We drove to a busy corner and parked next to a Starbucks. It was a cool-and-rainy kind of day.
“Are you sure about this?” my mom asked. “Let me join you.”
“Won’t be the first time I’ve played an outdoor concert,” my dad said. “And you can’t come with me. Someone needs to stay with the kids.”
We waited in the minivan, watching him as he crossed the street. He had his sign and his guitar, but no Aretha.
My dad stood on the lane divider by the left-hand turn signal. He propped his THANK YOU sign against his open guitar case. We couldn’t hear him singing. There was too much traffic.
“He needs to make eye contact,” my mom said.
The light turned red and a line of cars formed next to my dad. Someone beeped his horn, and my dad looked over. A driver in a taxi passed him some money.
The next time the light was red, a driver in a pickup truck gave my dad coins. When the light turned green, people mostly just passed by, their eyes on the road ahead. But a few smiled or nodded.
Red. Green. Red. Green. The hour wore on. When he climbed back into our van, my dad smelled like car exhaust. He passed my mom a handful of wadded-up bills and some coins. “Seven lousy bucks and change.”
“It’s really starting to come down,” my mom said. “People don’t like to open their windows when it rains.” She gazed at the wet dollars. “We could try up by the mall. Maybe it’s just a bad corner.”
My dad shook his head. “Maybe it’s a bad idea.”
“We need the rain,” I said. “Because of the drought and all.”
“Good point,” said my dad. “Let’s look on Jackson’s bright side.”
After a while, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We drove to a park so my mom and Robin could get some fresh air. She said Robin was going stir-crazy.
“How about you come, too, Jackson?” my mom asked as she undid Robin’s car seat straps.
“Nah. Too wet,” I said.
“You’re both gonna get wet,” my dad warned.
“Robin’s getting antsy,” my mom said. “We can dry our clothes on top of the car when the sun comes out.”
“Day just gets better and better.”
My mom leaned across the seat and kissed my dad’s cheek, which was kind of stubbly. “Good times,” she said.
I stayed in our minivan with my dad. Aretha, who smelled a little ripe, was sleeping in the back.
I decided to draw a new sign for my dad. A better one, like the one my mom had made for our bathroom door.
I tore some cardboard off the end of my sleeping box. Then I made a smiling fish, sitting in a canoe. He was holding a fishing pole and wearing a floppy hat.
In big letters I wrote: ID RATHIR BE FISHING.
My dad was dozing in the driver’s seat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t snoring. So I knew he wasn’t serious.
I poked him with my sign.
“Try this next time, Dad.”
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took the sign from me. For a long time, he just stared at it.
“Great job,” he finally said. “I like the mustache on the trout. Nice touch. Just FYI, RATHER has an E. And ID … oh, never mind. It’s great, kiddo. Thanks.”
“If it gets wet, we can grab some more cardboard, and I’ll make a new one.”
My dad set the sign down gently on the passenger seat. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. It was misty. Leaves were shiny and dripping.
Mom says she’s only seen my dad cry three times. When they got married, and when Robin and I were born.
I watched my dad lean against the hood of our car and cover his eyes with his hand.
His face was damp, but I told myself it was probably just the rain.