Seasons Beckoned Unto Night

by Bob Church

Conclusion

* * *

I recalled the night my best friend, Ernie, was killed in an auto accident in 1970... somehow it was superimposed over the other-worldly sounds of Corpsmen loading litters of Marines onto my helicopter in Quang Tri province. Technicolor parades of taunting North Vietnamese soldiers marching down the Ho Chi Minh Trail in battalion strength between Laos and the DMZ greeted me. Their smiles and waves promised we’d meet again, as I flew over.

I felt my femur snap as my chopper went down in an unsecured landing zone thirty-four clicks northeast of Khe Sahn. When they loaded me on the deuce-and-a-half to carry me to the aid station at Hue, the guy on the litter next to me asked me for a cigarette. I turned my head and saw my father lying there, eighty years old with eyes shut, taking his last labored breaths; even then all he could think about was smoking a cigarette.

“Get up, you damn drunk!” Trixie’s clammy hand slapped my face lightly. “Why can’t you behave yourself like your father?” She helped me to my feet and showed me the front door. “If I were him, I’d be a little more choosy about who I spent my time with. Now get the hell out of here!”

The jukebox played I Love You So Much It Hurts Me. John Prine croaked out the last bars of the ballad as I heard the door shut behind me. I love you so much, it hurts me...sooo.

Walking around the building to where I parked the car, I contemplated whether this was truly the end of — whatever it was that was happening. At least the air was fresh. I felt invigorated just being able to extricate myself from Trixie’s haunt. Plus, as an added bonus, there was no sign of Dad.

I pulled out of the parking lot, and headed west. I knew a little pizza joint called Paisan’s located about a mile down Colfax, and right now, the thought of one of Paisan’s gourmet pies was enticing.

“You know I don’t eat pizza, let’s go to Pfeiffer’s and get a steak.”

Dad’s voice nearly caused me to rear-end the car in front of me. Quickly, I veered over to the curb and slammed on the brakes. “Look, goddamn it, I’ve had about all of this I can take! Either tell me what the hell it is I’m supposed to be doing, or get your ass out of this car and go haunt somebody else! I’ve got three sisters whose heads you can go screw around with, you know. Go give them a chance to bare their souls.”

In an impulse born of frustration, I grabbed the rim with both hands and thrust my forehead into the center of the steering wheel as hard as I could, the horn blaring at passing pedestrians. Again and again I bashed my head into it, the staccato blasts an insane neighborhood cacophony.

Soon, I heard a tap on my side window and looked up into the sunglasses of a Denver policeman. I guess the fun just never stops around here. Delicately, I punched the button, lowering the window and raising the possibility that I might be in custody very shortly.

“Y-yes, officer?

“Is there a problem here, sir?”

Oh, God, if you only knew. “Uh, no... I’m, umm, fine... very, uh... good, actually.” I said, shaking my head up and down like a ninny.

“Yeah, uh-huh... may I see your driver’s license and registration, please, sir?”

Resignedly, I reached in my back pocket, pulled out my wallet and handed my driver’s license to the officer. My registration was in the glove compartment, so I stretched over to unlatch it. Dad was nowhere in sight. Reaching inside the plastic pouch I keep my important vehicle documents in, I took out the registration and proof of insurance and handed them to the officer.

“Okay, Mr. Church, just stay in the car, I’ll be right back.”

I leaned back in my seat, forcing my head and neck onto the headrest, and sighed audibly. Feeling quite lost now, I turned my head slightly and again my father was sitting in the front passenger seat.

“It was only a suggestion.” The leprechauns were back.

* * *

Pfeiffer’s Pfamily Restaurant was anything but: half of the organized crime figures in Denver ate there. In Dad’s defense, I must admit that it was elegant, in a 1950’s sort of way, complete with red flocked-wallpaper, waiters only, maître d’, and soft classical background music. Oh, did I mention overpriced? Of course, this was not a concern for Dad, given his present state of existence, but as we sat eating bread sticks and sipping Idlebrook red table wine (Dad refused to drink anything but New York wines, something about unionization of the grapes), I realized my MasterCard would soon be smoking from the balance being added.

I resented the maître d’ insisting I select a dinner jacket from their collection of ‘loaners’. Nevertheless, I’d resisted the urge to comment upon the myriad stares I received as they seated the older gentleman in his natty Brooks Brothers suit and his jerk buddy in cut-off jeans and t-shirt; covered, of course, by a puce loaner with sleeves three inches too short. Perfect. Dignity aside, I kept thinking I needed to write this up and send it to New Yorker.

“Dad, I have to know. Is there anything I’ve ever done that you’ve approved of?”

He looked up from his French onion soup long enough to let me know he was, at least, formulating an answer. Upon resuming his culinary attack, he offered, “Well, do you want the novel or the Readers’ Digest version?” Slurp.

