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My dad.
I’ve been avoiding his calls, so in typical Van de May style—he won’t be ignored.
I yank my hair out of its wet knot because his only offense is breathing so far, and I’m already pissed.
I snap. “I thought a Van de May doesn’t belong at this piece of trash by the river?”
It’s not a piece of trash. My house on Daufuskie is perfect. It’s simple, humble, and hiding under a tree canopy covered in Spanish moss with the best sunset views. And my dock is upgraded to top of the line.
Dad must’ve taken the ferry over or a private charter because I don’t see a boat moored here.
“I didn’t come all this way to argue with you.” He doesn’t move from his spot, blocking the path up to my house.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because your mother has spent the past month living at her sister’s house and not ours where she belongs.”
I shrug. “Not hearing my problem to fix.”
“You’re the reason I got a problem.”
“I’m your son, so if you’re gonna reduce me to a problem, get off my porch. I won’t be insulted on my own property.”
Dad throws his chin up to the sky. “I swear she spit you from her mouth.”
“Who? Mom?”
“No, Grandma. My mom. You’re just like her.”
“That’s high praise.”
No one can insult my grandma, not even her son. That woman meant the world to me. She was my partner in tobacco-spitting crime. She made the best pecan pie in the world. And she was the first to say I was wonderful as I was; no sense in changing.
“Yes, it is high praise.” Dad rests his elbows on his knees, and this is gonna be a long talk because his ass ain’t moving. “So quit acting like I licked all the red off your candy, and listen to me.”
I huff. Taking it down a notch. “Go on then.”
“Your mom’s been gone, and don’t ever challenge a southern woman to a silent standoff. Monks have less patience. So she’s left me in a big, empty house with nothing but my thoughts.”
Don’t get your hopes up. My dad is too set in his traditional ways to change.
“And?”
“And”—Dad tousles his perfect part. He only does that on a boat when deciding how fast to tack—“You were right. I didn’t know my dad. He died when I was five, so what do I know about being a good one? And that’s all I ever wanted to be.”
Don’t trust this. No matter how you want to.
Because I remember the apathy on his face when he told me to leave. He withdrew all the money from my account, told my mom not to speak with me, and pointed to the door. I walked out with twenty-two dollars in my wallet, a duffel bag of clothes, my toothbrush, and a heart so stunned it didn’t feel anything for months.
And when it did, all that crushed me were waves of disappointment.
“So your grandma raised me right,” he says, “all on her own. But I remember all the talk, all the judgment, and sneers when she never remarried, though she had courters. A society widow back then remarried, and the looks we’d get in church and at the club? I sensed them over the years. Then my football buddies gave me hell because my mom spent a lot of time with her best friend, Ms. LeeRay, and no men. Do you remember her?”
“Barely.” Ms. LeeRay died when I was a boy. All I remember is she was always with my grandma and giving me Junior Mints and that my grandma wasn’t the same after she died.
“I knew who she really was to your grandma,” he says, “and I loved Ms. LeeRay too. And you can act as proud as you want nowadays, but it was unheard of back then. A scandal at the least and dangerous at the most.”
“Times have changed, Dad.”
