“I know,” I said. “Let’s just shoot.” Jennifer started laughing.
“How did you get so good?” I asked.
“My dad. He’s been bringing me out to shoot baskets since I was a little girl.”
“You are a little girl.”
“Yeah, but I’m big enough to beat you.”
She won again.
We filled a half hour shooting the ball and shooting the bull. We noted how the summer was quickly draining away. Time is a strange thing when you’re a kid. The school year drags by in slow motion, with each Monday launching an inexorable wait for Friday. In September, six-week grading periods—six of them—seem like all the time in the universe. But eventually the breaks come. Two weeks at Christmas that are over in a flash, and then that last school day in June, a vantage point from which you can see three glorious months of freedom set out in front of you. Those twelve weeks go by so quickly, school starts anew, and time slows down again.
It’s only after your twenties go by in a day and when things you think happened last year really lie five years back that you realize that time doesn’t slow at all. Indeed, it only gains speed. And then you curse yourself for ever wishing it away.
I spotted Brad walking along the sidewalk.
“Hey, Brad.” I waved to him.
“Who’s that?” Jennifer whispered.
“He’s working for my Dad.”
Brad came in through the gate and joined us.
“Basketball, huh?” he said.
“Yeah. Do you want to play?”
“Sure, I’ll give it a whirl.”
We played H-O-R-S-E. I went first, followed by Brad and then Jennifer.
I couldn’t do anything, and Jennifer met her match in Brad, who put five quick letters on her. Then he finished me off, laying the R-S-E on me to complete what Jennifer had started.
“Losers!” he said, pointing at us and laughing.
Jennifer looked upward. Ribbons of light streaked against the darkening sky.
“I have to go home,” she said.
“Loser is going to take her ball and go home,” Brad taunted.
“Hey,” I said.
“Nah, man, I’m kidding,” he said. “We’ll walk you.”
“Never mind,” Jennifer said, and she walked off.
I squeaked out a “Bye, Jennifer,” which got a curt wave in return. What an asshole Brad was for saying that to her. I hoped she wouldn’t be too mad at me.
“I guess I better go too,” I said.
“Want me to walk down there with you?”
I shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?” Brad said.
My ears burned. “You’re OK,” I said.
I picked up the pace, and Brad easily matched me.
“Nah, look, Mitch, your dad and me, we’re hitting it off, and that bugs you, doesn’t it?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I get it, man. I understand. Listen, don’t worry about me. I’m not muscling in on you. I’m just trying to do some good work. This is my chance to learn a trade and make something of myself, you know?”
The edge of my animosity toward Brad softened. The very doubts he described had started to creep in, and I knew I couldn’t compete with him in terms of work, which was really the only way get to Dad’s good side. It made me feel better to think that Brad recognized this.
“Listen, man, I’ve picked up from Jim what’s going on these days, and I know it’s rough,” he said. “Hell, my family situation is a mess. Don’t know my dad. My mom’s a fucking drunk. I know how it is, truly. But you’re a good guy, Mitch, and you’re gonna be just fine. You need anything, you need to hang out, you just come see me, all right?”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Cool.”
We walked on.
“How long have you lived in Bozeman?” I asked.
“I don’t. Some of my friends do. I was lucky to catch on with you guys in West Yellowstone, because I wasn’t sure where to go. My mom lives up in Kalispell, and I guess if I hadn’t had anywhere else to go, I would have gone there. When Jim offered me the job, that was it. I crashed at a buddy’s house for a week, then waited for you guys to arrive. Some things just work out, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
We reached the park. I saw the trailer down below in the twilight.
“You got it from here, man?” Brad asked.
“Yeah.”
“All right, bud. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I returned to an empty trailer. The lights burned, and the TV was on, but Dad was gone. His truck sat out front, so I did what I could do: I dropped anchor and I waited. Soon, I seethed.
We were in Milford not even a week, and Dad’s particular brand of bullshit was on display again. I bristled at the nerve of his telling me to be in by dark when he wouldn’t even be here.
I could have stayed out with Brad, or gone back to Jennifer’s house. Hadn’t her father told me to come by any time? They wanted me around.
I stood and paced from the couch to the bedroom and back, and then I made up my mind. I’d go find him and shame him into coming back.
I hit the jackpot at the first place I looked, the bar around the corner from the Hotel Milford. The door to the street stood open, and I saw Dad and Toby standing at the bar. Toby jabbed his finger at Dad, who responded by slapping his hand onto the bar.
This went on a few seconds more, with Toby’s arms flailing and Dad shaking his head. Finally, Toby clearly said, “Fuck you,” and Dad dropped him to his knees with a quick, chopping punch to the solar plexus. I stumbled backward at seeing it.
The others in the bar, who had watched the scene unfold with growing interest, moved in to separate Dad and Toby. Dad was shown the door, his welcome worn out.
“Don’t you puss out on me, Swint,” Dad yelled. “Your ass better be there in the morning.”
