You’re still here, Dad said.
Yeah. I’m here. I haven’t left yet.
My old mother and old dad didn’t come back.
No. They’re gone now.
Those others didn’t come back either.
Who?
Tanya. And Rudy and Bob.
No, they aren’t with me.
Dad looked at him for a while. Frank had turned sideways so he could see out the window. The shade had been drawn up now. Son, are you doing all right? Dad said.
Me?
Yes.
I’m all right, more or less. I could use a better job. I never could get going right. I get dissatisfied and take off.
You always could do a lot of different things.
Maybe. But I don’t know what. I don’t have any college degree like Lorraine does.
You could of.
You think so?
We would of helped you like we helped her.
I couldn’t do it back then.
Why was that?
I wasn’t thinking about studying. I didn’t have the time. Or the desire for it.
You wanted out of here, Dad said. Didn’t you. That’s what you wanted.
That was part of it.
Away from me, you mean.
Not just that. Away from this little limited postage-stamp view of things. You and this place both.
But you still could of gone to school. That would of helped.
I didn’t think so then. I just wanted out on my own.
Well. You done that.
Yeah. He laughed. I’ve done that, all right. I’ve been out on my own. A lot of good it did me.
But you done all right, didn’t you?
What are you talking about, Dad? I’ve been a waiter. A night clerk. A janitor. A hired hand. A garbage man. A taxi driver. You don’t want to know what all I’ve done for money.
But that’s just somebody getting started. You’re still getting on your feet.
Dad, I’m fifty years old. What am I going to do now? How can I start now?
Dad moved in the bed and then lay still.
Hand me one of those pills there, he said.
Here?
Yeah.
You want some water?
Yeah. He took the glass and drank and handed it back and lay still again.
You can always come back here, he said. After I’m gone you can come back.
And do what, Dad?
Help run the store.
Lorraine’s running the store.
You can help her.
It wouldn’t work. It’s not going to happen.
Then you can have some of the value of it, Dad said. You and Mom and Lorraine can divide it up. Take your third of it. Do something. Start over.
No. I don’t want any money from you. I won’t take your money. I swore I wouldn’t.
Dad stared at him a long time. Frank looked past Dad at the wall and turned again to stare out the window. He lit another cigarette.
You never forgave me, did you, Dad said.
You never forgave yourself.
I couldn’t. How could I? Now it’s too late.
You’re still alive, Frank said. Maybe you’ll have a deathbed conversion.
Dad studied Frank’s face. You’re being cynical. You’re just talking.
Of course.
You don’t mean what you said.
No, I don’t mean it. I’ve been too goddamn angry. I’ve been too filled up to my throat with bitterness. Oh Jesus. I could smash your dying face right now.
Why don’t you? I wish you would. Go ahead. I want you to.
Frank stood up. I got to go. He stepped on his cigarette and put it out.
Wait. You don’t have to leave yet, Dad said. You should see your mother. Are you going now?
Yeah. I better.
Well. Good-bye, then, son.
Frank moved toward the door.
Wait. Would you give me your hand? Dad said. Before you go. But he was gone on out into the doorway now. Dad still watched him. This tall middle-aged balding man. Broad in the doorway. Not too old yet. But wearing old clothes. Ragged-looking. Still, there was something there. He was still a good-looking man. There was something there yet. It hadn’t come out yet.
38
THE NEXT MORNING Mary lay in the old soft double bed with Dad until the sunlight streamed into the room. She got up and went into the bathroom and returned and put on her shirt and jeans and leaned close over the bed to look at him.