Flight (13 page)

“I can’t tell you secrets,” he says. “I don’t even know you.”

And then the guy realizes that he can tell me anything precisely
because
he doesn’t know me. He realizes that any stranger can be your priest.

“All right,” he says. “I got a bird story.”

“Bird stories are my favorite stories.”

“You liar,” he says, and lets me go.

He takes a step back. I turn and face him. He waits to see if I’m going to attack him.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“All right,” he says. “I have a daughter, Jill. She’s seven. And she’s been crying about getting a pet. A dog, a cat, a turtle, anything with four legs, right?”

“Kids like pets,” I say.

“Just let me tell the story, Captain Obvious,” he says.

“Then tell it.”

“So, okay, we don’t want to get a cat or dog or turtle or whatever because we don’t want to clean up shit. Or we don’t want to clean up a lot of shit. So my wife and I, we go to the pet store, and we ask the clerk what kind of animal shits the least.”

“Fish,” I say.

“See there, that’s what I thought, too. Little fish, little poop. But then the clerk says that fish might shit small but they shit in their own water—”

“—so the aquarium itself becomes one big shit,” I say.

“Gallons of shit and piss,” he says. “So the clerk says that snakes only eat once a month, so they only shit once a month.”

“And then you asked him what kind of asshole father would give a snake to his seven-year-old daughter.”

“Well, I didn’t say it in so many words, but that’s essentially what I said.”

“Then what did the clerk say?”

“Bird.”

“What?”

“He said parakeet.”

“Small bird, small shit.”

“Exactly.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yeah, stupid of me, right? I mean, we took that little bird home and he was a shit-master. Poop, poop, poop everywhere.”

“And you hated it, right?”

“Well, I didn’t like the shit, but I loved that bird.”

The man is embarrassed to admit that. I like him for it.

“You see, he was a smart little fucker,” the man says. “Could talk, liked to dance to AC/DC, and sat on my shoulder.”

“You let him out of his cage?” I ask.

“Well, his wings were clipped.”

“A clipped-wing bird ain’t a bird,” I say.

“All right, all right, Dr. Earth First, I’m not the one who clipped them. He was clipped when we bought him. And it wasn’t like we bought him to be a tiny little Thanksgiving dinner. We loved that bird. I loved him. My daughter named him Harry Potter.”

“That’s cute.”

“Damn right, it’s cute. You want to hear the cutest part?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m the cook of the family, the domestic, and Harry Potter loved to sit on my shoulder while I was cooking and insult my food.”

“No.”

“Yes, my wife and daughter told him to say
Too much salt
and
I’m being poisoned
and
I want pizza instead
.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“Yes, it is. And there’s more. You see, my daughter’s favorite dish is pasta-anything. So I’m always boiling water. And Harry Potter is always sitting on my shoulder.”

“Oh, shit,” I say, already guessing at the end of the story.

“You got that right. A few days ago, Harry Potter jumped off my shoulder. And maybe he forgot he couldn’t fly or maybe he thought the pot of boiling water was a birdbath. All I know is that he fucking splashed into the water.”

“You cooked him?”

“He was only in there a second. I scooped him out with a spoon.”

“Where was your daughter?”

“She was right there, and she was screaming like she was burning to death.”

“Well, you killed her bird.”

“I didn’t kill the bird. The bird committed suicide. Attempted suicide. He wasn’t dead. He was moving around in my hand. And he was struggling to breathe. And my daughter was screaming at me to save her bird. And I was trying to figure out how to do CPR on a fucking parakeet.”

“So you panicked, then.”

“I froze. But my wife was on the phone, calling up the all-night emergency vet place. I mean, man, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an all-night animal ER.”

“Did they send an ambulance?”

“Oh, fuck you, you know they didn’t send an ambulance. They told us to get that bird into the ER as soon as we could. And so we all piled into my car and busted ass over there.”

“Where was the bird?” I ask.

“My wife had it wrapped in a towel on her lap.”

“And it survived the ride to the hospital?”

