Lydia Millet - How the Dead Dream

"Actually, if I could talk to him," he said, and pointed to the other end of the bar, where his father stood, back turned, punching buttons on a cash register.

"Davy!" called the bartender.

As his father turned he felt his stomach flip-carnival rides from way back, the roller coaster that went upside down or the fixed platform that seemed to drop in free fall and then swooped up again. His father's face remained blank for some time. Then he came around the end of the bar, unsmiling, and the first thing that T. noticed, looking for him as he pressed toward him through the close crowd, was his feet. At the bottom of his cream-colored slacks his father, who had always worn plain black leather lace-ups, battered sneakers or a pair of Redwing work boots, wore a snow-white pair of espadrilles.

When they met the next morning for breakfast his father was late-five minutes, ten, then twenty. As he came in he offered a brief, reflexive smile, quickly dropped, and barely glanced at how T. waited for him: ramrod straight in his chair, holding his Wall Street Journal rolled tip in his hand as though he might have to deploy it in the swatting of flies.

As he approached T. understood in a rush that he was not the same man. His bearing was different, his movement, everything: a dog, for example, would not recognize him. Strange as this altered man was to T., the new self suited him, that was clear. At the same time this new parent was closed to T. Not even the awkward intimacy of confession lay between them anymore; his face was shut like a door. He had simply moved on.

He waved at someone behind T.'s shoulder. Then he sat down and adjusted the chair several times, back and forth, tucking himself beneath the table edge.

"You order yet?" he asked, and opened up a menu, signaling to a waiter. "Could I get a cappuccino here?"

"Of course not. I was waiting for you," said T.

"Oh, you didn't need to do that," said his father distractedly. He did not look at him, tracing a finger down the list of menu items. "I'll have the eggs Florentine."

"Huevos rancheros," said T. "So. I ran into Stewart Albin a couple of months ago and he said he saw you in Atlanta."

"I always go to the reunions," said his father, nodding. He seemed bored.

"I know that. He said you were with some kid. He thought it was my brother."

"Stewart, Stewart. Oh yes. He was the one hitting its up for investments in a record or something."

"Aryan rap."

"No one had any idea what he was talking about. I think he's insane."

"So then I got your postcard and then I was talking to Brad Deering and here I am. First off I want to tell you. My mother had a stroke."

"Oh dear," said his father faintly, and clucked his tongue. He reached out and adjusted a daffodil.

"We thought she was dead at first. It was an overdose and the stroke happened while she was unconscious. It happened in my bathtub."

"Oh dear," repeated his father, still not meeting his eyes. "But she's doing fine now?"

"It depends what you mean. She's all right physically," said T. "As far as the tests go. But she's not what she used to be.

"We're not so young anymore, are we?" said his father comfortably. "I've had these tension headaches lately."

"Headaches," repeated T.

"Aspirin does nothing for me. Ibuprofen either. The only thing that does anything is Tylenol with codeine. That stuff is sheer magic."

T. stared at him, but he played with his fork and smiled vaguely.

"I'm sorry about the headaches," said T. slowly, "but I'd really like to think you felt some concern about my mother. That when I tell you she almost died, that you-you knowactually care."

"Sure, sure I do," said his father lightly, but was looking past him again, smiling and waving.

A woman in a straw hat descended on them.

"Davy! Darling!" she said.

She was nut-brown, like his father, and wore shimmering peach-colored lipstick. She was draped in scarves.

"I haven't seen you for weeks it seems like," she said, and kissed his father on the top of his head. "I'm over there with Boolie. He can barely keep down his coffee. He overdid it last night."

"This is Carol," said his father. "A friend. Carol, my son T."

"Well hi!" squealed Carol, as though she'd won the lottery.

T. nodded curtly. Clearly his father wanted her there.

"When did you start going by Davy?" he asked. "It was always Dave or David, my whole life."

"That was the old me," said his father.

"The new you is more jaunty," said Carol.

"Well, Carol," said T., "it's been nice meeting you."

"Join us!" said his father, and put his hand out to grab the back of a chair.

"Are you kidding?" asked T., incredulous.

"Not at all. Here, take a load off," said his father, and patted the chair.

"Just for a minute, while Boolie's in the little boys' room."

"I was telling my father how my mother had a stroke recently," said T. resolutely. He would not be diverted. "But he doesn't seem to be interested."

"Florentine?" inquired the waiter, plate-lifting.

"That was so speedy!" enthused his father. "Right here."

The waiter tried to put the other plate down in front of Carol.

"No, I'm the huevos," said T.

"I'll say," said Carol.

"What?"

"It's important, when you're starting fresh, to let go," said Carol with a therapeutic lilt. She reached out and patted the back of T.'s hand.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said T.

"Your father is like a beautiful butterfly," said Carol. "For him to spread his wings he had to leave the dusty old cocoon behind."

T. stared at her and she stared back, smiling and blinking. Her two front teeth were different shades of white.

His mother had no knowledge of any of this, yet he felt hurt for her.

"You've got to be kidding," he repeated finally, and turned back to his father. Who seemed not to be listening; he was carving into his mound of spinach and egg with a fork as though he had been starving for days. "Are you there? This was a person who spent thirty years with you. This is your wife. My mother."

Carol played with her rhinestone-studded watchband and his father continued to eat, patting neatly at his mouth with his still-folded napkin.

"Your son is an angry person," she whispered finally, and his father shook his head ambiguously as she turned back to T. "You know, honey, that resentment is just like a poison. It will just eat away at you. You should work on it."

"Carol? This is a family conversation. Give us a minute, if you would," said T. "Please."

She looked at his father and got up reluctantly. T. watched as she flowed over to a table in the corner, where a fat man in a baseball cap sat sticking a bright red drink from a straw.

"That was very rude," said his father.

His father waved at the waiter and made a check-signing gesture in the air.

"I have to admit, I really feel like hitting you," said T.

"I'm used to homophobia," said his father, and patted his mouth with his napkin again. "I've been exposed to it all my 1 ife."

"Jesus Christ," said T. wearily.

He gazed down at his refried beans congealing beneath a dollop of sour cream. He felt disinclined to touch them.

"I have to protect myself from people who are full of hate," said his father.

"Dad, listen to me," said T. "So you're gay? Great. Whatever feels right. You look good, you look healthy. But do you have to be cruel to her?"

"I don't have to listen to this, Thomas."

He felt a buzz in his ears, a wall of deafness rising within him. He was hot; he had to get out of the restaurant. He took a card out of his wallet and laid it down. "Her new telephone number. Please at least call her. Please at least tell her why you left. That you're not coming back. Do her that small favor."