Remembering Christmas (24 page)

Rick lifted the box lid. He was immediately disappointed.

Even though he didn’t recognize the box, he still expected to find things about him inside. Maybe things his mother had saved through the years, little gifts he’d given her that he’d forgotten about. Instead, he saw a handful of cards paper-clipped to a thin stack of papers. Next to it, a set of keys. He picked the keys up; a dozen of them were hooked to a rusty ring. The biggest was definitely to a car. He turned and held it up to the light.

“Toyota,” he mumbled aloud. It was etched in the plastic, almost rubbed off. Art and his mom drove a Buick, as he recalled. Didn’t remember them ever owning a Toyota. He tossed it back in the box and took out the papers.

“What?” he said as his eyes caught a few words.
This can’t be right
. He pulled the paper clip off and walked over to the bed, where the light was brighter.

“How is this possible?” he said, setting all but the first item on the bed.
What is this doing here?
It was an old Social Security card, wrinkled and yellowed at the edges. He read the name below the nine-digit number:

James Michael Denton

That was his father’s name. It was his father’s card!

He set it down and grabbed the second card in the stack. A library card, just as old, bearing the County Seal of Cobb County, Georgia. And the name:

James Denton

Is that where his father had gone? Cobb County, Georgia? Is that where he’d been all these years? He was pretty sure Cobb County was somewhere near Atlanta. But why is it here? he thought, eyeing the card again.

He set it down and reached for one of the papers. It was almost tissue thin, so he unfolded it carefully. He felt his stomach turn. It was his father’s birth certificate. There was his full name—James Michael Denton. And his birth date. The hospital in Dayton, Ohio, where he was born. It wasn’t a copy; it had a raised seal.

Rick’s heart began to race, one step ahead of a thought that began to form. Why would original cards and papers like this be in this box, in this room . . . in this house? It could only mean one thing. Tears welled up in his eyes as the realization struck home.

His father was dead.

What else could it be? He hadn’t talked with his mom about his father for years, but the last time he had, she’d said she hadn’t heard from him since that first year he’d left. These were the kinds of documents you keep in a safe place in your own home, or a safe-deposit box. Not at your ex-wife’s house. He must have died, and some lawyer had sent his important documents to her.

He wiped his eyes and sat up straight. Now he was getting angry. Why hadn’t she told him? He had a right to know. He wondered when it had happened. There must be a death certificate in here somewhere. He started leafing through the other documents but couldn’t find one. Just a letter to his father from a life insurance company saying his policy had expired, and a car insurance document for a 1971 Toyota Corolla. Rick looked at the date. Also expired. But no death certificate.

He had started gathering everything back together when he noticed what looked like a driver’s license at the bottom of the stack of cards. He pulled it out and instantly saw his father’s name: James Michael Denton. Then looked at his picture. It was like looking at the face of a stranger. He tried to make the connection between this image and his childhood memories, but he could barely see it. The man was so much older, his hair mostly gray on the sides, deep shadows under his eyes. He wasn’t smiling; his mouth hung slightly open.

Rick looked at the issue date—almost four years ago. The license was from the state of Georgia as well. So . . . he had died sometime in the last four years. He looked back at his father’s picture. He didn’t look well; you could see it in his eyes.
What happened to you?
Sadness pushed his anger aside. He stood up, then paper-clipped everything together, except the license. He wanted to keep it to show it to his mom when he confronted her.

He set everything back in the wooden box, slipped the box back inside the drawer. He walked out into the hall, then turned around and flipped the light switch off in his bedroom. He wished he’d never gone in there. But then, maybe he was supposed to. How else would he have found out his father had died? Didn’t seem like his mom had any intention of telling him.

As he walked across the short hallway, he reached for the hall light switch, then froze in his tracks.

“What? No.”

The light was much brighter here. He lifted the driver’s license up to catch a better angle.
It can’t be. No, it can’t be
. He shook his head, refusing to accept what first his eyes and now his mind were telling him. He stared again at the face of his father. Here in the light of the hallway, it was coming clearly into focus.

Oh, how he wished he was wrong.

Though he couldn’t make any connection to childhood memories in his father’s face, it did connect with someone he had seen very recently. Several times, in fact, over the last two weeks. It meant his father was not dead, but this thought brought no relief.

He looked at the picture again and again. And as he did, he pictured the man he had in mind. There could be no mistake.

It was him.

Add several more years to the face. Make the hair much grayer and much longer. Add in a long, matted beard. Put on a dirty, wrinkled raincoat.

The man in the driver’s license—his father—was Columbo. The homeless guy hanging around the Book Nook.

Rick read the name again . . . James Michael Denton.

James Denton.

JD.

JD was Rick’s father.

Art was sitting up. And he was eating.

Leanne was beside herself.