“Tough bird, man. He made it to the hospital. And the doctors took him into the back room and we waited in the waiting room. And my daughter was crying and my wife was crying.”

“Were you crying?”

“Yeah, I was bawling like a baby. And there were, like, twenty other people in the waiting room crying for their pets. It was the Waiting Room of the Damned.”

“What happened to the bird?”

“He was still alive. The ER doc came out, like it was a fucking movie, and told us the bird was in critical condition and might not make it through the night. So my daughter asks if we could see Harry Potter, and the doc says yes, so he leads us back into the ICU, and we see the bird, and he’s hooked up to this tiny little oxygen machine and this tiny little oxygen tube is running down his throat.”

“No,” I say. I try not to laugh, which makes me laugh. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. It’s not funny.”

“Oh, no, that’s the whole thing. It
is
funny. It’s horrible, too. But it’s hilarious at the same time. And when I saw that bird hooked up to those tiny little machines,
I
laughed.”

“No.”

“Yes, I laughed so hard that I forgot my wife and daughter were standing there. And when I remembered, I turned and looked at them, and they were staring at me with those eyes. Do you know what kind of eyes I’m talking about?”

“Disappointed eyes.”

“Yeah, disappointed eyes. But I’m used to those eyes. I mean, I’m married, right? My wife gives me those eyes sixteen times a day. But my daughter was giving me those eyes. And you know what’s worse?”

“What?”

“She was ashamed of me. My little girl was ashamed of me. I turned her love and pain into a big fucking laugh.”

The man was crying slow tears.

“And then my wife and daughter left me. They got into the car and left me. They went to my mother-in-law’s house and they won’t talk to me.”

“Jesus,” I say.

“Christ,” he says.

“What happened to the bird?” I asked.

“He died, you stupid shit. You think there’s a long list of birds who survive a pot of boiling water? You think God pardons a few parakeets every fucking Memorial Day?”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You keep your sorrow to yourself,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Do you feel respected now?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes—no, wait,” I say. “Do you have a picture?”

“Of the bird?”

“No, of your daughter.”

He opens his wallet and shows me a school photo of a pretty little blonde with missing teeth.

“She’s great,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “And now she hates me.”

“She’ll forgive you,” I say.

“Do you have any kids?”

That startles me. I don’t know this homeless Indian’s name, let alone if he has any kids. Does he carry a wallet? I reach into my pockets and find a mess of cards, photos, and receipts fastened with a rubber band.

I snap the rubber band and sort through the mess until I come across a familiar photo.

“Is that your son?” the man asks.

I study the boy’s eyes and nose and chin.

“Is that your son?” the man asks again.

“No,” I say. “It’s me.”

“You carry around pictures of yourself?” he asks.

“I don’t mean to,” I say.

“All right, then,” he says. “I’m late for work. I’ll see you later.”

Without further emotion, the man leaves me. I stare at the photograph. It
is
me, the five-year-old me. The five-year-old Zits. The real me. How did this homeless guy get my photograph? Did my mother send it to him?

I walk over to a delivery truck and turn the side-view mirror. I stare at my bloody reflection. I am older than I used to be. I am battered, bruised, and broken. But I know who I am.

I am my father.

W
HO CAN SURVIVE SUCH
a revelation?

It was father love and father shame and father rage that killed Hamlet. Imagine a new act. Imagine that Hamlet, after being poisoned by his own sword, wakes in the body of his father. Or, worse, inside the body of his incestuous Uncle Claudius?

What would Hamlet do if he looked into the mirror and saw the face of the man who’d betrayed and murdered his father?

And what should I do now that I am looking into the mirror at the face of the man who betrayed and abandoned my mother and me?

If I had a sword, I might slide it into my belly and pull upward until I fell dead, but I have no weapon. And what satisfaction is there in killing a man who wants to die?

All my life, I’ve been wanting to see my father, to meet him for the first time. I’ve wanted to ask him questions. To interrogate him.

I stare at his face in the mirror.

