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I rose as the CO called my last name from the next chamber. I approached the door, it buzzed loudly, and I was ushered through the tiny hallway that separated the waiting room from the visitor area.
The man jerked a thumb without even looking up from his clipboard. “Number sixteen.”
It took my feet a moment to get going. When they did they moved slower than before, shuffling along as I passed the other stalls with other visits in full swing. I dragged my feet too, as if dragging my feet could delay the inevitable. Eventually though, I arrived at my side of the Plexiglas wall, and the little bench fixed to the floor that indicated stall sixteen.
Man, he looks so much older.
My father sat on the other side of the booth, his hair now white instead of grey. His face had twice as many lines as the last time I’d seen him five years ago. The tattoos of his forearms were faded blue blurs.
On the flip side however, his body was still strong. His shoulders were broad, his neck thick with muscle. His arms filled out his jumpsuit nicely, and there was even definition there that separated the particular muscle groups. In other words, he’d been taking care of himself.
I reached for the phone at about the same time he did. As I brought it to my ear, he spoke the same two words I remembered well:
“Hello son.”
We hadn’t gotten much further past those words in the past, and maybe that was my fault. I wasn’t here today to waste anyone’s time though.
“How’ve you been?”
It was a question I’d never asked him before, probably because I’d never needed an answer. I’d always been concerned about my own feelings, my own situation. It was part of the resentment, I supposed. There were a whole lot of missed birthdays. A lot of Christmases where I had to put together my own gifts.
“I’m good,” he said. His voice was a little thicker, a little more gravelly than I remembered it. “How about yo—”
“I hear you’re finally getting out.”
My interruption didn’t seem to phase him at all, although his expression changed slightly. He did something with his mouth that I recognized in myself. Something I’d seen in the mirror a whole bunch of times.
“Sixteen days,” he replied. “Yes.”
Sixteen days.I let out a sigh he couldn’t hear from his side of the glass.Holy shit.
“You have a place?”
“Yeah.”
“In town?”
He nodded slowly. “A friend of mine’s putting me up for a little bit. At least until I get on my feet.”
I almost laughed. My father… on his own two feet. It was so far beyond the scope of reality it just didn’t seem possible.
“Will you be around?”
He broke character for a second, his gruff exterior dropping away as the words came out somewhat hopeful. Unfortunately I stomped him for it.
“Why, are you looking to go to a Seahawks game?”
It was a shitty thing to say. I regretted it almost immediately. My father didn’t scowl though, or even reverse course. He continued like I hadn’t said anything.
“I know you’re not in North Glade anymore,” he went on. “I heard you were crewing trawlers out of Westport.”
“Aberdeen.”
“Ah.”
He was enduring me as always. Putting himself out there, letting himself be the punching bag. There was a time when I actually needed it. Beating up on him was cathartic, whether I liked to admit it or not.
But that time had passed.
