to see me. She was right. I was. That bastard Powell made me sit down with a lawyer before I went in to see them. Warned me not to say anything. Liability.”

“Who’s Powell?”

“Thom Powell. The big boss,” he said mockingly. “We call him Quaker Oats—he looks like that guy on the box. Like his evil twin.” I laughed. He smiled. After a moment, he said quietly: “Don’t judge me.”

“For what?”

Then not so quietly: “I said, Don’t. Judge me. For anything.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just trying to help. I love you, and I’m worried. That’s all this is. Love.” As I spoke, I thought I saw something fall from his eyes. He looked at me now, pure and helpless, hopeful.

“Okay,” he said. “Get me some coffee. Then we’ll go.”

I leaned in, my hand to his face, and kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll be right back,” I said.

*



That night, I slept in his room. Sometime before 7:00 a.m., I heard him get up and start brewing coffee in the bathroom. The machine’s sputtering fully woke me. The shades were lifted; the room was filling with morning light. He emerged from the bathroom, two mugs in hand. I was surprised to see him looking as fresh as he did. “The coffee’s not very good,” he said handing me one of the mugs. “I’m sorry about last night,” he added after a moment.

“Let’s just try to stay the course, Dad. Get through this.” He nodded. “I was thinking maybe we call Sultan and ask if he could come and spend next week here?” Sultan was one of my father’s oldest friends, a member of the same medical school class cohort—like Latif Awan—that came to America in the late ’60s. When his wife died, in 2010, he quit medicine to start a restaurant in Omaha, where they’d settled. He and my father spoke almost daily.

“I don’t need Sultan,” he said gruffly.

“I have to be in New York on Monday. If Sultan can be here until I get back on Thursday, you’ll have someone here to support you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Dad, you need support. I would, too, if I was in your shoes. It stands to reason.”

He scowled, pulling the mug from his mouth: “Why do you always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Stands to reason.”

“I just meant—it makes sense that you would need support. Anyone would. It’s normal.”

“Then just say that.”

“I thought I did.”

“Simpler is better. Someday you’ll learn that.”

He looked away and drank. “Do you think I was a good father?”

“What?”

“I said, do you think I was a good father?

“What’s the connection?”