by Crowe, Stan
“Not too bad, Dad. Happy to be home. How’s life?”
“Eh, it comes, it goes. But we’re here and you’re here and boy have I got a weekend planned for you.”
Dad sniffed the air and glanced into the kitchen, then at me. “I wanted to fry up some rainbows for dinner, but I guess your mom felt like chicken tonight.” He looked pointedly at Mom. She continued setting places without even a glance at him.
“Hey,” I said, driving a fist into his shoulder. “I helped, so cut me some slack. We’ll get the fish tomorrow.”
After some more small talk, Mom called us to the table. The chicken was superb and the steak and artichoke soup left a lingering aftertaste.
Against Mom’s protests that I needed sleep, Dad dragged the conversation on past dinner and we all moved into the living room to enjoy the afterglow of a home-cooked meal. Dad was like a kid on Christmas morning when he fired up the big screen for me. He painstakingly described how he had set up the surround-sound system himself. We talked and laughed until our eyes were drooping under the late hour. Finally, Mom prevailed and we called it a night. Dad made me promise that we’d be stalking fish before first light. Mom rolled her eyes and made her way upstairs. I eagerly agreed and retired for the night.
The cold morning air set my teeth on edge. I was glad Dad knew where we were going, because I couldn’t see anything. I opted to row since he knew better how to read the fish finder and since it was a good way to keep warm. Dad didn’t like using the little motor unless he was in a real hurry. He didn’t seem to notice the frigid temperatures as he kept his eyes zeroed in on the fish finder. Eventually, the thing started beeping and I nearly stopped rowing.
“Not quite yet, son. Gotta find a good grouping before dropping our lines.”
I hauled on the oars again. I was sweating by now. The sun was barely beginning to highlight the clouds. Dad let out a small anchor and we quietly began unpacking the tackle box. He had brought some salted minnows and night crawlers for bait, as well as a few jigs that he swore by. We set our lines, baited them and cast. I could hear little splashes around the boat and within a minute Dad had one on the line. He played it until it got tired and then fought it back toward us. I netted it as he pulled it out of the water and set it down in the boat. When it gave up flopping, we measured it. Twenty-one inches. A very good catch.
“I knew I was feeling lucky,” Dad said, a smile in his voice. We tossed the trout into the ice chest and cast again. The fish were biting well that morning and within a half an hour we’d met our permit limits. We’d gotten a couple smaller fish but the haul was better than I expected and my mouth watered at the thought of Dad firing up the big grill on the patio. We packed up and I began to row back to shore.
“So, Nick. How’ve things been? We didn’t really get the chance to catch up, one-on-one, last night.”
I was glad he had asked. Several questions had been burning holes in my mind for years and they were all the more pronounced given recent events with Ella. Dad was still on a fishing high and I reasoned that now was as good a time as any to ask.
“Well, overall, things could be better. Not that I’m complaining. Just… you know how it goes. Good days, bad days. Good weeks, not so good weeks.”
Dad clucked his tongue. “Yep. I’ve sure been there.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah, Nick?”
Nervousness ambushed me and I nearly choked on my words. “Remember when I was still in high school and I used to ask you about girls?”
He nodded again.
“Well,… can I ask you… something personal?”
Dad’s face got thoughtful and for a few moments I feared I’d accidentally kicked the door closed by bringing up the subject so immediately. He glanced behind me to where the cabin was, then said, “Row a bit slower, why don’cha. The trout’ll keep.”
I slowed and then stopped. Dad didn’t seem to mind.
“So, what’s on your mind, son?”
How to break this? Probably the same way you pull duct tape off a middle-aged man’s back: as quickly as possible.
“Dad, what’s up with you and Mom?”
He blinked in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘what’s up with me and Mom’?”
I scratched my ear. “Well… I need to know, Dad, whether it’s possible to keep your vows to someone even if you might not love them anymore. I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but… I know you and Mom don’t necessarily get along all that great.”
