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You busy today? Want to talk to you about something.
I set down my phone. Dad wasn’t exactly the techiest guy in the world and hated using his phone for anything but necessary calls. To my surprise, his reply came only a few minutes after I sent the text.
About what? Just text me with what you want.
Knowing dad, that response surprised me. Did he really not want to see me that badly?
Something I want to talk to you about in person. We both hate texting.
He replied a few moments later.
Fine. Got things to do this afternoon, so you want to come by, do it sooner rather than later.
Nothing warm or inviting about Dad’s message. Not that I expected anything else – Dad was about as warm as the north pole in the dead of winter.
I typed up one last text. Be over in thirty.
Fine.
When I set down the phone, I couldn’t help but wonder if Dad knew the reason I was coming. Maybe he’d even been expecting it. But the chances were just as good that he didn’t give a damn about me, that he had no idea why I was coming and wanted to get it over as soon as possible.
Didn’t matter. I was going to speak to him, to tell him what was on my mind and in my heart. After taking a few moments to psyche myself up, I grabbed my keys and hurried out the door and into my truck.
The day was overcast, one of those days where you might expect snow if the temperature dropped low enough. I spent the drive over rehearsing what I was going to say, trying to get all the words right. But ten minutes into it I realized that there was no point in doing that. Showing up with some speech would only leave me open to getting caught off-guard when Dad came at me from an angle that I wasn’t expecting.
And he was good at that.
Our childhood home was in one of the nicer parts of Charmed Bay, on the southern side of downtown where all the pre-war houses were. The house was three-story and brick with white columns in front, the lawn the best looking on the block. Dad’s white Land Rover, spotless as ever, was parked in the driveway.
I pulled in behind him and killed the engine. My stomach was quaking with tension. In the service I’d learned a trick to managing last-minute nerves – close your eyes, clear your head, and focus on your breathing. A simple trick, but it worked. And as I sat there, I found myself wondering what it might be like to have a normal childhood, what it would be like to pull up to the home where you grew up and felt happiness.
I pushed that out of my head as quickly as I could. Whatever that might be like, it wasn’t my reality. No sense in dwelling on it.
I grabbed the keys and hopped out of the truck, making my way to the front door. I opened it and stepped into the large entry room, the view from the front looking all the way down the main hall through the living room, the stairs going up to the other two floors. The place was as spotless as I remembered it being – Dad had always been big on neatness and order.
“Dad?” My voice echoed through the silent home.
“Kitchen.” His deep, booming voice called out to me.
I swallowed one last time before making my way to the kitchen.
Dad was seated at the kitchen bar, a newspaper in his hands and jazz playing lightly on the stereo. A tall glass of a protein smoothie, his preferred breakfast, was close at hand. Dad was tall and broad-shouldered, and one look at him made it clear as day that my brothers and I were his sons. He had a shaved head and neatly trimmed silver beard, his eyes a piercing blue, his expression hard. Dad wore a white polo, gray slacks and brown boots, a faded Army Ranger tattoo poking out from the armband of his shirt.
He flicked his eyes up to me as I entered, neatly folding his paper then setting it down.
“You’re just marching into the house, huh?” he asked. “No knock?”
“Most parents don’t make their kids knock on the door of their own homes.”
“This isn’t yourhome,” he reminded me. “It ceased being that when you became a man and moved out. Now that you have your own place, you need to show my home respect.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But that doesn’t matter. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Right to the point, as always. Dad was all business, never one for small talk.
“I want to talk to you about the way you treated us. Back when I was a kid.”
He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms over his big, barrel chest.
“You…what? About when you were a kid? Why the hell would you want to talk about that?”
