K. Jennings-Hancock - All My Love, Dad

All My Love, Dad

....By Kathryn Jennings-Hancock

The dead bird in Linnie's Christmas present didn't get explained until New Year's Eve, and by then it was too late. Nobody was speaking to anybody else and the party at Grandma's was a waste of time. I knew it would be a bust and probably depressing, but Grandma's eighty-two now, there's no way of knowing how many of these things she's got left.

I thought a party might do her good. The only people she saw regular were Uncle Pat, who'd lived with her for way too long if you ask me, and Dad, who was up there every other day or so, putzing around at whatever project needed doing, like sweeping leaves off the patio or repainting the eaves. Besides, Kathy would've killed me if I didn't go, another huge incentive. My wife is big on family, with what she calls keeping ties tight.

Kathy and I arrived to find the party was just us, Grandma, Dad, Uncle Pat, and Linnie. And Linnie only showed up for Grandma. She told me as much when I was in the kitchen mixing a stout enough vodka and Ocean Spray to get me through the evening. Linnie loved Grandma, but said she wouldn't care if she never laid eyes on my Uncle Pat again, and I believed her because she jabbed a big block of ice so hard while she was telling me this that little bits flew out of the bowl and stuck in her hair and her eyebrows, but Linnie ignored them, whacking away until she had a bowl full of the tiniest, most crunched up crushed ice I'd ever seen.

The rest of the family had 'plans', important commitments they couldn't get out of. Parties they'd rather be at, I figured. So it was just us, sitting around the big screen in the living room, watching the ball drop in Times Square. Kathy woke Grandma when it was over, helped her out of the blue cloth recliner with the built in heated massager Pat got for her birthday, and got her upstairs to bed. When Kathy came back, sitting on the edge of the rocking chair in the corner like she might have to jump up again any minute, it was meant as a signal to the rest of us that it was time to go home.

"Nineteen ninety-seven, I'll be damned." Dad brushed popcorn off his jeans and leaned forward, cracking his knuckles and grinning at nothing. I grunted and Pat cleared his throat and Kathy said, "Well, my!", but Linnie just stared hard at a Pillsbury cinnamon roll commercial. Up until then, nobody had said a word all night. Honest to God, we'd just sat there watching TV and chomping popcorn and mixed nuts, nobody asking how anybody else was after Kathy tried a couple of times, asked Linnie how the baby was, when her husband might be back from his business trip to Asia, and how her brother, that's my cousin Doug, was making out with his landscaping business.

"Fine," "Soon," and "Great," Linnie said without moving her lips hardly at all, and that's it.

She was still sore about the bird, I knew. You could see it in the way she spit her answers out, short and flat without separating her teeth, keeping them clenched the whole time. She barely looked at Kathy and never at Uncle Pat. It was like he was some dusty bum who'd plunked down next to her on the bus before she could say the seat was taken.

If you didn't know they were father and daughter, you'd just naturally assume they'd never met. The more I watched them ignoring each other, the more I hoped she'd ask him about the bird, but she didn't. If it had been me, I would have. "Dad," I'd have said, right in the middle of the horn blowing and confetti slinging going on in Times Square, "why'd you put a dead bird in my Christmas present?" Get it out in the open and clear the air, that's what I'd have done. But not Linnie. She just sat there, lower jaw jutting out and her lips all pressed together, her gaze never leaving that dough.

As far as I know, I'm the only one she'd talked to about it, and that wouldn't have happened if I'd remembered to send a Christmas card. My year to handle that particular job, according to Kathy. She'd been too busy getting the kids ready for their school pageant, going crazy with last minute shopping and all the rest of whatever goes into getting ready for the holiday. I'd called Linnie after the gifts were opened and the wrapping was picked up and the kids had disappeared with their haul of new stuff, and she'd told me about getting this big UPS box from Pat, with a beautiful music box inside. A carousel like the one he'd taken her to on weekend visits when she was a kid, only this one was all porcelain and blown glass. With a card that said, "All my love, Dad", and as it turned out, that was the only good part about that box.

Because, she explained, as soon as she'd cut the strapping tape, she'd smelled it. The ammonia and mildew vapors of something long dead. Once she pulled the music box through layers of rainbow colored Styrofoam peanuts crammed around it, she'd found the bird, wedged down to one side toward the bottom. Stiff, dead. A hummingbird. It was amazing how one little thing could stink up a package and then a whole room so much, she said, but it sure had.

"How could he?" she'd screamed into the phone, so I had to hold it maybe six inches from my ear and even then, the connection was crystal. "It's cruel!" I don't know what he was trying to say, but I'll never speak to him again. It's just like him to do something like this. It just fits."