Dad breathed in deeply and sat back in the boat, his face grave. I leaned back as well to offset the shift in weight. He was silent a very long time. Finally, I reached for the oars again, but Dad held up a hand and I released my grip. The minutes crawled by and I watched a slow parade of emotions pass across his face, like a worn out freight train creeping through a rail yard, one car at a time. The heat in my face was a welcome break from the cold at least. Finally, Dad sat back up, rocking the boat again. He looked at me in a way I had never seen before; I swore I almost saw tears.
“Son,” he uttered solemnly, “I’m afraid I haven’t taught you quite as well as I would have hoped.” He closed up again, but I could sense he wasn’t finished. At last, he continued.
“Ya see, Nick, when I first saw your mother, she was as fresh and lovely as a summer morning on a mountain lake.” He gestured around. I got the picture. “Your mom moved me in a way I had never been moved by a woman before. I know you don’t see your Grandma Vinz much, but there are reasons for that. I literally saved your mom from that woman. Grandpa Vinz, well, he wasn’t so bad, but the old lady… it was almost enough to scare me away from asking Carol to marry me. That’s why we eloped, see.”
Dad inhaled another long breath and blew it out slowly. “I made a lot of very serious promises to your mom the day we got hitched. That night was a lot of fun.”
“Three letters, Dad: T. M. I.”
“Right, right. Anyway, I meant to keep every last promise I made. But there are days I wonder how well I’ve done.” He sighed.
“What do you mean?”
He chuckled. “How many good lookin’ girls are on that campus of yours?”
“Dad, they’re way too young for you.”
He waved the comment away brusquely. “Just humor me. How often have you been at school, saw some girl and thought ‘That gal’s a looker’?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never exactly counted and I haven’t done it since I got engaged, but… I guess plenty. Hundreds of times? Maybe thousands? Why?”
He half-smiled. “Why didn’t you just pick one that you wanted right at the get-go and stick with her?”
I began to see where this was going. “But Dad, I was single at the time.”
“Did they all get ugly the instant Ella said ‘yes’?”
Moiré’s face flashed through my head without permission.
Dad winked at me. “See what I mean?”
I did. It still didn’t answer my question completely. “So… you’re saying that it’s impossible for a guy to tame his eyes?”
Dad made a frustrated noise. “Nick, no. It’s all a choice. It’s that… that sometimes, a guy doesn’t see much harm in having a look, as long as he’s keeping his hands off the merchandise.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I’ve never stepped out on your mother. I can promise you that.”
“But you’ve been tempted to.”
Dad shrugged. “Show me a man who hasn’t been tempted, Nick. Heck, show me another man who hasn’t actually messed around.”
I shook my head. “Dad, I don’t think all guys cheat.”
He grunted. “No, not all of them. But there’s meat behind the stereotype.”
I held up my hands, pleading. “So why are you telling me all of this?”
Dad’s eyebrows jumped. “You asked, remember?”
Sigh. “Well, yes. I asked. But I’m trying to figure out if marriage is a nothing more than a life sentence. I mean, if a guy’s somehow destined to be unfaithful, is there a
ny point in making vows in the first place?”
Dad spitted me with a glare. “There is every point in the world, son. All your life, what have I taught you about being a man?”
“That the true mark of a man is how well he can keep his commitments.”
“Straight up. And don’t you forget that. Marriage is one of the most important and serious commitments any man can make. It’s a commitment to be something more than himself. To prove your worth to society by proving that you’re interested in something other than your own worthless hide.”
My forehead ached slightly. I rubbed it to clear my mind and asked, “Dad, I agree about keeping commitments. But are those commitments that even should be made if all a guy ever does is find little ways to get around them? Why not just stay single, keep other commitments and just enjoy the ladies while you can?”
Dad’s face was hard to read, but I thought I saw utter disbelief. He stared at me for a while and then leaned closer. “Nick? Do you really believe a word of what you just said?”
