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She looks down at the table, but she doesn’t answer me.
“Look,” Blair says, pointing. Her voice is loud and shrill, like a little girl full of excitement should be. I follow her line of sight across the street. There’s a man pushing a cart full of items. It’s piled high with garbage, so high that I can’t imagine how it doesn’t topple over. I draw a heavy breath into my chest. I’d know the slope of those shoulders anywhere. “It’s Grandpa!”
I scoop up our belongings, take Naomi and Blair by the hand, and practically drag them away from the table. I’m winded and I have a cramp in my lower back by the time we reach the other side of the street. “Daddy?”
Familiar eyes land on me, eyes very much like my own, surprise registering in them. It’s been three hundred and thirty-two days since I’ve seen my father. I’ve looked for him on every street, on every corner, in every alley. I search for him always. When I’m showing clients around, any reason I can think of to venture into the city, I always have hope. “What happened to your phone?” I demand, referring to the pre-paid phone I’d given him two years ago so we could stay in touch. “Oh that,” he says. “Someone stole it.” He waves a hand in the air as though he’s swatting something away. “You know how it goes.”
I have no idea whether he’s telling the truth. It’s equally possible that he sold it, or traded it, or just plain lost it, but I want to believe him. I’d like to think that remaining in contact with his daughter is important to him.
It’s startling, seeing him here. It’s impossible to ignore how much he has aged, how frail he’s gotten, or the way his clothes hang off of him. They are clothes I don’t recognize, which shouldn’t be surprising given it has been almost a year, and he lives on the street. Still, I want to ask what happened to the clothes I purchased and delivered to him. If for no other reason than to prove he remembers, and that he’s taking care of himself, even as it’s obvious he isn’t. What hair he has left is matted and stuck to his head. The rest of him is filthy. He has scabs on his face and lips so cracked they bleed. “Are you hungry?” I hold my ice cream cone out, nudging it in his direction. With the flick of the wrist, he declines. “That’s poison, you know.”
Naomi looks up at me while Blair sets her cup on the curb, backing away as though it’s a snake ready to strike. “It’s okay, love. He’s just being sarcastic.”
“What’s sarcastic?” she asks, jumbling the syllables of the word.
“It means honest,” my father says. He kicks the cup away, and I notice shoes that are too big, shoes
so worn through with holes they barely stay on his feet. He flashes a toothless grin. “Smart girl. Better to let the ants have it.”
Blair crinkles her nose. Me too. That’s six dollars melting on the ground.
“Sarcastic means he’s joking.” Naomi rolls her eyes at her sister and then scoops a defiant spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. Blair’s face falls as she realizes that she’s just given up her treat for a hoax. “Here,” I say, shoving my cone at her before the tears start. “Have mine.”
Two young men approach. Although they are cleaner and younger than my father, if they aren’t also homeless it would surprise me. Instinctively, I step in front of the girls, shielding them. I ask Dad if he knows them, but he either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to. They skirt around him, picking at his clothing. As they verbally harass him, they shuffle through the items in his cart. The shorter of the two slaps my dad on the back of his head, causing spittle to fly from his crusty lips.
“What the fuck?” I hiss, stepping forward. Blair starts to cry. One of the men, who I can see now are merely boys, and I get into a verbal altercation. Eventually my father prattles around his cart, leans down, and hands one a piece of scrap metal. They survey it, holding it toward the sun as though they’ve just been handed treasure from the depths of the ocean. Perhaps pure gold. “You have one week, old man,” the taller one says as the short one slaps my dad once more.
I pick Blair up and rest her weight on one side of my hip. My back nearly seizes up. She presses her face into my shoulder. “One week for what?” I sigh. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”
“It’s nothing,” he coughs. “They’re just punk kids.”
“They don’t look like kids.”
“Fine…okay,” he mumbles. “Maybe I owe them a little money.”
“Money for what? How much money?” Not wanting to owe anyone anything is in part why my father says he stays on the streets. He has a distrust of pretty much everything. He wants to rely on himself. Everything else, and anyone else—which includes his own daughter—has been corrupted. The mark of the beast, he says.
“Are you hungry?” I ask again. “How am I supposed to get in touch with you if you don’t have a phone?”
“We’re in touch,” he says, waving his arms. “You see, we’re in touch.”
“If you won’t take food—how can I help you? Where are you staying?”
“How’s your mother?”
“I wouldn’t know. You know she doesn’t speak to me.”
“She loves you, your mother. Always has. You should have seen her on the day you were born—”
“I asked where you are staying,” I say, changing the subject.
“Oh, you know, here and there.”
I have so many questions. So many things I want to say. All I can manage is, “It’s almost Christmas.”
“Christmas,” he spits. “Let me tell you about Christmas—”
I know he’s about to fly into some rant about how it’s a made-up holiday intended to suck people into more debt, and how the material world is evil and how the way I live my life is a sin. Which, all things considered, isn’t entirely wrong. But the girls are too young to understand their grandfather’s mental illness, so I quickly change the subject. “Here,” I say, fishing for my wallet. “Let me give you some money. This way you can call me. Do you remember my number?”
