Megan Bergman - Birds of a Lesser Paradise - Stories

My father smiled and dropped my arm. He began to breathe faster. He moved toward her with as much energy and youth as he could muster.

Link! Susan exclaimed, pointing at my partner, who was plunging PVC pipes into the sand so that Dad and Susan would not be entirely responsible for the weight of their fishing rods.

You’re here to see Stu, Mother, Susan’s son said. He pointed at my father.

I know who I’m here to see, she said, and sulkily crossed her arms. Link! she shouted. Come give me a kiss.

Dad stopped in his tracks. She had not yet acknowledged him. His clothes were already damp with sweat.

Link waved from the beach and jogged over. He was shirtless and bent down to kiss her cheek. He was in his fifties but carried only a slight amount of extra weight around his waistline. A small patch of hair spread across his chest.

You smell delicious, she said.

I most certainly do not, he said. Are you ready for your date? Dad was stoic. His mouth was set in a determined line.

Susan nodded.

Susan’s son and I stood back, giving the group space. He talked about his antiques business, some bureaus he was moving to New England, but I didn’t listen. I watched my father with concern but didn’t intervene, even though I thought some small talk might ease the tension. When possible I tried to let Dad exert control over his life, especially on a date.

Can I escort you to your chair? Link asked.

Of course, Susan said, clutching and patting his arm as they moved toward the two chairs Link had set up at the water’s edge.

I offered Dad my hand, but he didn’t take it. He trudged through the sand, pausing to wipe his brow with a handkerchief before sitting down. I told myself that my father regarded Link as a son and was not threatened.

Susan, he said. You look beautiful today.

Hello, she said, looking him over like a stranger. I worried that it was not a good day for either of them, that the heat was not doing their faculties any favors.

Link baited their rods with cubes of cheese and rattailed maggots.

My custom lure, he said. He cast the line for each of them and placed the rods in their hands. Dad gripped the rod’s shaft with surprisingly sure and nimble hands.

You can take mine back, Susan said, thrusting the unwanted rod at Link. Link placed her rod in the PVC pipe at her feet. She pushed the sand into piles with her toes. Clearly, Susan did not like to fish.

Would you like a drink? Link said, playing host. He handed Susan a beer. Dad stared out at the ocean and the small waves rolling onto the rocks.

How are your kids? Dad asked. I smiled. He’d remembered my advice.

That one over there, Susan said, pointing at her son, is a leech. Tell me more, Dad said.

I grabbed Link by the hand and pulled him a ways behind the chairs. Let’s give them space, I said.

He uses my checkbook, she said. He buys bad art with it. I’ve never seen such a lousy—

Dad stood up from his chair, knocking it over. I’ve got one, he said. Something’s tugging on the line.

Impossible, Link said.

It seemed to take Dad a painfully long time to reel in his line, but Link let him do it alone, and sure enough there was a small fish, hooked through the cheek. It curved its body in fight, nearly touching its tail to its head, an angry silver arch.

Link! Susan said. Come get this thing.

I’ve got it, Dad said.

Disgusting, Susan said, wincing, cupping her chin with her hands.

Throw it back, Dad, I said. It’s a shallow hook; the fish could live.

I couldn’t help but root for this fish, a survivor in an oxygen-depleted ocean.

Dad acted as if he didn’t hear me. He wiggled the hook out of the fish’s face with brute force and threw the fish onto the back of his overturned chair. He grabbed Susan’s beer bottle and began to club the fish.

Damn it, he said, hitting the fish’s head with the bottom of the bottle. Beer ran down his wrists. He struck over and over again. Damn it, damn it, damn it, he said.

Dad, I said. Stop . I grabbed his arm. He shook free and struck the fish savagely again, this time across the gills. The fish thrashed and fell onto the sand, eyes open.

Susan ran to Link and threw her arms around his waist. Take me home, she said. Take me home. She started to cry.

You know what else you can do for me? Dad said, turning to Link. Sleep with her. Take her to bed while you’re out playing hero.

I pulled Dad away; he was a ball of confusion and hurt on the inside, bursting open in public. I glanced back and saw Link pause to pick up the fish by the tail and hurl it back into the sea. A hopeful act.

I turned to apologize to Susan, but her son was already escorting her toward his car. He flashed an angry look of disapproval over his shoulder.

Dad was sweating and had clearly overexerted himself. I knew we couldn’t walk back to the house. I stood on the side of the road and tried to flag down a car, hoping for a neighbor. I felt like a disappointed parent. His failings were now my own. I felt Dad’s pain acutely, but part of me wished my responsibilities were over. I was tired. The feeling reminded me of the look I’d seen in a friend’s eyes as she repeatedly corrected her special-needs child, who bit the other kids in his playgroup — embarrassment, love, determination, fatigue.

We could help him die, I realized. Link knew ways to stop his heart. We could move on, sell the house, relocate even. I felt guilty, selfish, calculating.

I never wanted to be this way, Dad said. A practical man living an impractical life.

I was too mad to answer. I knew my grip on his arm was too rough; I wanted him to know I was disappointed. But there were multiple emotions colliding inside of me. I had to take some responsibility. What was I thinking, pushing love on my father at his age? What could be expected between two people with half their brains carved out by time?

A cop car pulled over. The officer rolled down his window. He was thin and deeply tanned, and worked a toothpick between his teeth.

Get into some trouble there? the officer asked. Old man okay? Wandered off on you?

We could really use a ride home, I said.

Close by? the officer asked, looking me in the eye, critical, as if he was onto my thoughts. I nodded.

Mind dusting the sand off your feet and drying the old man off? the officer said. I try to keep the car clean. He fetched a towel from his trunk and handed it to me. I gave it to Dad, who stared at the neatly folded towel in his hands as if he did not know what it was for. Chivalrous to the end, he tried to hand it back to me; I shook my head.

The officer helped us into the car and pulled away from the curb.

Where to? he asked.

Eight blocks down, I said, leaning over the front seat. Shore side.

Why am I wet? Dad said, looking at his beer- and sweat-soaked shirt.

You went swimming, I said, teeth clenched.

Why are we in a cop car? Dad asked.

We’re on our way home, I said. Stop asking questions.

We passed familiar houses, pink stucco facades, white clapboards with green hurricane shutters. The people on the streets — we knew them all, though not their names. The cop’s radio scratched and buzzed. Dad looked nervous. He didn’t know where he was or why he was here.

Are you in trouble? Dad whispered. Take one of those houseboats from the marina and paint over the name. Drag a block of frozen chum off the side near the reef and you’ll eat well. I’ll send someone for you.

For a moment, I was speechless. His eyes were certain and his words authoritative.

I know you will, I said, realizing that Dad might lose his short-term memory, but not his pride, his sense of dutiful fatherhood.

A wreck or rock pile will work, too, he said. You’ll find snapper and mutton.