“Nice touch... a literary reference. Death becomes you.” Instantly, I regretted the remark; it was mean. He stopped eating and stared at me, a brief flash of recognition passing between us.

“Yeah, I didn’t read much, that’s true. Reading is for pussies...” Now his spoon scraped the last of the soup out of the bowl. “Besides, you don’t learn much about literature and such in three years; not starting from scratch.”

The words delivered a blow more devastating than a sucker-punch from behind. “I... I didn’t know, Pop. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He buttered his bread and laid it on his plate. “Bob, get that damn waiter over here, I want some peanut butter.”

I grabbed the busboy’s arm and asked him to send our waiter over.

Patting his mouth with his napkin, he said, “You’re a father, tell me this. Why would a man tell his only son something like that? Did you tell Blake that you damn near flunked chemistry in high school? When did you share with Brian that you wet your pants on a fishing trip because you were too prissy to go into an outhouse that stunk? Haven’t you ever wanted to keep any of your inadequacies to yourself? That’s the problem with society, now, it’s so damn ‘touchy-feely’. It just wasn’t something that I wanted you to know. Pride, I guess.”

This revelation was more than I could remember Dad ever saying at one time, except when he attacked Richard Nixon or the New York Yankees. I wouldn’t be sidetracked. “Can we get back to the original question?”

“Remind me again, will ya’, what exactly did you ask me?” A throaty horselaugh accompanied the statement; greedily, he snatched the small bowl of peanut butter from the waiter. “Hey, wait a second, Slick, I want smooth, not chunky.” As he placed the bowl back on the tray, he gave the waiter a knowing look and said, “It’s the choppers. You’ll understand some day.”

Dad slapped both hands down on the table, the tablecloth causing a muffled thud. “Hey! How about I tell you who killed Kennedy? It took a little doing, but I pried it out of Lee Harvey.” Now he was grinning broadly, his mouth shut and screwed into an expression that was uniquely Jimmy Church. Clearly, he wasn’t about to answer my question, and this was all the answer I needed.

* * *

“Bob, did you ever stop to think that Jesus, perhaps the most influential and controversial man who ever sucked in oxygen, went missing for eighteen years? Of course, I can’t personally attest to it, but I’ve been told the Bible makes no mention of his life from his childhood to the age of thirty or so. Why do you suppose that is?”

We’d just left Dave Cook’s Sporting Goods, where I’d added close to $400 on my MasterCard, having purchased enough fishing equipment to satisfy my father’s insatiable need for state of the art lures. Of course, when we got to Lake John, he’d cast one or two times, not catch a fish, and immediately change to a worm or salmon eggs, leaving me with ten or fifteen snell-hooked appurtenances still in their blister packs. Lake John was a full three-hour drive from Denver, so his question was welcome.

“The search for the historical Jesus... that’s a change. I can’t remember ever having a discussion with you about such subjects. Found religion in heaven, did we?”

“Who said I was in heaven? For all you know, I may be a jackrabbit in Arizona. Mind if I smoke?”

A rhetorical question, if ever there were one. He’d already punched the button on the cigarette lighter. At least he wasn’t lighting a match this time. “Like I could stop you. Dad, have you noticed that we have about three conversations going on at the same time? Honestly, I don’t think we had three conversations in the last twenty years. Every question begets another question. What does that say about us?”

“Yeah, the shrinks call it avoidance, I think.” He didn’t look at me, but his tone was all business.

“God, you have been busy the last year. I’m impressed!”

Now, he saluted me with his cigarette as he spoke. “I appreciate the respect, but you don’t have to address me as God. I’d have been willing to settle for Your Holiness. ” Then he chuckled as I shook my head. I think he enjoyed my exasperation. “Bob, I asked you the question about Jesus, because I wanted you to think about something. You see, even the rich and famous have mysteries associated with them. Who’s to say that Jesus wasn’t running numbers for the Roman mob? Hell, I’ve been dead for over a year, and no angels have presented themselves, asking me if there’s anything in particular I’d like to know about anyone. Maybe nothing was written about Jesus because no one felt it was important enough to comment on.”

All this time, he thought I didn’t care. I felt my eyes well with tears. “I’m... sorry, Dad.”

Dad pointed out the window. “There’s a 7-11 on the right. I’m just about out of cigarettes. Would you mind buying me another pack, for old times’ sake?”

I pulled in next to a Mustang convertible with the top down. An attractive woman sat in the passenger seat making eye contact with Dad. I considered asking him which particular brand he wanted, but, with her body language and my father’s grin, I knew my question would fall on deaf ears. To hell with it, you’ll smoke whatever I buy and like it.

