As usual my inbox floods with advertisements for Father’s Day. I squint at the list and worry about my son, but he’s so adept at keeping junk out of his life that he probably does not get bombarded. I never unsubscribe from anything; I just don’t think about it. So they scroll past on my screen — ads for wallets, ties, golf clubs, polo shirts. I close the lid of my laptop and reach for my coffee.
The shop that I manage has a Father’s Day Sale running. I fill the Quote of The Day board with tributes to dads submitted by my cohorts. A couple of regular customers come, and I wish them regards of the day. They don’t ask about my father, or my son’s father, or anything else except, in general, about my health. If they had inquired, I could only have said, it’s complicated.
Anna Nalick plays on the Bluetooth outside the store. I feel myself sway to the rhythm of her passionate entreaty.
‘Cause you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable
And life’s like an hourglass glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, boys
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe, just breathe
Oh, breathe, just breathe
“There’s a light at each end of this tunnel” you shout
“‘Cause you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out
And these mistakes you’ve made, you’ll just make them again”
If you only try turning around. . . and breathe. . . just breathe. . .”
I remember sitting on the porch with my mother while she smoked a Kent and drank overboiled coffee from a Melamine cup. I can still see the tremble at her mouth, still feel the jagged breath she pulled into her chest. He doesn’t mean it, she mumbled, more to herself than me. I patted her arm. I couldn’t have been more than ten.
I don’t write much about my father and I never write about the father of my son. But today of all days, I think about them both. Quiet men, each. Both dropped out of society in their own ways. My father tied his identity to the two years he spent in Burma, as company clerk to an outfit of muleskinners in World War II. The Mars Men of Burma, his battalion was called; and there’s even a book about their experiences. Whenever my father spoke of that time, he got a vague look and his voice dropped low.
My father’s mother told mine that her sons who went to war came home changed men. As I heard the story, it did not seem to be a positive development. War is hell, I suppose; and one cannot walk unscathed through the fire of Hades. I do not speak much of how that manifested for us. It’s not just my story to tell though its impact on me weaves itself through everything I write.
As for my son’s father, he was a musician in Arkansas who built houses by hand and used Japanese draw knives to make the most beautiful cabinetry that I’d ever seen. My son looks like him, especially in repose. He inherited his father’s musical talent, his artistic ability, and his gentle spirit. In other words — he got the best parts of him. I will say no more about that — again, because it isn’t for me to say.
I never regretted having a child though I wished I could have given him the two-parent picket fence story. I spent many years helping men get equal parenting rights because I knew how important a dedicated father could be. When my clients would ask what they should do to make themselves ready for court, I would stare at them intently, gauging sincerity. The same thing that makes you a good litigant makes you a good father, I’d tell them. Put the children first.
Today the shop has filled with grown children in town to take their fathers to lunch. They browse the art and chat about their reservations at the local steak house. I wrap their purchases and tell them about the artist who made what they’ve chosen. They stand in the doorway and wait for each other. They leave me in a stillness broken only by the sound of passing cars and the throb of music from the outside speaker.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
