When I was out of it after my head got bashed, Sophie told me another Bompie story. It wasn’t like the others. Bompie didn’t fall in the water or anything. It went like this:
When Bompie’s father was very old and very sick, Bompie went to see him. Bompie sat by his father’s bed every day for three weeks.
During the first week, Bompie sat there being mad at his father and was hardly able to talk to him. The second week, Bompie was even madder, and he sat there reminding his father of all the times his father had whipped him.
“Remember when I fell off that bridge and nearly drowned in the Ohio River? Remember that whipping you gave me?” Bompie asked. “And remember when I was in the car that flipped over in the river and when I came home, you whipped me black and blue?” On and on Bompie went, while his father just lay there blinking back at him.
During the third week, Bompie stopped talking and just looked at his father. He looked at his hands and his feet, his arms and his legs, his face. He touched his father’s forehead and his cheeks. Then Bompie left the hospital and when he came back the next day, he said to his father, “Look what I brought you. An apple pie!”
And his father cried and Bompie cried.
When Sophie finished Bompie’s story, I wanted to give her a story, too. But I couldn’t think of one to tell.