Lily King - Father of the Rain

I start the engine and pull out into the street.

“I tell you, no one’s got it easy, that’s for sure.”

I look at him. There is pain on his face, pain for someone else. My father is feeling compassion.

The dashboard starts beeping.

“What the fuck is that?”

“It wants you to put on your seatbelt, Dad.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Is it going to tell me when to piss, too?”

He leans toward me to snap in the buckle — it’s tricky, you have to go in at just the right angle. He groans, then gets it, then says, “What’s that smell?”

“I don’t know.” The Datsun is old and has lots of smells.

“Food or candy or something.”

“Fried dough?”

“Disgusting. You’re eating that crap before dinner?”

“Two fat slabs of it.”

“Just like your mother,” he says. He’s right. I’d forgotten that. It’s just like her.

We pass Neal’s lit windows, then the carnival. The Ferris wheel makes its big turns. A feeling is pooling inside me, flooding my chest and up into my throat and down the backs of my calves. It’s a minute or so before I recognize it. Happiness.

My father plings across the linoleum in his golf spikes. He can’t find his five-iron.

“That goddamn Frank musta swiped it.”

He goes to look in the mudroom again.

“That kid was never any good. I don’t care what kind of snazzy job he has now or how many zeros he gets in his paycheck. He stole my fucking golf club!” He clenches his fists. His face is bright red. The dogs dance around him, misunderstanding his excitement.

I know I’ve seen the striped rubber handle of a golf club somewhere. Then I remember. “It’s in the poolhouse.”

“What?” he says, but he’s remembering it, too.

He marches across the grass and returns with it. I can tell he wishes he hadn’t found it. It makes him madder. “Now I’m late. Now I’m really late.” But in fact he’ll still be early to the club. Tee off isn’t till nine.

When the dogs have returned from chasing his car down the driveway, they clamber around me while I unload the dishwasher, waiting for our walk. Just as I’m about to fasten on their leashes, the front doorbell rings. The dogs jerk away from me, howling and scrambling as fast as they can toward the sound, barking even louder once they get there. No one but the mailman ever comes to the front door, and he rarely has reason to knock. The dogs are going crazy. It’s someone very unfamiliar to them. Neal Caffrey? I go to the door.

But it’s not Neal through the windows. It’s Jonathan.

For him to be standing right here now, he’s been driving since he hung up the phone yesterday morning. He’s wearing one of his better shirts, the striped one he defended his dissertation in. I quickly drag the dogs by their collars back into the kitchen and shut them in, then run back to yank the sticky front door open.

I am ashamed about the barking, ashamed that he looks different to me here on the front terrace of this house. “You’ve gone in the wrong direction, Mr. Magoo.” It comes out funny, like I have a frog in my throat, because I’m already crying.

“I know it,” he says, and he wraps his arms around me. He smells like coffee and Doritos and, when I press my nose into the side of his neck, our life in Michigan. I try not to shake.

When I trust my voice, I say, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I called from Des Moines, kept going as far as Omaha, and turned around.”

I feel weak, as if I haven’t eaten for a while, though I just had cereal. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to have to say anything more. I kiss him and he kisses back. I feel him growing hard against me and I press into him, but he pulls back. And then he drops his arms and we are separate again.

I’m still holding the dogs’ leashes. He stares at them in my hand. His eyes are red and his mouth doesn’t seem to be able to hold a shape. I’ve never seen him not in full possession of himself.

“Come in.” I step toward the door.

He shakes his head.

“My father’s not here.”

“I’m not afraid of him. Do you think I’m afraid of him?”

“No.” I feel very small, very young. I want to say something that will return him to me. I flail for the first thing that comes to mind. “I saw this raccoon the other day. It had knocked over our trash can, torn into the bag, and was sitting on top of the barrel eating a piece of Swiss cheese, just holding it in two hands like a newspaper and nibbling at the top.”

He smiles at my effort. He takes both my hands. He’s about to say something serious, then changes his mind. “What’s an elk? I might have seen an elk. Right beside the highway. In the median strip. It had these antlers.” He drops my hands and spreads out his arms. There are huge round sweat stains under each one. “They went out to here. It was absurd. I don’t know why he didn’t just fall over.”

I try to laugh.

“You need to come with me now.”

“Jon.”

He looks up at the house, which seems its largest from this spot on the front terrace, fanning out with rows of old windows and shutters on both sides and up three stories, and then the dormer windows on a very tiny fourth floor that’s just storage but makes it seem absurdly tall. “I don’t understand one thing that has happened in the last two weeks.”

“I need to stay a little bit longer.”

“No, you don’t. You need to leave now.”

“I can’t be the next person who gives up on him.”

“You would not be giving up on him. Daley, you’re his grown daughter. He knows you need to live your life.”

“He’d feel abandoned. And he’s already come so far. He likes AA. He likes those meetings.”

“Why are we talking about AA? What does AA have to do with our life? Daley—” He steps away and presses his lips between his teeth.

“He won’t go if I leave. I know he won’t.”

“Then he’s not really doing it for himself, is he?”

“Not yet, not entirely. But he will, when he gets stronger.”

“How can he grow stronger when you’re here letting him be weak? That’s not how people grow stronger. He needs to do it on his own.”

“He needs something to lean on right now. I’m like a splint for his broken leg.”

“At what cost, Daley? The splint eventually goes in the trash. Has it occurred to you that your mother and your stepmother tried for years and years to be splints, too?”

“But they wanted more from him than I do.”

“Oh, Daley, you want so much more than they ever did. You want the daddy you never got. You want him to make your whole childhood okay.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about him.”

“I know it doesn’t look like it’s about you. You’ve got it nicely cloaked in a gesture of great sacrifice.”

“Jon, we would be stronger if I had a better relationship with my father.”

“This is what I mean.”

“I’m just saying it has its advantages.”

“Daley.” He takes me by both shoulders. His eyes are bloodshot and sad. “You can’t stay here. Everything is at stake for you. Don’t you get that? You lose this job and—”

“And I lose a job. That’s all. I will be a person who lost a job.” Across the street Mr. Emery has come out of his house and is standing in his driveway looking at us. Jonathan doesn’t notice. I shake off his grip on my shoulders. “I have this window of time, right here, right now, to help my father. It’s the only window I’ll ever get. And I’m the only one who can do it.”

“It must feel good to play God.”

Why do people keep saying this? “He has been sober for eleven days.”