The Sweetheart (14 page)

“It's nothing. Now this,” he says, pulling his gift toward him. “This looks like too much.”

“Not too much. Just enough.”

Shopping for your father was an impossible task. Despite how barren and slovenly his life seems now, you couldn't imagine him wanting or needing any particular thing. Finally, in the men's section of Wanamaker's, you spotted a pair of warm flannel pajamas. It was the only thing you'd seen that made any sense to you, so you counted the few bills in your pathetically thin wallet, confirmed that you had enough for your train fare and the pajamas, too, and made the purchase.

Franz goes through a similar process of unwrapping. When he gets to the pajamas, he hoists the top half out of the box, holds it up by the shoulders in front of him, and frowns. “What is this?”

“Pajamas. You don't like them?”

He sighs. “You think your father is dying.”

“What? I don't think—”

“You think my life is over.” He refolds the pajama top and puts it back in the box. “You think I am ready to put on my pajamas and watch television until I die.” He pushes the box back across the table. “I don't want them.”

There is no point in denying this accusation. He will not be convinced, and besides, he might be right. Instead, you say, “I can't take them back.”

“Then you can wear them yourself.” When your father stands up, his hand brushes the box, knocking it onto the linoleum floor you'd scrubbed on your first full day home, where it lands upright, flannel exposed. “You think you know me, but this”—he points a finger at the contents of your gift—“this is not who I am.” He walks into the bedroom and closes the door.

You can hear him in there, banging around. Unsure of what else to do, you stoop to retrieve the box and return it to the table, and then sip your coffee and wiggle the foot of your crossed leg incessantly as you wait for him to reappear. Finally, he does, wearing a sweatshirt, soft woolen pants, and low-top Chucks. Your foot stops. You freeze with your coffee cup at mouth level, your lips midblow.

“We're going running,” he says. “Get dressed.”

When you finally unfreeze, you say, “You don't have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

You are not ready for a run. You like to wait until later in the morning, when it's warmer outside. Besides, you still have half a cup of coffee to finish. But your father's stance makes it clear that the choice is not up to you, so you take one last gulp and walk past him into the bedroom.

Outside, in the chest-stinging chill, you say, “Let's just stay in the neighborhood.”

“Don't be easy on me.”

“I'm not,” you lie.

He points down the street, and says, “Let's go.”

•    •    •

As you and your father run, your joints stiff with cold, your breath visible, your mind wanders and a surprising thought comes to you: perhaps
you
are the one at fault for the events of this week. Perhaps Franz did park himself in front of the television, but why did you let yourself be so easily disappointed in him? Your father is who he is; wanting him to change isn't doing either of you much good. Besides, under the circumstances, you couldn't exactly expect him to be different. Really, to let your feelings be hurt over a 45? Are you really so petty? Here is your father—thinning, aging, wheezing, and half-crazy with the need to prove himself—and all you can think about is yourself.

Wait:
wheezing?
You look up and over at him; his face is scrunched in pain.

“Are you all right?”

He puts a hand to his chest. “It's a little tight. It will go away.”

“Stop,” you say, and follow your own command. He jogs a few more steps and stops as well. You point to the steps of the row house in front of you. “Sit down.”

“Just a minute,” he says, still standing, his breath labored. “I just need to catch my breath.”

“So have a seat.”

“Really. It's not that bad.”

“Please sit down. I would feel better if you sat down.”

“I won't.” Franz takes quick, shallow breaths and spits in the grass. “Don't ask me again.”

You turn your face to the sky and press your fingertips over your eyelids. “You're so stubborn,” you say.

Your father leans forward, his arms bracing against his thighs. He seems to be commanding his breath to slow, effortful work that causes him to wince. When, eventually, he has enough air to speak, he says, “Don't leave.”

“I'm right here, Father.”

“Not now,” he says, looking up at you. “I mean tomorrow.”

“Father, I—”

“Don't you remember the first night you got here? How upset you were? Why do you want to go back?”

“Please don't ask me to stay.” It's true, your life as Gwen Davies leaves much to be desired, but at least that life has promise.

The next time your father looks at you, his face slackened, you see what he has never let you see before: his unchecked fear.

“I'm not on vacation,” he says, his voice quiet and controlled. “I got laid off.”

You start to think this might be part of some elaborate joke, but your father isn't exactly a kidder. He sits down on the steps and says, “I guess guys aren't wearing hats too much these days.”

He's serious. He's been laid off. It explains his leanness and the empty refrigerator, the chill in the house. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I don't know.”

“I've got some money socked away,” you say. The outrageousness of this lie frightens you. Minnesota wrung you dry; what little money you had left evaporated in the past few days. You'd spent more than you could afford on indulgent food and those stupid, trouble-causing pajamas. “It's in Florida, though,” you say, hoping this is true. Maybe Joe will advance you money from your upcoming bouts. You can ask, at least. “I'm not sure how soon I'll be able to wire it to you.”

Your father shakes his head and stands upright. “Don't do that. I'll be fine.”

You adjust your position so you can meet your father's gaze. He is not fine, it's clear, and while you haven't the slightest idea what you can do about it, you want him to see the forthrightness of what you are about to say, the honesty of it. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Your mother—” he starts, but doesn't finish. How had he intended to end this sentence?
Your mother would want you to stay,
or maybe
Your mother is probably turning over in her grave.
Other possibilities:
Your mother would be proud of you, Your mother would not understand
this,
and
Your mother should be here.
You will always wonder and never know because your father is who he is. But you don't blame him, really. You can't expect him to be anyone else, or to do anything differently than he does, which is to leave his thought incomplete, unshared, and begin the silent walk home, where he cleans up, puts on his new pajamas, and parks in front of the television, that suffocating box on which he'd blown precious rainy day cash.

