It was a pleasant time, my thoughts were mostly good, with little effort wasted in regret. For these reasons I found myself searching the walls for a pay phone. I had just arrived to Chicago, en route to Seattle by train, and as scheduling goes, I had a layover. I'd not seen my father in five years.
I could've called him the night before, but I didn't want to seem eager; I was curious to see him, but not desperate. "Andrew?" I asked upon his answer, even though I knew it was him. I had abandoned the more endearing term dad years before in favor of his first name, but when I heard his voice, like a sad, forgotten old record, I was drenched in a deluge of pity, and I offered it up as a gift: "Dad, it's Stephen."
"Stephen?" he asked. "Son, are you okay?"
I didn't answer his question. To answer would've been to forgive, and I preferred to keep him at a remorseless distance. "I'm at the station," I said instead. I was yet to tell him which station. I had just referred to a stranger as dad, and he replied in form. So peculiar, I was puzzled by the sound, like I had been living in a silent world, and these were the first words I heard. They hung before me in alternating images: I saw a masterpiece, beautiful and intricate; then I saw a noose. I studied the sound and allowed myself to feel what I would, and then continued: "I'm at the train station. I've got some time. Why don't you meet me, we can have lunch."
"Lunch?"
"Yes, dad, lunch." Again, I called him dad, like a Rembrandt tacked to the gallows.
"Sure, son." And he called me son, like a van Gogh in the arms of a hangman. "I'll take a cab. About ten minutes, okay?"
Ten minutes can be lengthened in many ways, all of which were at work that afternoon. I dismissed his ten-minute arrival as it was heard, and doubled his offering; it would take ten minutes just to find his hat. These minutes, now standing at twenty, would double again through the course of anxiety. I paced between two ornate columns that seemed to support nothing, and was struck with the comparison: my father, little more than an ornate column, he served no purpose, a non-existent man in Chicago, a city I had never visited, never desired to visit, yet he was on his way to meet me for lunch, a meal that would last an hour at most, and then he'd be on his way. I had phoned a stranger, no different than if I'd picked a number at random. Except that he was my father.
When I caught sight of him, I saw something unexpected: he was nervous. His kerchief wiped his brow and he shifted as he walked, his eyes darted left and right.
The other recollections were what one would expect: he had gained weight, lost hair. The lunch was also what one would expect: little said, less eaten. To recall the details now would serve only to tarnish his memory, and I see no reason for that. He was my dad, and for that hour, we sat as father and son. As I walked away he called out, "I'll see you at Christmas." Even still, I've no idea why he said that.
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I published a version of this some time ago in a magazine called Diddledog.
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Powerful powerful powerful heartbreaking work
(and so well-written).
I remember this one very well, Foster. Everything works in this story.
This is just great, great work. ****
Deft piece, as always.
*, Foster, This is so well-written. Such a telling question: ""Stephen?" he asked. "Son, are you okay?"
You had me so involved with their distance and long separation that I would have accepted Stephen's train departing with Stephen before Andrew got to the station.
Great story.
The first sentence hit me like a freight train. *
Emotions and distances, finely calibrated, charted, with all the history contained , and no need to state it.
Can't say nothin'... *****
Enjoyed the story, Foster.
Hits some of the tension and high internal drama with these kinds of circumstances between dads and sons just right. Well told all the way. Grand.
Seems I remember reading this. I relate to it on a level that is hard to describe. Poignant piece.
Good one, Foster. Well-written and moving.*
That ending was beautifully unexpected, the way recollections are tossed around like afterthoughts.*
*Well told tale, Foster. The line about not answering his question because that would mean forgiveness was deeply human. And yet he called.
What everyone else has said. Great lines and great emotion throughout. I really liked the painter similes.
*
"my father, little more than an ornate column"
*
Awesome piece. It understates and still grabs me, so sort of pulls the rug from out under me. *
You've managed to tell us of a relationship that spans years and yet focuses only on this one meeting. No back story needed, no obvious emotions explained, just all interaction and the waiting, the waiting and the parting. Beautiful piece of work.
I love "When I caught sight of him, I saw something unexpected". Because so much of this is about expectation and it fits so perfectly.