That first morning in my father’s new house, I lay in bed and remembered him teaching me to swim. First waking after having slept deeply, then opening my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, and its coastline crack curving from wall to wall. Waking to that memory—the two of us in a public pool.
The hot concrete deck beneath my feet, the soft water, the lifeguards in their black sunglasses and red trunks, twirling their whistles, towering above me, my father’s hand, my arms around his neck, skin that smelled so much of him and was so warm, us two descending, hanging on tight as he walked us step by step toward the menacing deep end, where the older boys dove for weighted rings, where he swung me around to his back and said, “Hang on, engine starting,” as his feet came up and him breaststroking while I sputtered speedboat sounds, until we made it back to the shallows where I pretended to keep my eyes closed calling “Marco” and him gliding away saying “Polo” on and on until he let me catch him and climb his shoulders and crash into the water again.
I am walking alone to the concession stand, knowing he is watching me, pretending not to be afraid, standing on my toes now, reaching up to exchange the damp dollar bills for an ice cream sandwich and then returning, slaloming through the chairs, between towels, giddy for the achievement, and my father smiling at me as I walk-don’t-run, walk-don’t-run as quickly as I can. The folded paper, the Carnation rose, hospital corners, the delicate task of removing the wrapper without leaving any of it stuck to the cookies, the taste of it, the texture and always preferring the sandwich deep-frozen and stale.
The warmth of the towel around my shoulders as I fall asleep watching him read Sports Illustrated, wishing I had one more ice cream, knowing it would not be allowed.
This is what I woke to that morning in my father’s new house, and because of the memory, when I came into the kitchen and found him at the stove frying eggs, I kissed the back of his head. He turned and smiled at me with such gratitude.
It wasn’t our way. My kissing him like that, as if I were the caretaker, such a protective, paternal act. I don’t know why I did it, but when he smiled I began to understand something that only years later would I be able to articulate.
Later while he was in the shower, I sat on the front step with a cup of coffee.
Now I lived in White Pine with my father, who had given up so much to live as close as he could to my mother, who had one day, with a hammer, without apparent warning, beaten a man to death.
My sister was in London.
Tess was in Cannon Beach.
I considered each of these things. I was not happy, but I was calm.
There was no circling bird. I was not burning with life. I was not pinned to the bed.
I was even. My brain had slowed to a gentle pace. I found a brief peace in the sun, on the front step. And while it lasted, in those hours, I tried as best I could to work out a plan.
I would see my mother. I would call Tess. I would take care of my father. I would find a job.
He sat next to me. He smelled of soap and, as always, of Royall Lyme, a bottle of which his first girlfriend had given him before he left for Vietnam.
“What do you do all day?” I asked him.
“I work on the house. I read. Go into town. I’ve been looking for a job.”
I nodded.
“And I visit Mom.”
“Every day?”
“Often as they let me,” he said.
We sat for a while, neither of us talking.
“I think I’ll come with you then.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. “Sure,” he said. “All right. If that’s what you want to do.”