Father Figure

His thoughts were full that morning, and why not?  There was the rough-hewn park-bench he sat on, a replica of the stone staircase in front of him which ascended into the hilly-snow.  There were the chiseled, peeking rocks and the tall, skinny trees that only yesterday seemed depressingly meek and bare, but now – surrounded by the early morning white – seemed to shoot into the sky with newfound buoyancy.

Or perhaps it was simply the thermos of coffee in his hand, the steam mixing with the cloud of his breath.  He liked contrasts.  Warm and cold.  Soon, the man and the girl would be here – and wouldn’t that be grand?

For a moment, he returned to a night when he was still young, when his hair was still dark (hadn’t she brushed it back with her hand?).  Perhaps he might have long forgotten her, had he not stopped his car that day on Route 66.

How he met her wasn’t the way one might imagine a love story to begin, for there were no chance meetings – no colliding into each other, or serenading under moonlit trees. He met her at Faire L’amour, a tavern less elegant than its name, where people came to meet people, and he had been drinking whiskey.

When he noticed her, he thought:  She doesn’t fit.  Whereas the other girls dressed in cowboy-boots and jeans, she wore a simple dress and modest heels - a shadow lost amidst the smoke.

She took the seat beside him, clutching her purse. Nervous, he thought.  Shy.  And then, he was curious.

She ordered a Pinot Noir.  Then, there was a song playing on the jute box: On the Road Again, and it made her looser, and she turned to him and smiled, her shoulders moving to the beat of the song.  “I like it,” she said.  “Don’t you like it?”

“They play it too much.”

“Ah.”

And then he thought he was being rude, so he said: “I’m Morris.”

“Morris.  Unusual name.”

“Oh?”

“You certainly don’t hear it often.”

“And your name?”

“Leigh.”

“A nickname?”

“No.  It’s my whole name.”

“Boyish?”

“Maybe.”

Then they were silent again, and Morris watched the redhead in the corner.  They’d been flirting for weeks.  They’d been in school together, and then, through the years, had run into each other numerous times at the mill where he worked, because her father worked there too.  There seemed an energy between them.  Maybe he would marry her one day.  But he was too young to think about those things.  Barely twenty-four.  Too young to settle down.

“Is that your girlfriend?”

He imagined he turned pink, being caught with his thoughts.  “No,” he said quickly.  “Just a friend.”

“By the way you’re looking at her, I’d say she’s more than that.”

“Nope.”

“You’re certainly a mystery,” she said.  “Your one-word answers and dirty jeans.”

He looked down at his pants.  Worn, not dirty!  And he was about to say this, when he looked up and saw the twinkle in her eyes. “You’re teasing me,” he said.

“A little.”

He thought: Not so shy after all. Contrast. 

Later, they were sitting on his couch and she was unbuttoning her blouse.  Wait, he said. 

“You don’t want this?”

“It’s not that.  It’s just – I barely know you.”

“Ah – maybe I should be saying that.”

He laughed.  “What I mean is – I want to know you.  I like you.”

For a moment, her eyes dimmed, and he wondered if he’d lost her.  But then she lit up again, smiling – wide and dimpled.  “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you come to the tavern tonight?”

“To get a drink.  To meet you, I think.”

“You’re from somewhere else,” he said, “Somewhere far?”

“Somewhere on the other end of Route 66.”

He laughed.  “Far.”

She moved closer to him, a hint of soft lace where her button was undone.  She was comfortable with herself.  He liked this. 

“What about you?” she said.  “Why did you come?”

“To the tavern?  I’m a regular.”

“A regular what?”

“I go there a lot.  Usually after work.  To unwind.”

“And I caught you in the middle of unwinding?”

“You did.” He was surprised at how relaxed he was, at her fingers on his arm.  He decided she was older than he was.  Not by much.  But older, perhaps, in other ways too. 

“I want to kiss you,” he said.  “Is that okay?”

She laughed.  “I think you might be some kind of gentleman.  Who would have thought?”

In the morning, he awoke with his thoughts on fire.  Leigh.  Had he ever known a woman so sure of herself? - so naked in her nakedness?  No.  He had only known girls; shy girls who covered up - who made him look away.  Leigh was raw.  She made him raw.  And then after, in his arms, she murmured something about chance – and how nice it was to be in his arms.  They fell asleep under the rattling ceiling fan, the first streams of red-gold sunlight creeping into the room.

Later, he found her in the kitchen fully dressed, her dark hair rolled into a clip.  She was surprised to see him.  “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

“What are you doing?”

“I have to go,” she said.

He paused.  “I don’t want you to go.”

She didn’t respond.

“I think,” he said, “that you’re going for good.”

She walked up to him and touched his face.  “You were a surprise,” she said, “When I came, I was lost.  I was searching for something.  But I didn’t know it was you.”

He didn’t understand.

“You’re sweet, Morris.”

“Please stay.”

But she turned away quickly – perhaps to hide her face, and then she was gone, only the faint clicking of heels fading in the hallway.