Dad didn’t see me. He shouted some more, until the bartender stepped to the door and told Dad to get going or get arrested. Dad trudged toward the trailer park, and I galloped to catch up.
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I ignored the question.
“What happened back there?”
“Nothing. Another fucking hand with an opinion.”
“Why’d you hit him?”
“Shut up, Mitch.”
He walked on. I lumbered a step behind, quiet, as ordered.
BILLINGS | SEPTEMBER 23, 2007
AWAKE IN THE DARKNESS, I envied the old man’s ease at falling asleep, even as he knew that each breath led him closer to his end. I stared at the plaster ceiling of his double-wide, and I listened to the silence. Late evening had yielded to midnight, which had ceded to the early morning hours, and sleep still kept its distance. I waded knee-deep into the universe, pondering things that didn’t seem to trouble Dad. What would I do if I knew my time was desperately short? Could I look down the barrel of my final days and be proud of my life? Could I say that I had done the things I needed to do and wanted to do?
I knew the answer was no, across the board. It disappointed me, but I clung to the idea that I had time, a luxury that no longer rested with Dad.
And then I stopped short. Time, as I knew all too well, has its own ideas.
I let my recollection carry me where it would, and it dove into corners that I hadn’t visited in years. I conjured a memory of Dad from the summer of ’77, in Sidney. On a day we broke early from work, Dad and some of the other drillers barbecued burgers in the park across the street from the motel where we stayed. The revelry went on for hours, and I loved seeing my father loosened from the grip of work. For most of that day and evening, he was everyone’s best friend, quick with a joke and a smile.
Then a helper for one of the other drillers brought out boxing gloves and suggested some friendly bouts, and another good time crumbled.
A boxer from his Navy days, Dad turn
ed frolic into intense competition, chopping down each opponent, one by one, until the only willing foe was the hand who had brought the gloves out. He was long and lean, his abdomen ripped with muscle, and he was more than a match for Dad—and probably half Dad’s age.
When the fight began, the young hand bounced side to side on the periphery of Dad’s range. Dad stalked his quarry. He loaded up a right hand and sent it screaming toward the kid’s jaw. The young man slipped the punch, shuffled left, and plowed three quick jabs into Dad’s face.
Dad came at him again, still cocking the right hand. When he let it go, the punch just missed, crashing loudly against the hand’s sternum. The young man’s eyes grew wide; he knew that a couple of inches higher would have laid him out. He slid to his right, out of Dad’s reach, and offered recompense with two jabs to the face and a right cross that sent sweat flying off Dad’s head.
Dad bore in hard and paid for the strategy. Lefts and rights hit Dad, splitting his lip and leaving a welt under his left eye. Dad swung wildly, and missed even more wildly. Each misstep carried a heavy toll of leather.
Dad cast off his gloves.
“Enough of this shit,” he said. “I’m too damned old.”
His opponent smiled and removed his gloves. He offered a handshake to Dad, who accepted it.
The guy never saw it coming. Dad gripped with one hand and crashed a fist into the guy’s mouth with the other, toppling him. He got in two kicks to the guy’s ribs—punctuated by “Now who’s the tough guy, motherfucker?”—before Dad’s buddies pulled him off.
I saw it all from my perch atop an old steam engine, just yards away. I watched as one of Dad’s friends walked him out of the park and back to the motel. I watched as the young man rose slowly to his feet and spit up blood.
I quaked with fear as I returned to the room, scared of who I’d find on the other side of the door. Dad said nothing when I came in. He stared at the TV set. I quietly undressed and climbed into the bed opposite his.
My father’s indestructibility left me awestruck. His ability to turn vicious draped me in fear.
Thirty years later, lying there in a bedroom adjacent to his, I found it difficult to comprehend that he no longer possessed much of either quality. The clock always winds down, whether we think of it or not.
I thought, too, of Cindy’s admonition when I had called her hours earlier. “Just let it come.”
We both sobbed over Dad’s news, and we laughed wistfully at how it all made perfect sense, once the facts had come in. A week earlier, his aimless calls to our house in San Jose had been a nuisance. That interpretation was informed by the Jim Quillen we knew, an irascible old man who sometimes seemed to delight in manipulation. Now we knew that our clumsy caller was someone else. He was a scared father who needed desperately to talk to his distant son and yet didn’t know how. Cindy had recognized it as a plea for help, although it was beyond her, or any other mortal, to divine what exactly the problem was. She had sent me on that errand.
The awful news delivered, I had turned manic on the phone. I had held the man at a distance for years, just as he had done to me. Now, I had to race death to get close to him.
“Just let it come,” she said. “You have the time to say what needs to be said. Take your time, do it right.”
Morning greeted me with a shove.
I opened my eyes and found Dad grinning at me.
“What?”
“Sport, you wrecked my shed,” he said. “I figure the least you can do is help me fix it.”
Fuzziness flooded my head when I sat up. Too quick, too early. I cupped my head in my hands and sat perched on the side of the bed.
“Not feeling so hot?” Dad said.
I waved him off.
“Just give me a minute. I’ll get dressed and be right out.”
