Lily King - Father of the Rain

Hatch tells me about the software start-up he’s been working for in Boulder. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What about you? How long are you planning to live here?”

“Not much longer.” I feel defensive and tired. “Maybe through the holidays.” Is this true? My future is the exact color of the ocean.

Mrs. Bridgeton picks up a stone and throws it badly, though it manages to skip twice before sinking.

“Not bad,” my father says gently. “You’ll get another try in a minute.”

Mrs. Bridgeton is flushed and smiling.

On the way home we see Jason Mullens standing at the window of a cruiser, talking to the driver. He looks up when our car passes and his hand shoots up in a wave.

“You going out with that guy?”

“No.”

“Why’s he looking at you like that then? And leaving messages.”

“Oh, it was stupid. I had a drink with him one night.”

“You had a drink with him one night? When was that?”

“Last summer.”

“You snuck out?’

“I didn’t sneak out, Dad. I couldn’t sleep and I ran into him and we went to Mel’s.”

“To Mel’s. He’s a real class act.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“Oh yeah? You going to marry a cop?”

“I’m not interested in Jason.”

“Who else have you had drinks with? You’ve got me going to meetings every damn night and you’re out boozing it up all over town.”

“One night, Dad. One beer.”

We turn down Myrtle Street. It is such a grim afternoon. I have to think of something to lighten our mood. We can’t go back to the house feeling like this.

“You better watch out yourself,” I say. “I think Barbara Bridgeton is getting a little crush on you.”

“What? No,” he says. I’ve amused him. “Now you’ve really lost your marbles.”

“You better watch it, is all I’m saying, or you’ll be eating a hell of a lot of quiche and casseroles.”

The next day I call Mrs. Bridgeton to thank her.

“Well, it was wonderful to have you both here. Perhaps we can start a tradition.”

“Next year, our house,” I say. Am I joking? I’m not even sure. “I think it was good for us to be with your family. Dad’s in great spirits today.” I can see him out the window. He woke up full of energy, vowing to fix the garage door and rake up the last of the leaves, two things he’s been putting off for weeks.

“I’m pleased to hear that, Daley.”

I feel suddenly close to her, hearing the sincerity in her voice. I think of the meals she brought over at the beginning and the hydrangeas for his party. A lot of women in Ashing ask about my father in passing, but Mrs. Bridgeton really cares about him. She might not understand about alcoholism, but she does want to help. I feel the need to apologize for my resistance to her.

“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“Well, we’re right here when you need us. We’ve known your dad for a long time. I knew him before your mother did.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He was Ben’s roommate’s doubles partner. He had a number of different girls, you know. And then he brought your mother to the Harvest Dance, and that was it. You never saw him with anyone else after that.”

“What was he like back then?”

“Just like he is now. Kind, sweet, honorable. I hope you find a man just like him someday soon, Daley.”

Over the weekend it snows. The snow blankets the cover of the pool and lies in raised, even stripes on top of the plastic bands of the lawn chair.

Neal has gone to Vermont with Anne.

My father comes home from coaching on Monday with a large ziplock bag of cookies.

“Where’d you score those?” I ask.

“Barbara gave them to me.”

“Where’d you run into her?”

“I stopped by their house on my way home.”

Wednesday he’s got a coconut angel food cake. Thursday a shepherd’s pie. I haven’t seen shepherd’s pie since grade school: underlayer of overcooked hamburger, overlayer of mashed potatoes, sprinkle of paprika.

On Friday my father stands with another dish in his arms and tells me that he and Barbara Bridgeton are going to be married.

I burst out laughing. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked her and she said yes.”

“Dad, she’s already married. And so are you, technically.”

“She’s leaving him.” He looks at his watch. “She’s telling him tonight.”

“Dad. You can’t break up a family like that.”

“She loves me. She told me. She wants to be married to me.”

“Ben Bridgeton is one of your oldest friends.”

“She’s not happy with him. I can’t help that.” He puts the dish down and pinches the cellophane tighter along the edges. “That’s not my fault.”

“Remember in AA they say you shouldn’t get into a relationship for at least a year?”

“AA says a lot of things. Barbara doesn’t think I ever had a real drinking problem, not like the rest of them.”

I feel the blood leave my hands and legs. I try to keep my voice steady. “And what do you think?”

“I don’t know what I think. I don’t think I’ve been able to think for myself for a long time.”

My throat and chest start buzzing. The kitchen feels very small. “Because of me?”

“There’s just been a lot of noise. Everyone talking at me. Talking talking talking.” There is a look on his face that I recognize from the early years with Catherine, a sort of predatory flush. He’d had sex with Barbara Bridgeton that afternoon. And then, like a good boy, he’d asked her to marry him. “And what does any of it matter to you?” he says. “You’re leaving after the holidays, aren’t you?”

Is that what started all this? “Do you want me to?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I just said that to Hatch because it was something to say. You need to get to your meeting. It’s late.”

He looks at his watch again. “Barbara’s going to call.”

“I think you should talk to Kenny, Dad. That’s what a sponsor’s for.”

“Fuck Kenny,” he says, but he drives down to the church.

Barbara doesn’t call. We eat a silent dinner. I go to my room and hear him yelling at the Patriots. “Don’t listen to those ass wipes!” And then, “You moron! You fucking butterfingers!” and finally, “Yes, yes, there you go, yes !” He stays up and watches the entire game and then the news.

At eleven-thirty the phone rings. He gets it before the second ring. He snaps off the TV but I can’t hear anything. I get out of bed and move slowly to the top of the stairs.

“It’s all right. It’s all right. Sweetie, it’s going to be all right.”

After a long silence, he says, “I do. You know I do. I always will. We’s gonna be okay, you and me.”

The next day Barbara Bridgeton arrives with two baby-blue hardshell suitcases. My father drags them upstairs while I make us some tea. Barbara stands near the dishwasher, her coat still on. I do everything slowly, to delay the moment when I have to turn and face her.

“I know how strange this must be for you, Daley,” she says to my back, “but I’ve loved him — I’ve loved your whole family — for as long as I can remember.” Her voice breaks, and I hear her drop into a chair. “Please be on our side. Someone needs to be on our side.” The sound of her weeping is awful. I think of Thanksgiving and her boys in coats and ties and the brick covered in needlepoint. It had been their thirty-sixth Thanksgiving in that house, Scott told me.

“Have you talked to your children about all this?”

She nods. Her crying quickens.

“They’re having a hard time with it?”

She nods again more vigorously. “Scott hung up on me. Hatch and Carly listened, but they think I’m being rash.”