* * *

Squatting at water’s edge, Dad cast his line into the lake and adopted his characteristic pose, kneeling in a catcher’s stance, feeding line from the Shimano open-bail reel I bought him. He could stay in one position for hours. Fishing was always serious business for my father. Of course, a cigarette dangled from his lips as he concentrated. He’s willing the fish to his bait. I don’t know if he could really do it or not, but I’m certain that he believed he could.

I remember many times, as a boy, watching him, my own line sitting at the bottom of the lake, completely ignored, while he put some sort of double-secret whammy on the trout. Sometimes, I’d try to utter something, only to have him raise his hand and stop me. Shush! You’ll scare the fish...

Yea, right. My voice is going to affect creatures lurking thirty yards away and fifteen feet below the surface of the water. No wonder they make hearing aids from dead trout.

Truthfully, Dad usually preferred that everyone remain silent whenever he was present, unless, of course, he initiated the conversation. Then, he expected prompt attention from whomever he addressed. Funny, though, it didn’t seem to bother the fish if he had something to say.

Eventually, he sat his rod and reel on the ground, the rod tip balanced over a rock, his line taut so that the slightest bite would cause it to move. The brisk mountain air chilled me a little as I watched a suddenly-older representation of my father gaze across the lake, his out-of-place black suit coat unbuttoned, causing the dark tie to blow in the breeze. He looked ridiculous.

After a few minutes, he walked over to me. “That damn Jap reel is only 6-to-1 gear ratio. Plus, you can’t take the clicker off. Every time I took up the slack, it reminded me that it’s not a Garcia-Mitchell.”

“Dad, they don’t make Garcia-Mitchell’s anymore. The company split about fifteen years ago. You can buy one or the other, or both, but not a combination.”

“Well, that’s screwed up. Is Mitchell a Jew-name? I know Garcia isn’t.”

“Oh, another Jewish conspiracy, huh? That figures. Those people are responsible for all the world’s ills, aren’t they? Them and the blacks. Dad, tell me, please; where do you come up with this stuff? Hasn’t God or someone taught you anything since you’ve been dead? That’s just the sort of crap that I carried around for years, refusing to believe that my father was a bigot, that he just was so badly treated by people that he just hated everyone. Dad, what happened? Why were you at war with the world?”

The lines on his face had somehow become etched and deeper, giving him an older appearance. He stared off into the distance, but he did something I recognized. Cigarette between his fingers, he began scratching the back of his head with his thumb; slowly, as if it helped him focus. I’d seen him do it countless times. He didn’t look at me, but I knew this posture-- this was the preamble for Mom’s Soliloquy.

“Bob, you had the greatest mother who ever lived.”

Here we go. I’d heard that exact phrase so many times it no longer had any meaning. In the old days, for the first few years after Mom died, it was the opening line in the Everyone Feel Sorry For Jimmy Blues, normally uttered when he was liquored up and about to pass out. Of course, there was no acceptable response. I truly believe I could have spoken the first line of the Hail Mary, and he’d have found a reason why I was being disrespectful to my mother. Well, today I wouldn’t allow it.

“Yes, I know. Too bad I had such a dickhead for a father, huh?”

Unbelievably, he looked at me and grinned. “Still mad at me, aren’t you? You still blame me for Mom’s death.”

I could barely control my rage. My body convulsed and I began sobbing. “You still don’t get it, do you? Dad, if you weren’t already dead, I swear I’d kill you myself, right now. I’ve never blamed you for Mom’s death, and you know it, you son of a bitch! It’s the same self-indulgent bull crap that my sisters and I have had put up with for the last thirty years.

“Why do you think Debby became a full-blown drunk with cirrhosis of the liver? It cost me thirty-five hundred bucks to have her flown from Phoenix to Denver with a nurse, just so she could come home to die! You abandoned my sisters, Dad. When they needed you most you jumped in the bottle! I understood for the first year or so, but, Dad, you died right along with her and did it standing up! How can you pretend to be a man, much less a father? You were never there for any of us.”

Simmer down. Jesus, you’re going to pop an aneurysm over a dead guy!

“So... you’re an expert on grief as well as the Denver Broncos?”

A deep breath allowed me to regain my composure. I grinned and shook my head. There was no point in trying. I couldn’t hate this man.

An eighty-year-old man walked over and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. For the first time, I felt the touch of a father’s hand upon my face and thoughts and experiences of a lifetime raced through my mind. Eyes clouded with glaucoma implored me to listen. “Now you understand. Sometimes love and hate are too close to call. My guilt took me away, never again to feel the warmth of family. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away. As he reached the Blazer, he opened the door and took my mother’s hand as she stepped out. She smiled at me, touched fingers to her lips and blew me a kiss. Hand in hand, they disappeared at water’s edge.