When I emerged, Dad handed me a cup of coffee, one he had doctored to my specifications.
“You did a number on that shed,” he said.
“Wouldn’t have if you’d left the old lock on it.”
He smiled and shook his head.
“Are you pissed off at me?” I asked.
“Nah, not really. I’m trying to understand you.”
“Well, don’t strain yourself,” I teased.
“No, what I mean is, I understand why you did what you did.”
“You do?”
“Sure. I gave you something to knock down, and you did.”
“Jesus, Pop, did you get up early and take a philosophy class?”
“Screw you,” he said, grinning.
We worked into the early afternoon, taking down the busted doors, pulling the twisted hinges, building a new jamb, cutting new doors from leftover plywood inside the shed, fastening them into place, installing the closing mechanism, and painting our handiwork.
Before we closed up the shed, Dad pulled down the box that had inspired my violent crashing of the place and handed it to me.
“It’s yours,” he said. “You earned it. Take it home.”
“You kicking me out?”
He laughed.
“No. But I imagine your family misses you.”
Dad was on the toilet when the knock came.
“Who’s that?” he bellowed.
“I don’t know.”
I opened the door and greeted Kelly Hewins. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she cupped my whiskered face in her hands. They were warm and soft and strong.
“Mitch?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I can see him in your eyes.”
I heard footsteps behind me. “Mitch, who is it?”
I stepped out of the space between brother and sister.
Dad’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Jimmy,” she said, and she stepped toward him. He took a half step back, and then he rushed forward to meet her.
I slid through the door and closed it. A piece of the reunion was mine to share, but it would come later. Besides, I had my own long-overdue reconciliation to get to.
I walked to the end of the driveway, a place where I had stood almost every night for a week, and I dialed. Cindy picked up on the first ring.
“Hi, babe. I’m coming home.”
MILFORD | JULY 11, 1979
TOBY AND BRAD waited in the booth at the diner. Toby had taken Dad’s shot and come back. My respect for him rose, as did a fear of what he might have unleashed.
“Morning,” Dad said. The hands mumbled in kind.
The waitress we saw most mornings sidled up to the table, looked us over, and said, “The usual?” We all nodded our heads, and she left straightaway to get to it. Coffee, black, for Dad and Brad, orange juice for Toby and me.
Slowly, the torpor lifted, and the men chatted about the coming day. I watched and listened, and I tuned in particularly to the words between Dad and Toby. When Toby spoke, which was rare, Dad wore a measured gaze. I knew the look. Dad was watching for clues about where Toby’s sensibilities lay. Whatever trouble existed between them, Dad wouldn’t soon forget. I imagined that Toby wouldn’t either. Having struck out with Dad, I resolved to ask Toby what had happened in the bar.
Dad caught me watching.
“Eat up,” he said. He waved at my plate. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Our bellies full, we milled around the counter while Dad settled the food bill.
The manager ambled up to Dad. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Get on out there,” Dad said, shooing us toward the truck. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Outside the door, Brad jabbed Toby in the ribs. “I’ll bet he’s telling Jim to have you shit somewhere other than his bathroom.”
“Screw you,” Toby said.
We sat in the truck a good while. I saw through the glass door that Dad had turned animated. The restaurant manager shook his head slowly and pointed repeatedly at something at the cash register.
Dad reached into his back pocket for his wallet and fished out cash. He walked out the door, his right hand
aloft, as the manager talked to the back of his head. A few jabbing steps brought Dad to the pickup.
“That fucking bitch,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Marie. She drained the credit card. I’m down to what’s in my pocket.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Never mind. Enough to get us through the day. I’ll figure something out.”
I thought about the money folded into my wallet. I had done as Jerry instructed. Dad didn’t know about it, and I hadn’t spent it. It seemed to me that the right thing to do was to hand the cash to Dad and improve our lot, even slightly. But I knew that doing so would bring a lot of unpleasant questions my way, and I didn’t want that. Further, Jerry had given me the money as a contingency, and as far as I could tell, that possibility remained in play. If Marie were up to no good, Dad could soon be in orbit. I might need the money yet.
I kept quiet and listened instead to Dad’s profane composition as we rolled toward the work site.
Marie threw us all off-kilter. Dad, chewing on concerns that stretched beyond the patch of ground we stood on, wanted things done faster than usual, and even Brad couldn’t keep up with his demands. The morning devolved into a series of half-comical errors. Toby tripped and fell while rushing with a bag of powdered mud, tearing it and sending a cloud of dust billowing across our faces. Brad missed a pipe as it slid down the chute toward him, and it came within inches of clipping my head as it sailed past. Toby dropped the hooked poles, and they scattered. With each misstep, Dad’s burn gathered speed.
Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t escape. With Toby and Brad screwing up, Dad said, “Stay off that motorcycle, Mitch. We need your help today.” I was back on shovel duty.
And then, in a single moment, the day ended. As Dad pulled the pipe from the third hole of the morning, Toby yelled at him. “Hold up there, Jim.”
The Summer Son Page 21