by Will Searcy
tape?”
Pop does not respond.
“Don’t you get a little sick of watching the same thing over and over?” I ask.
He hangs his head. I can tell I hurt his feelings. I sigh. “Fine. Put it on. Maybe I can sleep during it.”
My father smiles. It takes little to restore his spirit.
The game starts as poorly for Pop’s Alma Mater as possible. His team fumbles the opening kickoff. Three plays later the opponent scores a touchdown. Seven-nothing before a minute is off the clock. Pop reacts to the game as if he watches it for the first time. He groans when his team fails and celebrates when it succeeds. It is as if my father does not already know what will happen. That is not accurate. He hopes the result will be different, even when he knows it will not be.
After his Alma Mater gains its only first down of the first quarter, Pop asks, “Did you apologize?”
“Huh?”
“To your wife, for how you talked to her.”
I remain silent. My father shakes his head. “You gotta make amends.”
“But it’s not my fault.”
“So.”
He watches the game and groans as his Alma Mater gives up a sack. The game really is boring. It loses all interest when you know the outcome. My father finds a way to enjoy it, though.
“Did it take you a while?” I ask. “When mom ... passed?”
“It’s still taking a while,” Pop replies.
“So you’re not over it?”
Pop chuckles. It is warm and not offensive. “Thomas,” he says, “I’m not over my puppy dying in the third grade.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “You just seem so … happy.”
“We choose our happiness. It’s in us if we want it.”
I say nothing. After a moment, Pop smacks his thigh and hisses an ahhh as his team fails again.
“How about you?” Pop asks. “How are you holding up?”
I swallow to try to subdue the lump in my throat, but it is difficult. “Better,” I say. “I …” I try to think what to say. I could perform soliloquy upon soliloquy all on different topics. “I guess I’m doing better.”
Pop nods. He watches his game and claps his hands at a missed opportunity. I slink back into the couch and watch. The moment passes slowly. Time has twisted it. Pop talks to break the boredom.
“And your wife? Is she doing better?”
I snort. “Worse. Ever since ... well, since yesterday things have seemed worse.” I consider leaving it at that but cannot help myself. “She says she wished Sam was never born.”
My father’s lip trembles, and his eyes moisten. “That poor woman.”
Anger simmers in my gut. My father should be beside himself. He should be appalled and agree that she is nowhere near the parent that I am. I should be vindicated.
“You really should apologize,” Pop says.
“What?” I spit back.
“She’s hurting. She could really use you.”
I scoff and shake my head. My patience for my father is wearing thin.
“You’re supposed to be there for her.”
The words linger in the air. I was supposed to be there for Sam. I choke on the lump in my throat until I cannot bear anymore and I stand to leave.
“Where you going?” Pop asks.
“Out. I have to…. I have to do some things.”
I go to the park. Oddly, it is the last place I want to be, but I have nowhere else to go. I cannot go to work yet, and the movies at the theater are no help. Outside of that, I do not know where I could go. The park is my only option. It is getting old.
The scene is the same as always. I feel like Pop watching the same football game over and over. The three sons are playing and happy. Daffney is hiding in her bushy cave. I wish she would stop. That is no way for a duck to live. Ducks are supposed to play in the pond and swim after each other. Daffney is supposed to flap and honk at the other ducks and be a loveable nuisance. She is not supposed to hide. She is not supposed to be in the shadow of that tree, hidden by the bush.
The more I think about it, the more anger engulfs my mind, heart, and soul. I look at my feet and see several large pebbles. Before I even think to do it, my hand reaches down and clasps a stone. My body preempts my mind and throws the stone at the bush. The stone misses Daffney. My mind catches up to my body but agrees with it, so I throw another stone. An irritated honk resounds from the bush. I throw another stone. Harder. A pained honk. I throw another stone, and it scares her out. Daffney spreads her wings and hisses at me. I raise my hand with another stone, and she loses her resolve. She flaps towards the pond, and then she flies. To my astonishment, she flies. She flies, not to the pond, but away. Her three sons do not notice. Daffney is flying away.
“Daffney, come back!” I sputter into the sky, but I know it is too late.