Then
It’s late summer; school is starting in a week. Dad is talking about the Phillies. “Things didn’t work out this year,” he says, “but if they could just make the right move or two this off-season, they could be right back in the hunt, I’m telling you. Don’t you think, Chris?”
“It’d be nice,” I offer. He glances at me, his expression suggesting he knows I’m not really into talking about this, the way I’m not ever into talking about baseball, no matter how many box scores he read to me as a baby. But tonight I have some good news to tell him, something I’m really excited about.
“Dad, the choir director at school called me today. She wants me to try out to be one of the soloists for this year. Remember I had that real short thing I sang in the concert last year?” Actually, Dad missed it because of another double shift. “She said she thought I had a beautiful voice. I should try out. It’d be a real honor if I got picked for that. If I get it and then sing well enough this year, I might even be able to try out for regional choir. The ones who get that are considered the best middle school singers in our part of the state.”
“That’s nice,” he says after a minute. “I’m sure you’ll… When are the tryouts?”
“Right after school the second day.”
Dad pauses before responding. “I think…yeah, I think Devon will have tryouts for the new fall baseball league that day, to see what team he’s gonna be on.” He looks at me. “Your mom and I don’t have to be at your tryouts, do we?”
“I…I don’t know… I don’t think so.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Hopefully, I can switch shifts with somebody that day, so I can take Devon to his tryout.”
“I’ll need a ride home after—”
“I’m glad they’re starting that fall league,” Dad continues, not hearing me now, “and Devon’s going to get a chance to play baseball some more.”
Has he ever heard me? Maybe he stopped after it became obvious baseball was never going to be my thing. Certainly he stopped after it became clear Devon could be molded into the perfect son after Dad failed with the first one. “You wait and see,” he’s saying. “Your brother’s hitting is gonna get a lot better. His bat’s slow right now because he’s so big for his age, and he’s still getting used to his own body. But one day, maybe in fall ball, maybe next summer, the light’s gonna go on, and then, watch out. When he starts getting hits, they’re gonna be monsters.”
We’re almost to the police station when he looks at me and says, “We’ll all three want to make sure we get to Devon’s games, even if it’s just a fall league. It’ll help him with his confidence to see us cheering for him. You especially, being his big brother.”
We stop at the main entrance to the station. “I’ll just get one of the guys getting off shift to take you home,” he says, reaching for the door.
I want to try telling him one more time: regional choir! It would be a really big thing. It’d be important. It would make me important!
Instead, I hear myself say, “I can walk home.”
“No,” he says, “Come on in with me. I’ll ask—”
“Shit, Dad, I’m thirteen years old. I can walk home by myself.”
Where did that come from? I never curse in front of my dad.
He looks at me in disbelief as he says, “Chris, you know better than to talk like that.”
What I should do is apologize. What comes out instead is, “I may not be able to hit home runs, but I can certainly walk six goddamn blocks by myself!”
Now Dad is staring openmouthed at me, probably wondering where this strange alien who has taken over his oldest son’s body has come from. “I don’t know what is going on with you, but we’ll talk after I come home tomorrow, I promise you that. Now come in here with me and I’ll get someone to take you home.”
I need to take back what I said, and I try to get control of myself. But I hear myself stumbling over my words. “I…I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what… Look, don’t worry about the solo tryouts. I can get a ride… I’m not even sure I’m going. It’s not that important…”
“Well, apology accepted,” Dad says. “There’s never an excuse for cursing at your father. But, Chris, I didn’t mean you shouldn’t…”
I want him to continue, to hear what more he was going to say, but now he’s looking at his watch and telling me, “I don’t want to be late; we’ll talk about this when I get home. We’ll talk to Devon too, double-check when his tryouts are—”
“Screw Devon!” I shout, like a bomb just went off inside me that I couldn’t disarm. “And screw you!” And with that, I start walking home. I keep expecting him to come after me to at least make me apologize for defiling the great Devon’s name and insist I wait for one of his cop buddies to drive me home.
But he doesn’t. I just keep walking, and it isn’t until I’m inside our house that I can think back to the look on his face just before I turned away from him, a look that says maybe I’ve done something irreparable. And I start counting the hours until he is home from work and I can apologize for what I’ve said and make things right again.