•    •    •

That afternoon, while you pack your suitcase, you look out the window; Wally's truck is still parked outside Cynthia's house. You are no longer interested in the opportunity to crow, you decide, but the polite thing to do would be to say a quick hello, wish everyone a Merry Christmas.

When you knock on the Rileys' door, someone cracks it open and cautiously peeks out for an initial assessment. Once you are recognized, the door opens wide and Ms. Riley puts her hands to her face in surprise.

“Leonie! Look at you!”

Look at you? Look at
her
! Ms. Riley is decidedly more pulled together than she'd been the last few times you'd seen her, her hair pulled behind her into a neat chignon, her wool slacks smart and crisp. Perhaps she has decided that becoming a grandmother prematurely isn't the worst of fates. She opens her arms and draws you in with a fierce hug, nearly puncturing you with the hard points of her bullet bra.

“Cynthia's taking a little nap.”

“I'm up!” cries a voice from the bedroom. “I'm coming!”

Ms. Riley waves her arm toward a man perched on the edge of the couch cushion, hunched over the copy of
Life
spread open on the coffee table. “Leonie, have you met Cynthia's husband, Wally?”

Wally's tattoo peeks out from the rolled-up sleeve of his grease-streaked navy-blue uniform; his name is stitched over his breast. The young husband scans the strapping silhouette you cut, part athlete, part Amazon. This full-body size-up lingers too long; it feels judgmental and invasive. “Nice to meet you, Leonie,” he breathes, which further puts you on edge. “Merry Christmas.”

Once you are safely in the kitchen, Ms. Riley whispers to you, “What a meathead. If he's not at work, he's sitting on that couch taking up space. I must have lost my mind, letting them move in here.”

When Cynthia finally enters the room, you can't help but eye the hearty bump that precedes her. Here is the girl you knew, now weighed down by maternity. She is breathing heavily; her prettiness is distorted with effort. You pull out a chair for her, and she smiles her gratitude at you.

You ask the ladies about themselves, but they both declare that for them, it's the same old same old; they want to know what's going on with
you.
You tell them what you want them to know about—your press, your belt, Sam—and keep the rest to yourself.

“That's some life, Leonie!” Cynthia punches you on the arm. “What a life!”

When you'd imagined this moment, you'd expected (and, let's be honest here, eagerly longed for) a smidge of jealousy. Unfortunately, it doesn't appear. Cynthia means to be supportive of your choices, of course, but there's something exaggerated about this gesture, something forced. Your choices are not ones she would make for herself.

“What about you?” you ask. “This is good, too, right? You're happy?”

“Are you kidding?” Cynthia's hands rest on her belly; she smiles down at it. “I couldn't be happier.”

Is that a note of effort in her voice? Is it possible that she is not as confident in her decisions as she was this past summer; that she simply wants to prove her mother wrong about Wally? That would be comforting, wouldn't it: to believe that ambivalence is settling in for Cynthia, just as it is for you. But one look at that face and you know the truth. This isn't a character she's playing; this is what she feels. And here you were hoping to impress her. Instead, you find yourself envying her contentment, her certainty. You could surely use a little of that these days.

“It's too bad you have to head back so soon,” says Cynthia. “Are you sure you can't stay until the New Year, watch the Mummers Parade? I'm sure your father would like that.”

The possibility of seeing a band of men in blackface playing “Oh, Dem Golden Slippers” on banjos is not much of an incentive to stick around, but the idea of staying has its appeal. After all, you and your father have heedlessly squandered valuable time. You try to mask your real emotion with a smile. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Speaking of your father,” says Ms. Riley, “he came over here a few months ago with your contact information, said he wanted me to have it in case anything happened to him. Just a precaution, he said, but it worried me a little. Is everything all right?”

You remain silent for a while, shuffling your feet beneath the table, trying to decide where your responsibilities lie. This is your father's business; he wants to handle it his way. But you are frightened, and it seems to you that he is, too. Before you can frame a sentence, Ms. Riley cocks her head to the side, gives you a thorough examination. “Something's wrong, isn't it?”

“Maybe you could just keep an eye out,” you say to her. This seems to you a reasonable compromise, one that provides a measure of protection without revealing much. “Drop in on him once in a while?”

“Why?” asks Cynthia. She senses drama, and she wants in. “What's wrong with your father?”

Ms. Riley silences her with a look, and then takes your arm at the crook of your elbow. “Sure thing, Leonie. I can do that.” She pats you twice there, at the soft fold of your arm, before pulling away.

There was a time when you had so wanted this woman to be your mother, when you and Cynthia had pulled all matter of silly stunts in an effort to persuade her and Franz to fall in love. Now, you are just grateful that she hasn't let this keep her from extending a little much-appreciated maternal affection to you.

•    •    •

The next morning, back at 30th Street Station, in front of the spinning numbers of the arrivals-and-departures board, Christmas with your father comes full circle, with you falling apart and your father providing the fortification of his arms. A moment like this provides relief for two people who want to show each other love but never quite get it right. Perhaps most of your time together has been strained, but whenever you are within the walls of this station, you are both at your best. You've got your hellos and good-byes down pat; the only thing you need to work on is everything in between.

“You never told me about this boy,” he says. “If it keeps up with him, you know you have to bring him here. I need to look him over.”

You understand what he is doing, that he is as frightened as ever but eager to hide his fears away. Even in this moment, just before you hop on board, the one person who still matters to him disappearing into the world outside of Philadelphia, a world outside of his reach, he keeps any pain he is feeling to himself. For all the problems with this, its familiarity is reassuring. This is the father you know.

“I know,” you tell him. “Don't worry. I know.”