When Dad Came Back (14 page)

“Gabe!” his dad beckoned. His eyes gleamed with excitement. He came around the island. “Gabe,” he called again, with feeling in his voice.

Gabe stood his ground.

His dad took Gabe's shoulders in his hands and gave them a friendly shake. His smile revealed a dark space where a tooth had once been. His face was weathered from living on the street.

Gabe spied his dad's name badge: Ronald Mendoza. Now they stood together, son and father, next to a neat pyramid of oranges.

“You playing soccer?” his dad asked. He gazed down at the shin guards and cleats.

“Yeah,” Gabe answered flatly.

“That's good. And look at you, you've grown taller.”

“That's what happens.” Gabe didn't like what he had said or the tone of his voice. He wiggled his fingers from his father's handshake.

His dad wet his lips.

Gabe looked up at him. In a year, he would surpass his dad in height. He tried not to see him as the man bending over a trash bin. He tried to focus on where he stood now, a man with a job. He wore an apron. On his belt, he carried a small holster with a pruning knife and box cutter. He wore a name tag. Perhaps he was someone after all.

“I got my act together,” his dad claimed, in a low voice. “A friend who's the manager here hired me. We went to school together.”

Gabe listened to his dad for a few minutes before he politely said, “I got to go.” He backed away, the cleats clacking against the floor.

“I'll give you a call,” his dad said. He pulled out a cell phone. “I got one like everybody else.” He asked for Gabe's cell number.

Gabe hesitated. He tried not to think of how his dad had been scavenging for aluminum cans and plastic bottles only a few months earlier. His eyes floated over to the pyramid of fruit. At least his dad could do that right, arrange oranges in an orderly pile.

“OK,” Gabe said. As he gave his number, he noticed his dad's hands, brown as autumn leaves, and the nick on his chin from his razor. That mole on his throat—had it always been there?

“I've taken up jogging, too,” his dad said, when he finished punching in Gabe's number. “We should hit Woodward Park.”

Gabe saw his dad's Adam's apple ride up and down, a sign that he was emotionally hurting inside. Still, Gabe didn't say anything more than, “I'll see you.” He turned and strode away. He placed the beef jerky on the checkout counter, unpaid for, and exited the market, a rush of cool autumn air greeting him. Coach was waving him over to the van, waving to hurry. The door was open and his teammates were jostling each other. One of them was spinning a soccer ball on a finger.

“I'll see you,” he muttered to himself. Would he? A lump formed in his throat. Tears invaded his eyes. He raised his face to the supermarket. His dad was inside, in the produce section, doing a job that a teenager could do. But it was a job, it was a paycheck.

“Oh, Dad,” Gabe found himself whispering. And if his dad called, Gabe decided that he would be nice. He would give him another chance. Everyone needs a second—or third—chance.

“Let's go, Gabe,” the coach called. He was holding a giant pretzel in one hand, a juice drink in the other. “We've been waiting for you.”

Waiting for me.
Gabe thought that maybe his dad had been waiting too, for years, hoping to come back from street living, to clean up his act, to bring his son into his arms.

“I'm there, Coach,” Gabe yelled. He slipped his cell phone into his waistband, skipped and hustled to the idling van.