Maybe it did, but I still thought there had to be an explanation. You have to understand, my uncle Pat has done a lot of things that won't get him elected Father of The Year. There's the way he left when Linnie was just a baby, really, only about two. Doug was ten, so he remembers more about it, while Linnie's always had to rely more on what she was told. Like how Pat moved out one Sunday morning, when to live with his secretary in Marin County, the woman he claimed he loved more than life and he must have, because he left two kids and my Aunt Eunice to be with her.

Life would've gone on after that, the way it goes when you leave it alone, and things might've turned out differently between Pat and Linnie, but the thing with the secretary didn't pan out. It declined a little at a time, Pat said, then crumbled the spring she left him for a Marketing Director in San Francisco. Uncle Pat got left with nobody, and I guess that made him reconsider his feelings about family, made him think maybe he'd be better off with the one he'd started out with.

Seven years after he left, he tried to hook up with my Aunt Eunice again. Linnie was nine then. Old enough to have heard stories about her dad, maybe too many times and at too high a pitch, from Eunice. Linnie was old enough, even at nine, to make up her mind that she didn't want him back. Her screaming and crying and faking the dry heaves every time he showed up to see Eunice didn't do much toward getting them back together, I'm sure.

Pat hung in for a few years, trying to make a go of getting her back, but finally moved in with Grandma. Settled into one of the extra bedrooms tacked on over the garage and gave up on Eunice completely, although he tried to be a good dad to Doug and Linnie. Weekend visits and whatever they asked for at Christmas, but the only thing Linnie liked was the carousel. That's the only idea of his she'd never thrown up over, the only activity during which she'd say more than three words to him and not cry. After a while, Pat quit expecting more than that, but I always thought he hoped. He just got a little more resigned to her silence as the years went by, maybe convinced himself that what little bit of a relationship they had was as good as could ever be. Three or four words from Linnie in one afternoon, without tears or an upset stomach, and he went home satisfied.

"He's insensitive and heartless," Linnie said, and this was before she got the box. This was at Thanksgiving. "It's not just the divorce, either," she continued. "Although I'm sure I'm emotionally scarred."

I didn't say a word, because what could I say? Divorce ran in the family, as rampant as hazel eyes and overbites, something that came with the whole package. My folks divorced when I was ten, so I understood how Linnie felt like she'd been ripped off, like when you're a kid and you save up cereal box tops to send away for something, but when you get it, it's not as great as you'd hoped. Then it breaks the first time you play with it and forever after that, you've got this lingering suspicion about the cereal company, this distrust of a bunch of people you've never even met. So I understood how she felt, but I'd never held a grudge against Dad the way Linnie had against Pat, or against Mom, either. I figured they did the best they could.

When Mom ran off to Germany with the ski instructor she fell for in Tahoe, I didn't like it, but I didn't spend much time bawling about it, either. I just moved in with Dad, and we made it work, somehow. Maybe I had it easier because they didn't break up over someone else, the way Pat and Eunice did. My folks had been split up for quite a while before Mom took off, and Dad always kept what little dating he did pretty much on the QT. I figured my folks just fell out of love, quick and without much warning, like getting bucked off a horse.

After Mom left, Dad seemed happy enough. He had his job, he dated this woman or that one, he putzed around building birdhouses and planting ivy, he showed up at Grandma's once or three times a week to do whatever needed doing, and life went on. So I knew how Linnie felt, but if it had been me, I wouldn't have carried the grudge. I'd have cleared the air.

But my cousin wasn't me. She just glared at Dad like he'd said something dirty, got up and stalked right out of the room, her head up and not moving one bit. It wasn't until I heard the front door slam and the whine of her Aerostar turning over that I realized she wasn't coming back.

"Well, I don't get it," Pat said then, shaking his head and rubbing his hands hard over his knees, like his legs had gone to sleep in the few hours he'd been sitting next to Dad. "That kid hasn't said one word to me since Christmas. It's like she's mad as hell at me, and I'll be damned if I can tell you why."

"Kids," Dad said, sliding the popcorn bowl off the coffee table and onto his lap. "It's a phase."

"Dad," I said, "Linnie's thirty-one years old. She's a little past phases."

"Don't start with me, son." He squinted in my direction like I was someone he'd met once, only he couldn't remember where or when, then opened his mouth to say more but filled it with popcorn instead.

"What the hell did I do, is what I want to know," Pat said. "So I haven't been the world's greatest Dad. So I'm not going to win any prizes there. But this is different. This isn't just your standard cold shoulder stuff. It's like I did something to her, and damned if I can figure it out."

"Well," I said, then leaned forward and changed my mind. It wasn't my place to do any explaining. I'd learned that much in my lifetime. Better to fly low, stay to the sidelines, let other people figure out their own difficulties. Because if you didn't, no matter how good your intentions were, you'd get burned by the whole thing and somehow wind up the bad guy.