I started, taken completely aback. Sure, I was only playing Devil’s Advocate, but Dad had taken the situation more seriously than I expected. I hung my head, realizing that I was just spouting excuses I’d heard from other guys. “No, Dad. I don’t.”
“Look at me, Nick.” I did. “Marriage is about more than just ‘fulfilling yourself’ or whatever liberal B.S. they show in the media these days. Did I know that I’d be tempted by other girls when I met your mom? A little, yes. But I didn’t marry Carol just because I wanted someone who looked like a beauty queen. I did it because I learned to really, truly care for her like I cared for no one else.” Dad hesitated, seeming torn. When he finished wrestling whatever inner demons he had, he looked me in the eyes again.
“I asked Carol to marry me because I couldn’t imagine living without her. The only logical thing to do was to commit my life to taking care of her, temptation or not.” Muttering, he chipped in, “You should know the feeling. You got engaged two months ago.”
Dad slumped back, looking tired and defeated. The feeling that I had somehow betrayed the man crept through my mind. Silently, I took up the oars, dipped and pulled. The boat dejectedly slid forward and Dad lowered his fishing cap over his eyes. So much for that fishing high. This is why it had taken me twenty-something years to ask; every other time I’d come close, I knew something like this was brewing. I couldn’t feel right about playing judge, jury and executioner for my own father. When we reached the boat launch by the cabin I tied up the boat and left Dad to whatever thoughts I’d so carelessly dredged up. Wordlessly, I unloaded the equipment and then heaved the packed ice chest onto the dock, its weight a physical manifestation of my guilt. I should have just asked for normal advice like a normal son.
Dad dragged himself onto the dock. As I stooped to heft the ice chest for the trip into the cabin, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Nick?” His voice was unusually small.
“Dad? I’m sorry. I never should have said any of that.”
He held up a hand to silence me. “Forget about it, son. I’m not mad at you. I probably needed to hear it from someone, so it might as well be from someone who’ll forgive his old man for not being as good as he ought to be. I know I struggle with… things… often. I probably always will. But you’ve got a chance to be the better man. You can still keep your promises in a way that won’t result in your son calling you out thirty years from now. Just remember that Ella ain’t always going to look as good as she does now and you’re not always gonna be totally in love with the gal. But if you ever feel that tug on your eyes when some sexy little thing walks by… well… remember that time you went fishing with your old man. My slate ain’t so clean, kiddo. But if I can convince you to keep yours clean, then I figure I’ve done at least one thing right as a father.”
Dad pulled me into a firm embrace. He didn’t cry or anything, as I expected. He just stood there, holding me. I hugged him tightly and resolved that no matter what I was keeping my promises to Ella.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Hey, Nick, how was your day?”
“Eh, I guess it was alright.”
“Jenny dumped you, didn’t she?”
“Among other things. How’d you know?”
“I’m your mother. Your face tells me everything I need to know.”
“Wow. So why’d you even ask?”
“Because I am your mother. Because I love you.”
“Thanks. I need that. I tried telling Dad, but he didn’t let me get past the part about almost failing my English midterm before yelling at me. I’m not even going to tell him my car dropped the tranny.”
“Oh, Nick. Come here. You need a big hug and a squeegee.”
“A… what?”
“We’re going to paint your father’s car with chocolate pudding and squeegees. I can promise you he’ll forget all about the English test after that.”
“Uh… Mom?”
“Don’t worry, Nick, I’ve got this.”
The rest of the family reunion went great. Doug and his wife showed up Saturday morning about an hour after Dad and I had gone fishing (just in time to get in on the morning’s trout) and Clarissa, Sonja and Grace appeared at various times throughout the day. For an entire weekend we actually looked like a normal, happy family. Mom gushed over the grandkids while my brothers-in-law stole my sisters away to enjoy the time without children. Dad, Doug and I hit the lake Saturday night and again on Sunday morning. The whole family played the days away. As evening started to fall on Sunday, I said reluctant goodbyes and made the three-hour drive back to school. I didn’t bother to unpack, or even check my phone or e-mails. My apartment bed was a plank of plywood compared to the one I’d used at the cabin, but I was tired enough I could have slept on a granite slab with no pillow.