“Why did you leave me?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you have a photograph of me when I was five? Did my mother send it to you? Why did you want to carry a photograph of me but not
me
?”

I can feel him fighting me. He doesn’t want to remember the day he left me.

But I am younger and stronger. I am better. I will make him remember. I will force him to remember. I will kill him if I have to.

And so I push against my father’s mind and soul. I crash through his fortifications and rampage into his memory and tear through his homes, wells, and streets, until I see it: the hospital where I was born. Or, rather, the memory of that hospital. And I burst inside and race up the stairs, and back through the years, and rush through a door into the maternity ward hallway where my father paces.

Somewhere on this floor, my mother is giving birth to me. But my father is not in that room. No, he’s outside, removed, remote.

“Sir?” a nurse asks him. “Can I help you?”

“My wife is giving birth,” he says.

“Do you know where?”

“Yes, room eight-twelve.”

The nurse is confused. Why is he standing here while his wife is giving birth? Men don’t wait outside anymore. Men aren’t allowed to wait outside anymore. Or maybe there are problems. Maybe it’s a difficult birth. Maybe this poor man needs compassion.

“Sir,” the nurse says, “your wife and child are going to be okay. We have the finest—”

He puts his hand over her mouth. She doesn’t stop him. She’s too surprised. Confused. No father has ever touched her face like that. Has violated her boundaries like that. Expectant and fearful fathers have grabbed her. Even pushed or pulled her. But nobody has ever tried to silence her. He realizes his error. He pulls his hand away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just—I can’t stand words right now. I can’t stand to hear anybody say anything. Please, just go. Just go and leave me alone.”

She quickly walks away, wonders briefly if she should call security, but then realizes that the man has enough problems. She knows he’s just a weak man ashamed of his weakness.

She prays for him. Dear God, she thinks, help this man become a better man than he is now.

My father doesn’t feel her prayers.

He only feels a sharp pain in his chest. Something has broken. He knows he is sick and damaged. But what has made him sick? And what has damaged him?

My father remembers being eight years old, lying in bed while a man stands in the dark doorway. Who is that man?

It is my father’s father.

“I know you’re awake,” my grandfather says. He is drunk, slurs his words, and wavers in the doorway.

My father doesn’t move. He believes that his father will go away if he doesn’t move. It’s a magic spell that gets repeated every Friday and Saturday night.

“Your momma said you went out shooting today,” Grandfather says.

When my father hunts, he imagines the animals, the targets, are his father.

“Did you bring down anything?” Grandfather asks.

My father imagines pressing the rifle barrel against my grandfather’s temple. Imagines pulling the trigger.

“Did you kill anything? Any meat?” Grandfather asks.

That day, my father shot at and missed three quail and one deer.

“I asked you if you got any meat,” Grandfather says.

My father doesn’t want to tell the truth. The truth will get him hurt. A lie will also get him hurt. He’s going to get hurt no matter what he does.

“If you don’t answer my question, boy, I’m gonna get mad.”

Silence.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Grandfather says. “Did you shoot anything today?”

“No,” my father says.

“Jesus,” Grandfather says. “What good are you? What kind of man are you? Ain’t I taught you how to shoot? And you waste my time and my bullets and my energy. You’re just a pussy boy. I can’t believe you are part of me. I wish you’d just go away.”

And then my grandfather leaves my father alone in the dark.

My father wants to weep. He wants to cry out for his father. He wants to be forgiven, to be loved. But if he speaks he will only be ridiculed again. He will only be diminished.

And then my grandfather walks back into the room. He stands over my father.

“I want you to know what I know,” my grandfather says. “You ain’t worth shit now. And you ain’t ever gonna be worth shit.”

My father stares at a stain on the ceiling. He has memorized the shape of that stain.

“Say it,” my grandfather says.

“Say what?” my father asks.

“Say you ain’t worth shit.”

My father wants to resist, to rebel, but he knows the punishment will end only if he submits.

“I ain’t worth shit,” my father says.

“Say it again.”

“I ain’t worth shit.”

“Louder.”