My Father’s Dreams
I couldn’t remember the last time he’d held my hand. When I was a kid, I would’ve given anything for that kind of affection, and now all those years later, there was still a part of me that hadn’t changed. But pride being what it is, I pulled my hand loose and told him he should keep his opinions to himself.
“I’m not trying to offend you,” he said. “I only want to make sure you’re happy. Are you?”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It’s a simple question.”
“I’m happy.”
“Good. That’s important.”
“I guess you would know, dad. You’re the expert at doing what makes you happy.” I left him there with his boiling pot of empanadas and didn’t come home until I knew he’d be asleep.
The next morning I found my father in the kitchen again. “It was a fantastic night, wasn’t it?” he asked me. He seemed charged up again like when he picked me up. “Not too cold—not like what you’re having in New York right now.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and told him what I’d decided the night before after my fifth can of beer: “Listen, dad, you seem fine. You seem better than fine, actually. I’m going to catch an earlier flight and leave tonight. Janet and I have a lot left to do and anyway, I’m going to see you at the wedding. We can spend some time together that weekend.”
My father’s mood changed. He began to speak quietly and slower than usual, as if every word required a bit of effort from him. “Please stay. We have a lot to talk about.” He pulled up a seat next to me at the kitchen table.
“I’m here now.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean I don’t want to tell you right now. I need time with you to make you understand.”
“We’re going to have a couple of days before the wedding.”
“I’m not coming to the wedding,” he said, calmly, almost casually. “That’s why I asked you what I asked you last night.” There was something about my dad’s voice at that moment that made me remember the time he told me he was leaving my mom and me. I think my father believed that if he said something hurtful but sounded relaxed when doing so, it would hurt less.
“You mean about Janet?” I asked. “I wouldn’t marry a woman I didn’t love. I’m not like you. I don’t just up and leave people whenever I feel like it.”
My father stood up. “You’re a foolish man, sometimes.”
My hands began to shake a little and I rubbed them together, but I couldn’t hold it in. “Fuck you!” I screamed. I stood up as well, though I can’t say why.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” my father said.
“Well, it seems like you do. How can you not come to my wedding?”
“I can’t,” he told me. “You wouldn’t understand it.”
“Look, you don’t want to come? Fine, that’s your business.” I stopped in mid- sentence and looked at him—really looked—for the first time since I got there, maybe for the first time since I was a kid. I noticed the bump he had on the bridge of his nose. I’d forgotten it. I have one, too. All the men in our family do.