Nan Rossiter - The Gin and Chowder Club

Asa shook his head and tried to focus. He had to stop the room from spinning. He was tired of the darkness around the edges of everything he looked at. He had to act normal. He had to stand up straight and speak clearly, because for some reason, his father was standing by the window in his room.

Asa leaned against the door and glanced around. He wished he had taken time to straighten up a bit. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Dad, what are you doing here?” He spoke slowly and tried to enunciate each word, which only made his slurred speech more pronounced.

Samuel shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Asa, what the hell are you doing?”

Asa immediately became defensive. “What do you mean, what am I doing?” Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over him, and he backed out of the room and stumbled down the hall to the lavatory. Samuel followed him and waited. When he was convinced that Asa had nothing left in his stomach, he turned on the hot water in one of the showers and told him to strip off his clothes and get in. Asa obeyed and Samuel took the pile of soiled clothes back to his son’s room. He located shampoo, soap and a washcloth, moderately clean clothes, toothpaste, and a toothbrush.

While Asa slept, Samuel straightened up the room. He gathered up the empty bottles and trash and threw them away; he found the laundry room and put in a load; and while he waited for the clothes to dry, he reread the letter from the dean that had requested parental intervention. The letter stated that Asa had not responded to requests for a meeting; he was currently failing all of his classes; he had not adjusted to responsible independent living; and he would be thrown out of school if he did not turn his behavior and grades around. Samuel sighed, retrieved the laundered clothes, and started to fold them. He watched Asa sleeping restlessly and thought of the many nights he had leaned against the doorway of his sons’ bedroom, watching them sleep. He pictured the shaft of light from the hallway that had illuminated their room, and he remembered the feeling of awe and wonder as he had looked at their slight figures, their summer sheets kicked off, their stuffed bears tucked tightly under their arms. He remembered the many nights he had leaned down to kiss their wispy blond hair and breathe in the sweet, lovely scent of boyish innocence, and the many nights he had stood by as they lay dreaming and wondered what their futures held; and he remembered the many nights he had knelt by their beds and prayed, thanking God for gifts so amazing and asking Him to look after them, to hold them close, when he could not.

Samuel prayed that same prayer now.

Finally, convinced that Asa would continue sleeping, he slipped out of the room again, drove to town, found a deli that was getting ready to close, and bought two sandwiches and two cups of coffee. When he returned, Asa was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands.

He looked up sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Samuel handed him one of the steaming cups and pulled a chair up closer to the bed. Then he handed the letter to him. Asa glanced at it and tried to figure out what to say. He looked up, and Samuel searched his son’s eyes for an explanation, but Asa just looked away. More than anything, he wanted to explain; he wished he could tell his father everything. But the truth was certainly beyond forgiveness-the truth would, without a doubt, change his relationship with his father forever.

Asa took a sip of the coffee and almost burned his tongue. He shook his head, looked at the letter again, and stole an eleventh-hour explanation from the words on the page. Foolishness, lack of responsibility, and trouble adjusting were some of the words that spilled from his mouth. He listened to his father’s patient reply and nodded at every suggestion to not forget his upbringing, to go to church, to remember that God was with him, no matter where he was or what he did. At these words, Asa stared at his cup. Does Dad somehow know? Why would he say “no matter what I did”? He glanced up and tried to read his father’s face, but it revealed nothing but concern. Asa apologized again and promised to buckle down.

They ate the sandwiches in silence until Samuel glanced at his watch and stood to go. He reached for his coat, said he would call the dean in the morning, and insisted that Asa go see him, too, first thing. Then he wrapped his son in a hug and told him that he loved him. Asa nodded. “Love you, too, Dad.” When the door had closed, Asa collapsed on his bed and whispered, “Oh, God, please help me get over her…”

As winter finally gave way to warm spring days, Noelle gently pushed back on the tiny foot that slid across the inside of her swollen belly. She smiled when she felt the steady small palpitations that her doctor said were hiccups. And, after breathing in the scent of her body, she bought and tucked away a tiny blue outfit, convinced that the deep musky scent she smelled was not her own.

At Nate’s insistence, she had stopped working and now found that she had too much time on her hands-too much time to think, too much time to wonder. Have I made the right decision? She longed to see Asa, just to know how he was doing and if he had forgiven her. She stood at the kitchen window and watched a small troupe of red-breasted sentinels hopping across her yard, pausing every so often to cock their heads and listen to the earth. She watched the late-afternoon sun setting behind the trees and thought about the passage of time. She remembered the way the sky had looked on that agonizing night in September, now it seemed so very long ago. Noelle watched the sun sink below the horizon and wondered if Asa had received her letters. She had written so many, apologizing and asking him to find some reason to stop by when he was home. But he had not come by; he hadn’t even come home. Offhandedly, Noelle had asked Sarah how he was and why he hadn’t come home for Easter. Sarah had said he was fine, that he’d simply decided to stay at school. In fact, he’d even found a summer job at the library in Hanover. Noelle had nodded, trying to hide her dismay.

She had no way of knowing how Asa was managing, no way of knowing how he felt or if he had forgiven her. She had no way of reaching him, of telling him all the things she wanted to say, and now more than ever, she worried that she would never have the chance. She gripped the kitchen counter and whispered, “Oh, God, how is he?”

O ne more exam, Asa thought as he laced up his running shoes. It was only 5:30, but the sun was already peeking over the horizon. He slipped quietly out of the dorm and stretched his legs. The birds called sleepily and tentatively from the trees that lined the campus. Asa wondered if the same early riser began the chorus every morning or if they competed to see who would be first to rouse the others? He pictured a chickadee, all puffed up and sound asleep. Did she, when she heard a cardinal’s call, open one eye and blink? Did she stretch her wings and make a sound? Or did she close her eyes again and enjoy a few more minutes of rest? Asa smiled at the thought and began to run toward town.

His exam was not until 9:30, and he was confident he would do well. He and his classmates would have two hours to write two essays comparing the works of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. The reading for the class had been demanding: F. Scott’s The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night, and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises. Asa had enjoyed every word written by the two authors-the drinking, the romance, the insanity. He even credited the novels with his own survival.