He was still weak, still hooked up to all these machines, but Dr. Halper had just left an hour ago. He’d pulled Leanne off to the side and said he was increasingly hopeful Art was going to make it. Those were the strongest words he’d used so far. And he was smiling. He thought Art was ready to start eating for himself. If it went well, he’d take him off the IV feeding tube. Then he wanted to slowly ease Art into a series of tests to determine if there had been any collateral damage from the surgery.

“How is it, Art?” She had just fed him a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.

He chewed and nodded his head.

“Good?”

He smiled, kept chewing.

His head was still wrapped in bandages. There was some bruising around his eyes. His face sagged a bit from all the weight loss. But to her, he looked wonderful. Less than a week ago she thought she’d be spending this Christmas as a widow. She gave him another spoonful.

He chewed some more. A puzzled look crossed his face. “This is macaroni and cheese?” he said quietly after swallowing. “I’m not tasting the cheese.”

“Well, it’s hospital food. Here, have some more.”

He ate another four or five spoonfuls, then said, “You taste it, hon. See what you think. I’m glad to be eating something real, but . . . I still don’t taste any cheese.”

Leanne took a spoonful. Maybe she had been in a hospital environment too long, but it didn’t taste too bad to her. “It’s not as good as mine, but I definitely taste the cheese. Here, try another bite.”

He ate several more spoonfuls. “Nope, just tastes like squishy noodles.”

“Well, here, let’s try the Jell-O.”

After several spoonfuls of lime Jell-O, Art shook his head. “I don’t taste anything.”

Leanne took a bite. To her, it tasted good enough to finish the whole cup. “I can taste it.”

“Really?” he said. “Maybe the meds are messing with my taste buds.”

“Maybe.” Of course, she didn’t know. “How’s your stomach feel?”

“Fine.”

“Then just see if you can eat it all, and we’ll talk to Dr. Halper tomorrow about the taste thing. Right now, the goal is to get you off the feeding tube.”

“I’m all for that, so let’s eat.”

She gave him a few more spoonfuls of Jell-O.

“I could get used to this,” he said, smiling, referring to being hand fed.

She loved it when he smiled. To be able to see it again, hear his voice again. That’s what mattered. Not something like this taste problem. Still, she hoped it wasn’t something permanent. Art loved food so much, and she loved making it for him.

As he finished up the Jell-O, she wondered what other post-surgery surprises lay in store.

Rick fled the house as the shock of the news sunk in. He had to get out of there but wasn’t sure where to go. He hopped into his car and drove off. Tears streamed down his face. It didn’t make sense. How could it be true? How could this crazed, homeless guy be his father? Images from the last two weeks began to flood his mind.

The disgusting first impression of JD at the store that first day, begging for an Egg McMuffin.

Watching him cross the street by the Davis Brothers Toy Store that night, arms flailing about as he argued with some imaginary friend.

JD walking around the corner, the morning after the big freeze, all wrapped in a blanket.

The terror on his face at the park, right after the robbery, when Rick found him and tackled him to the ground. My gosh, Rick thought . . . I tackled my father. And he remembered how much he wanted to punch JD out just then.

Then yesterday, watching this pathetic little man crawling back into his stupid box, trying to run from Rick as Rick yelled at him to get off the property.

An image of a recent conversation with Andrea came to mind as she explained to Rick why she was being kind to JD. And Rick’s reply:
“Andrea, it’s just . . . the guy is homeless. He smells. He lives in a box. He talks to himself.”

Rick smacked the dashboard. How could JD be his father?

He looked up, realized he had stopped at a stop sign a few miles from the old house. He didn’t recall making a single turn getting here, but he recognized the spot. It was like a more rational part of his mind had involuntarily taken over. If he turned right here, the road would lead to Riverside Drive, another road that ran right along the river. Then left a few more blocks and he’d be at a place he used to always run to when he’d get angry or upset. It was a public dock, with a wooden fishing pier that stuck out fifty yards into the river. No one ever used it since they’d built better facilities near the bridge.

He wondered if it was still there.

It was just after 7:00 p.m., totally dark now.

But the dock and fishing pier were still here. They’d removed the big light at the end of the pier, but the moon was out at three-quarters strength, plenty of light to find his way. He stepped carefully across the boards, which creaked and cracked much louder than he recalled; he hoped his leg wouldn’t fall through.

The old wooden bench was still there, sagging a bit in the middle. Rick felt like standing anyway. He leaned against the rail. A gentle breeze blew against his face, with just enough chill to feel refreshing. It was so peaceful and calm. Tiny river waves slapped against the wooden pilings. Across the river, the black silhouette of hundreds of palm trees rose up to meet the deep blue sky. The dock was, perhaps, a mile north of all the mansions that lined both sides of the river leading back into town. Rick was glad the town’s progress had slowed in his absence, leaving this place alone.