Lily King - Father of the Rain

I watch over my father’s shoulder as Harold goes back to the bar with the drink. I can’t remember the bartender’s name but I know he has a tattoo of a submarine on his upper arm and a roll of crystal mint Lifesavers in his pocket. His head jerks up toward us when Harold speaks. He shakes his head, then dumps the drink in the sink.

My father doesn’t need to look at the menu. He always orders the filet mignon with béarnaise sauce. I hurry to figure out what I can eat. All the writing is in big slanted script. I worked in a restaurant like this in college, waited on people just like my father, with their regular drinks, their regular cow parts.

There is vichyssoise, but when I ask Harold if it has chicken stock he returns from the kitchen quite pleased to tell me that indeed it does. My father shakes his head. He apologizes to Harold when I order a plate of steamed rice and french-cut green beans.

“To each his own, Dad.”

Across the harbor, the Ferris wheel begins to turn. Its red and blue lights smear slowly into huge purple rings. It’s the first night of the carnival.

“Oh, Christ,” my father says, briefly eyeing the door. “They won’t leave me alone,” he whines, though his face betrays nothing. I wonder who it is but he’ll be furious if I turn around to look. “Here they come,” he whimpers, and then he glances up, feigns convincing surprise, and leaps to his feet to shake the man’s hand firmly and kiss the woman on the cheek. I know them, her squat forehead and his puffed-out chest. I kiss them both as they marvel at how long it has been and what a lovely girl I’ve become, and my father shoots me a look because he knows how I feel about being called a girl at the age of twenty-nine. I ask them about their kids, hoping to jog my memory. Carly was in Woods Hole, Scott was working for Schwabb, and Hatch was in Colorado “doing who knows what,” the woman says, laughing.

“There’s always one of those,” the man says with a phlegmy chuckle.

“I’m two for two,” my father says. I think he’s forgotten for a moment that he isn’t out with Catherine.

“Hardly.” The woman covers up for him. “I heard this one got herself a fancy job out west somewhere.”

I remember their names, Ben and Barbara Bridgeton. Their children went to Ashing Academy with us, but none of them were in Garvey’s or my grade. My father coached at least one of the sons.

“What is your area of expertise, Daley?” Mrs. Bridgeton asks.

“Oh, Jesus. Don’t ask,” my father says.

“Post-Contact Zapotec, the children in particular, and how, if they survive, they process the high infant and pre-school mortality rates.”

I see Mr. Bridgeton shoot a look at Harold, who trots right over with their drinks.

“Okay, Margaret Mead,” my father says. “Let them sit down.”

“How long are you here for, dear?” Mrs. Bridgeton squeezes my hand.

“Until Sunday.”

“We’ll take good care of him once you’re gone. Not to worry.”

Harold leads them to their table and my father and I sit back down. “One more minute and you were going to start in on the floppy vulvas, weren’t you? And I should have warned you not to tell her when you were leaving.”

“Why?”

“They were coming over every night after Catherine left. Quiches, soups, some sort of goulash. I had to toss it all down the pig. Even the dogs wouldn’t touch it.”

“But that’s so nice of them to be thinking of you.”

“About the only ones, too. That bitch has told so many lies about me. All over town.”

I have to get him off the topic of Catherine. “Did you coach Scott or Hatch?”

“Both. Six years of that woman yak-yak-yaking. Remember I got her that Assistant Manager cap and she wore it all summer? She didn’t even get the joke.”

Our salads come. Iceburg lettuce, mealy tomatoes, and one skinless slice of cucumber with creamy Italian slathered over it. The Main-sail is its own time capsule. But I know better than to make fun of it.

My father pokes his fork into it once and then sets the salad aside.

“So what happens? You drive out there and they have a place for you to live?”

“I found a place. A little cottage.” It’s so silly, what rises inside me, a swell of warmth, of good feeling, a flood of endorphins — all because my father is asking me a question about my life.

“Near the school?”

“Five or six blocks.” I want to tell him about the eucalyptus tree out front and the color of the door but I know I’ll lose him. I have to sound blasé, as if it doesn’t mean much to me.

“Expensive?”

“No, it’s pretty reasonable, for California.” It’s actually a great deal, four-fifty a month. “Probably pretty beat up.”

“You haven’t seen it yet?”

“No. I had a friend out there take a look at it for me.”

“And this job of yours, how long does it go for?”

“I hope it’s permanent, if I get tenure.”

“And how do you make sure you get that?’

“I don’t know.” But of course I know. I just have to get the right tone with him, not too cocky, not too flaky. “I’ll have to publish steadily, get consistently good student evaluations, make nice-nice with all my coworkers, and lead at least one team in fieldwork somewhere.”

He watches Harold’s tray as it passes, scotch and sodas for the people behind us. “You got it all figured out, don’t you?”

Too cocky.

I coach myself to stay upbeat, not react. The man wants a drink. Of course he’s going to be irritable.

“No, I don’t. But I like having a goal. Something to move toward.” Too transparently preachy. He’ll know I’ve shifted the conversation to him. My insides weaken, wait for the cut.

But he nods. “Good to have your eye on something.”

I’m grateful when Harold arrives to remove the salad plates and replace them with the filet mignon and the steamed vegetables. I’ve had enough of talking with my father about my life.

Later that night, when he starts snoring, I call Jonathan.

“Six days and six nights,” I boast.

“And tomorrow morning you’re driving away.”

“Sunday morning.”

“You said Saturday.”

“No, it was always Sunday.” Wasn’t it? “I never really believed he’d be able to do it. But he trudges down the little walkway to his meeting and he comes out again all spry and bolstered up.”

“Sunday at the crack of dawn.”

“Stop worrying.”

“You’re getting sucked in. I can hear it in your voice.”

“I’m not sucked in.”

“I think we should go camping at Crater Lake next weekend.”

“Aren’t we going to want to unpack a little?”

“I got this guidebook. You should see the pictures. I’m not sure I can wait.”

The next morning, I call Garvey.

“Hmmm,” he answers after a lot of rings. I’ve woken him up.

“I know you don’t want to hear about Dad but—”

“You’re right.”

“Garvey, he’s quit drinking.”

A huge muffled laugh.

“He has. Six days and six nights.”

“Oh, Hermey, you gullible titmouse.”

“I’ve combed the place, believe me. There’s nothing hidden. He’s doing it. He goes to AA every night at the Congregational Church.”

Another huge laugh. “I don’t believe you.”

“I drive him there. I watch him walk in. He gets all dressed up in his summer pants and blazer.”

“And I’m sure he walks right out the back door.”

“No, Garvey, I see him come out. He’s chatting with people, shaking hands.”

“He might be doing this for you for a few days, but the man can’t change his ways now.”

“He can if he has help. Couldn’t you come here for a few days next week after I’m gone? Just to help him along a bit.”