He didn’t see her again until two years later while on a road trip with the redhead.  It was in a food mart in Gardner where she stood by the frozen peas.  When she saw him her face lifted, and then she was shocked.  He went to hug her, but the boy was in her arms. 

“What’s this?” he asked.  And then he knew.

I’m sorry, she said, we wanted a child.  You were the only way. 

And so, he decided, while driving away, that he wouldn’t go home.  Take the car, he told the redhead, who didn’t fight him for long.  And he found a one-room apartment in a shoddy part of town.  He took odd construction jobs and enrolled himself in school.  He didn’t plan on following the boy.  He didn’t plan anything at all.  He only knew that he couldn’t leave.

He waited at the food mart for weeks until Leigh finally returned.  And then, he followed her home.  He only wanted to see the boy with different eyes.  But once he saw him, he wanted to see him again.

He was there when the boy cut his knee at the park.  The other father had been busy talking, so Morris had run up to the boy and brushed him off, the child, big-eyed, wiping away tears, then running off to play again.

He’d been there when the boy was learning to ride his bike.  From down the street, binoculars in hand, Morris watched Leigh trying to steady the boy, her jeans, snug around her hips.  Morris had gone out then and bought a bike – a red bike with a bell.  And he’d left it on the porch.  He imagined, after, that they wouldn’t accept such a gift from an anonymous giver – but, weeks later, he saw the boy riding the red bike, and he wondered: Did she know it was from him?

He sent balloons to the house on birthdays.  He left toys on the porch when he was sure they were asleep.  He called the ambulance, once, when the boy fell from the tree (broken foot), Leigh rushing from the house with her hand at her chest.

 The boy was dark like his mother, but the face - sharp chin, grey eyes – was Morris.  My son.  And once in a while, when Leigh was outside, not as perfectly-put-together as she used to be, he would imagine their night together, and the future that could have been. 

He studied late in the evenings.  He found he was interested in becoming a doctor; a fertility doctor.  And he was especially interested in male infertility: Spermatogenesis; Oligospermia.  It amazed him that such a gift could come so effortlessly for some people, and for others, not so much. Also, he imagined he was desperate to find a reason, a good reason for giving away so easily what should have been rightfully his.

For twelve years he worked, studied, and watched his son grow.  He watched Leigh approach middle-age and become comfortably tired.  He came to accept them both as family – it was something few would understand, and he found a deep appreciation for them – celebrating milestones alone in his home and finding comfort in doing so.  If he were forced to explain himself, he might call it a sacrifice.  A sacrifice for love.  For family?  At the age of thirty-eight, when his son turned fourteen, he graduated school and began his career. 

The divorce didn’t come as a surprise.  The man seemed to be a fine father, but not so attentive to Leigh.  They never touched, Morris noticed. Was that normal?  They could have simply been private people.  Then, he remembered Leigh unbuttoning her shirt. She would have loved openly, he thought.  She would have loved everywhere. 

On the day the man left, Morris watched for a long time.  The boxes being piled into the car.  The boy standing alone with a ball.  Morris was forty-two then and busy helping other couples.  Childless couples.  He gained a deep understanding of the turmoil they experienced – and the hope.  He felt pity for Leigh, and for the husband who was leaving her anyway.

The boy’s name (not much of a boy anymore) was Morris.  He learned it on a whim - at the park where the teenagers hung out.  The boys were playing ball and they called out: Morris!  And Morris had been nervous, thinking he was caught.  But they were calling for the other Morris. Imagine that! She’d given to the boy something of the father.  He was grateful.  He thought about ringing the doorbell.  She was a single woman now.  Surely it would be okay?  But, for years he’d only been an observer.  It didn’t seem right to interfere now.  So, he didn’t.

The man appeared from behind the hill, a little girl beside him.  Together, they walked down the stone staircase, a sled in tow.  When the man passed Morris, he nodded and smiled - wide, dimpled smile, like his mother.  The girl looked at Morris curiously, black curls sprouting from beneath her hat.  They came to the park every Sunday.  Morris Junior (could he be called that?) was a good father.

“You should have stayed with the redhead.”  The voice came from behind him and he jumped, nearly spilling his thermos.

Leigh stood in a long sweater, her hair still dark in spots.  She took the seat beside him.  “It’s been a fine life,” she said.  “But I wish you’d found love.”

His head was spinning.  His heart leapt.  “I did find love,” he said.

She placed her gloved hand onto his.  “Thank you,” she said. 

“For what?”

A moistening of eyes.  “For watching over our son.”

He didn’t want tears.  “None of that,” he whispered.

“I hoped,” she said, “That you’d forget us.  I imagined the bitterness you must have felt.  The hate.”

“No hate,” he said, “Only love.” 

She nodded.  “Maybe I knew that.”  Then, more to herself: “I should have come sooner.”

“Come?”

“Yes.  But I’m braver now – than I was.”

“Oh?”

“Age does that to you.”

The man and the girl were waving her over.  “I have to go,” she said.

She rose slowly, walking away without looking back.

He thought:  This time, she’ll return. 

Yes, this was a good day.