We stood on the rooftop of a building on the Upper East Side. The building was thirty stories tall. Not a monolith like many of the other buildings in the city, but still tall enough for us to see most of the city laid out like an intricate model. It was the middle of the night and lights flickered in distant windows like stars.
My father said, “How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Not nervous?”
“No.”
He smiled and chuckled and clapped me on my shoulder.
“Of course you’re nervous.”
It was September 3, 1973. My father had been Temple for almost thirty years. He had more stories than he could ever share with me. He’d only shared the important stories—like how it all began—but the lesser stories he kept to himself. Told me very soon I would have lesser stories of my own. Instances when I helped stop a robbery or mugging. The city still had its issues with crime, and I would be the one to help clean it up.
My father had been Temple for almost thirty years and now he was walking away. He had already packed his things, loaded his car, sold his apartment. By that time my mother had passed away nearly a decade ago.
“Where will you go?”
“I told you—I don’t know.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“I still don’t understand why you need to leave. Why you just can’t stay here in the city. We’re going to have children at some point. It would be great if they met their grandfather.”
My father shook his head slowly, looked away.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Eli.”
“I just don’t get it.”
“You will some day.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll eventually get to a place where you’ll realize there isn’t much more for you to do. That it’s time to let your son—or daughter—take over if they so choose.”
“I understand that part. But I don’t understand why you have to leave.”
“It’s this city.”
“What about the city?”
“It … it’s like a magnet. It draws on me. This need we have to help people, to save people, it will never go away. And being here in this city, it sometimes become too much. That’s why I have to leave.”
“Wherever you go, there will be trouble. People will still need help.”
My father smiled again.
“The world got on before Temple, and it will get on after Temple.”
“What if I don’t want to do it?”
My father didn’t even blink.
“Then you don’t have to do it. I was never forced to be Temple. I wanted to do it. I needed to do it. If you don’t feel the same need—”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why did you ask?”
I said nothing.
My father clapped my shoulder again.
“You’re nervous. I understand. Believe me, I understand. I was in the same situation as you were a long time ago. Only I didn’t know what I was doing at the time. You, on the other hand, have had training. You know everything you need to know.”
“Shalissa is terrified.”
“As she should be. Your mother was terrified for me as well. It kept her up at night. But she understood it had to be done.”
We stood there then in silence, watching the city again. Finally, my father said it was time for him to go.
I asked, “Any parting advice?”
My father smiled.
“Of course. Try not to do anything stupid.”
“Gee, thanks, Pops.”
My father embraced me. At first I wasn’t sure what to do. My father had always been standoffish when it came to signs of affection. He had grown up without a father himself and hadn’t had any male role models in his life. He once told me he had been terrified to learn he would be a father because he was certain he would mess it up. Maybe that was another reason why he had sent my mother to live with her parents upstate for the first several years of my life. Even when we eventually came back to the city and my father was around, he never hugged me. He told me he loved me, would clap me on the shoulder, but that was it. No hugs. No kisses on my head.
I said, “I’ll miss you.”
My father stepped back, wiping at his eyes.
“I’ll miss you too.”
We were silent for another moment, and then my father turned and started toward the stairs. I watched him go, afraid this was the very last time I would ever see him. But then he turned back, raising a finger.
“There is one more thing, now that I think about it. I’m sure at some point there will be a situation that will be too much for you. You’ll probably tell yourself you can’t win. If that situation occurs, remember you can always walk away.”
“But … wouldn’t that make me a coward?”
“That depends. You need to ask yourself what’s worse—being a coward or being dead.”
“Have you ever walked away?”
“No.”
“Then why are you telling me it’s okay?”
“Because you’re my son and I love you.”
“I’m never going to walk away.”
My father smiled.
“I know you won’t. You’re not one to start something you can’t finish. That’s what I admire about you. That’s why I know you’ll do great. You don’t quit. You’ll see a challenge through to the end, whether you live or die.”