Left the house when I was six. That I definitely remember. I generally see him twice a year, on my birthday and on Christmas, occasions I dread. I should look forward to them; instead, I wish for them to pass as quickly as possible.
One year, a snowstorm made it impossible for him to see me on Christmas. It was my favorite Christmas ever.
My father is not wealthy, like Mr. Danforth. He is not cool and collected, like Mr. Fahim. My father bristles with energy, with regret, with time that has rotted and gone black and soft from disuse. He speaks little, asking me how school is, how my mother is, how my friends are. Sometimes he remembers Evan’s name, typically referring to him as “that Evan,” as though there is a plethora of Evans in my life, a vast and multifaceted panoply of them, and he is speaking only specifically of that Evan.
He is taller than he appears, his stooped posture shrinking him. His hair, sandy brown, a shade lighter than my own, is ragged, too long in some spots, too short in others, the right length nowhere. He favors quilted plaid shirts, worn buttoned over long underwear in the winter; open over white T-shirts in the summer, the sleeves rolled.
I’ve never seen him sweat.
My father speaks like someone who has never been entirely comfortable with the English language, although he is a native speaker. He halts. He backtracks. He changes tenses then returns to the original. This is when he speaks at all, which is rare. Where possible, he communicates with nods, shrugs, wordless grunts, and clucks of his tongue, expressing a bewildering range of opinions, requests, and answers without ever resorting to the spoken word.
His breath always smells of beer, but he never seems drunk.