I shrugged at Dad and cracked my own knuckles, then turned my attention to the TV, to two women with heads bent over Swiss Mocha, caffeine free and serene.

"Well what, son?"

"Huh?" I raised my head slowly, like it was an effort to break away from that commercial. Like all the secrets to the universe were in that coffee, and if I looked away for even a minute, my life would be changed, and not necessarily for the better.

"Don't 'huh' me," Dad said. "Say what you were going to. Speak up."

I felt eleven years old again, stepping out of the bathroom in damp pajamas after showering. Dad would appear from the end of the hallway with a towel snaked over one arm before whipping it past my shoulder and landing it half in my face. "Dry your hair, son," he'd say, with that same granite tone of authority, and I would. Hurriedly, and hopefully perfectly. As he'd towered over me, his face a big, unsmiling blank, I'd have to concentrate on only seeing his eyes. Because they were the only soft thing about his face then, and if I looked at them long enough, I'd know he loved me. I couldn't go to bed with wet hair because I might catch pneumonia, and he could take anything, I'd tell myself, but losing me. "Good night, Dad," I'd say, and he'd 'Hmmph', take the towel, and cuff me on the shoulder, beginning and ending our daily affection.

"Well Dad, I think maybe there is something," I said then, ignoring Kathy's vigorous head shaking as she moved toward the kitchen. She'd deal with me later. With a heavy left hook consisting of a lecture on staying out of other people's business. Especially when those other people were my relatives. "Families," she'd say, as she'd said a thousand times in the ten years of our marriage, "are only as good as the confidences they keep."

Watching Dad scowl at me then, while Uncle Pat toyed with the remote, turning it over and over in one hand, I thought maybe she was right. Maybe Linnie's carrying on over the phone was something I was supposed to keep to myself. Maybe life would be a lot easier for me if I did. I shrugged, and turned back to the TV.

"So you're just gonna leave us in suspense," Dad said over a mouthful of popcorn. "And here I thought there was something earth shaking you were about to say, you just--"

"Oh, forget it." Pat raised the volume with the remote he hadn't let go of all evening. "If she doesn't appreciate what I've done for her, terrific. Kids don't appreciate parents. It's the way of the world."

"Or parents kids," Dad said then, nodding toward the stairs. "Did you hear Mom say anything tonight about all the leaves I got off the patio, piled up from those storms before Christmas? Not a word, and I raked them all into the dumpster, too. If it hadn't been for me, that patio'd be a mess--"

"Oh, don't start." Pat scowled at him. "I found your stupid leaves, plugging up all the space in there. When I dumped out the packaging from that shipping crate Linnie's music box came in, there wasn't any room in the can, hardly."

"So you're the guy with the Styrofoam peanuts?" Dad's voice rose, and I wondered if Grandma was accustomed to her sons' squabbling after so many years, or if it was still enough to wake her. "The same ones I bagged up in plastic later? Don't you know you've got to separate biodegradables? Or don't you read the flyers Mom gets, I guess you figure her eyes are so terrific she can make out all that fine print by herself." He snorted, shoveling in another handful of popcorn.

Pat shifted uncomfortably, blowing out a frustrated breath. "Fine," he said. "I appreciate that you bagged them. Actually, when I was packing Linnie's box to ship it, it came in real handy to fill up the empty space in the box. I just ran right out to my little brother's ecologically correct dumpster and packed a perfect present for a little girl who hates me. The plastic was a nice touch. Made it real easy to just dump in the box, get it in the mail so she could open it and hate what was inside. It was just a music box for Pete's sake, and--"

"See?" Dad's brows raced up his forehead like marathoning caterpillars. "But the thing is...do you appreciate that I bagged them? Probably not. No more than Mom appreciates the way I swept off those leaves, and it was a G.D. disaster after those storms. But does she say, 'thanks'? No. Not for that, or for the way I picked up that little--"

The color drained from his cheeks, then returned in one mad flush as his hand hovered over the popcorn bowl, fingers clenching and unclenching air.

"Dad!"

All I could think was heart attack, that I didn't know CPR but Kathy did, that I wouldn't have time to get to the kitchen and drag her back to the living room. But before I could get out of my chair, Dad plunged his hand into the popcorn and grabbed another handful, blowing out a quick breath and cramming every bit of it into his mouth.

It seemed to me he took an awfully long time chewing, time he should have spent saying something. Something by way of explanation for scaring me to death, or something to shut up Pat, who by that time was listing off all the things he'd tried to do for Linnie when she was little, saying his intentions had been good all along, but you could never figure kids. Especially when they grew up. Because of all the things in the world for her to hate him for, he'd never figured a music box would be one of them. It just didn't make sense.