An extra few hours of sleep would have been nice. The phone rang at the unearthly hour of 8:12 a.m. I nearly let the voicemail get it, but somehow my arm responded out of habit and pulled the receiver to my ear anyway. I decided not to chop the limb off in retribution.
“Hello,” I mumbled. I was awakened instantly by the nasally voice of an older gentleman on the line. “Yes. Yes. 8:30? I’ll be there. Thank you, Doctor Jordan. Goodbye.”
I rolled out of bed and made a token effort to get ready for the day. Dr. Jordan hadn’t shared any details, but he seemed surprisingly happy. I checked my calendar; this was about the time frame I had been told I’d get notice about whether my project had been selected for further funding. There were only four candidates (including myself) vying for three allotments and I knew that at least one of the others was a complete goofball who was probably still only in school because his parents were generous donors to our college. I made a quick check of my bank account—low triple digits and rent and utilities were due by Wednesday. I sighed in relief. This new money couldn’t be coming at a better time.
I knocked on the massive, oak door of Dr. Reginald Jordan, PhD just as the second hand of the clock was ticking over to 8:30. I was called in and Dr. Jordan gestured at a chair. “Sit down, please, Mister Cairn.”
I pulled up a chair. “What can I do for you, Doctor Jordan?”
He sucked on his lower lip. “I have some news that you… may find… unpleasant.”
His tone sent my heart into weird palpitations as a sinking feeling dropped into my gut. “May I ask what that news is?”
He hesitated. “Mister Cairn, your records show you to be a well-rounded student, very intelligent and capable.” Great. He was buttering me up first. This was no congratulatory speech. “Because of that, the Psychology Department initially approved your dissertation.”
I sensed a great, big “but…” coming.
“However, we’ve been monitoring your research and there are some who are not sure they’re satisfied with your results.”
I blinked. “Not satisfied? What do you mean?”
He glanced aside, a moment, then quietly said, “Some of the boa
rd members seriously question the objectivity of your research. They’re concerned that your data might be skewed because so much of it is fundamentally subjective.”
I knew this man well enough to know he was throwing out pre-rehearsed responses. I was too tired to play games. “Doctor Jordan, with all due respect, can you cut to the chase, please? We’re both adults here and if there are problems with my work, I’d like to know what they are up front so I can just fix them, rather than trying to guess what the Board thinks is wrong.”
He sucked on his lip again. “How to put it,” he muttered to himself. “You see, some of the faculty reviewers are… unimpressed with a dissertation about ‘love.’ They’re concerned that a title involving the words ‘romantic settings’ is not very dignified and will reflect poorly on the Department. It’s… rather unprofessional.”
My chair shifted as I sat forward. “Wait, so you’re telling me that my dissertation is a threat to the Department’s image?”
I knew I’d scored when he winced at my blunt way of putting it. Rather than just admitting I was right, he dodged again. “Perhaps if you simply… shortened the title to ‘Neurophysical response to prescribed stimuli,’ and left out the other parts of your research, you might gain some credibility.”
I massaged my temples. “Doctor Jordan, I can’t do that. The entire object of this study is to see how a so-called ‘romantic’ setting affects those responses. If you remove the first half of the title and its corresponding research, then you strip the whole context from the study and leave it a pointless exercise in reading brain scans.”
“You set up a kissing booth.”
My jaw dropped. “Is that what you think that is?”
“I can’t think of what else to call it.” He shrugged. “Your entire experiment seems to be the kind of thing that gets high school girls to giggle and whisper and pass notes. The Board doesn’t feel that that kind of thing belongs at a university level.”
“So what’s the bottom line?”