I didn't say a word about the bird. Not until later, after Kathy had finished cleaning up the drink glasses and gone out to warm up the car. "Good night," I'd said to Pat and Dad with one nod and wave before stepping onto the patio, which really did look better without all the leaves covering it. Dad did a good job. He tried. Grandma should at least acknowledge it. It hadn't been any small job, and he wasn't exactly twenty-five any more, either.

"Nineteen ninety-seven," he said, and I turned, not realizing he'd followed me out. In the dim light from the security lamps, he looked a lot older than fifty-six. Tireder, too, but then again, it was almost two in the morning.

"Happy new year, Dad," I said, extending my hand. He took it, his grip firm and strong. When he was ninety, Dad would still shake hands like a Mack truck.

"And yourself." He tucked his hands into his pockets and squared his chest beneath his maroon sweatshirt. "You were gonna say something in there," he said. "About your cousin."

"Dad, I really don't--" I glanced anxiously at the car, but Kathy only waved. No rush. We had a full tank, and the heater was blasting.

"Something about a bird in that box, eh, son? A dead bird, maybe?"

I nodded, wondering how he knew, glad I didn't have to ask because he continued, grinning, as if he was relating a joke he'd heard a long time ago which he knew I wouldn't laugh at but might at least appreciate that at one time it had been funny.

"You see, son," he said then, rocking slightly on the heels of his Rockports, "I didn't get it figured until tonight. But I guess I'm the one who's responsible for your cousin's big mad. I guess I did it by cleaning up those leaves. Once I've done something right, I want it to stay done, so I came back later, picked up some more. That's when I found that little hummingbird, must've zoomed in for your grandma's feeder there by the front window, and flown right into it. So naturally I thought I'd get rid of it before your grandma found it and got all upset. And right in the top of that dumpster, my brother had those damned peanuts scattered all over hell. Your grandma's too old to have to deal with separating biodegradables, like I was trying to tell my brother in there, so I bagged them up. And it seemed, you know, like the perfect place to put that bird, too. So I jammed him down inside there, and put the whole thing back on top." He laughed slightly, but it was a nervous laugh, more like he was just clearing his throat, and the joke was over. "I was trying to do a good thing," he finished. "I mean, anybody would've--"

"You do a good job around here, Dad," I said then, shifting my weight to the other foot and rocking slightly. "Even if Grandma never mentions it, it's not like it goes unnoticed. I mean, this place looks fantastic, all cleaned up."

What difference did it make? None, in the big scheme of how the world worked. But it seemed important that I tell him. It seemed real important, with him standing there explaining so carefully and in so much detail about that bird and what he'd been trying to do, that somebody did.

"This?" He craned his neck around, sweeping the patio and the house with one cursory glance before returning his gaze to me. "The whole damned place is falling apart, son." He shook his head and gave me that look again, like he wasn't exactly sure we'd been introduced. But then he smiled, and cuffed me lightly on the shoulder. "Good night, son."

He turned, abrupt and without warning, as always. The only way I'd ever known my conversations with Dad were through: When he just wasn't there in front of me any more.

"Dad--"

He turned, a half smile or a scowl twisting his mouth. With Dad, I was never sure which I was looking at, and had to guess as I went along.

"You're going to tell him, right? Uncle Pat? Because I think he and Linnie can patch this thing up, once she understands how it happened and all."

He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. "Hell yes, I'm gonna tell him," he said. "You know son, it's amazing I've gone this many years doing, without you telling me how to do..."

The rest of what he said trailed off as he walked back to the house, still shaking his head and mumbling something I couldn't hear. I watched him go, until the front door closed and the security lights went out. Standing in the darkness, I felt kind of let down, like maybe I should have said something else.

But I shrugged it off, replaying it in my head in the short moment it took me to reach the car and slide into the driver's seat. There had been something in his eyes when he turned around, appearing for just a moment and making me feel like we shared in some wonderful joke nobody else would understand. It was the same look, I realized, from just after he'd whipped the towel at me.

Kathy yawned quietly as I backed down the driveway. "Did they figure out what happened?"

I pressed my free hand to her knee and stared into the pale outlines of the house, disappearing against the darkness. "He really messed up this time, but you know something, Kath? His heart's in the right place. He meant well. Hell, Dad always does. That counts. I mean, it's always counted with me."

She rested both her hands on mine as I braked slightly. "You never talk about your dad, do you know that? Not once in ten years have you said as much as you just did. Is this a new year thing?"

"Some kind of a thing," I said, faking a yawn. "Like maybe I'm too old to be out partying until two in the morning, or--" The way she looked right through me stopped me from saying anything else.

"You have a good heart."

"I guess I was raised right," I said then, and we didn't say anything else, all the way home.

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