The Song of David

I wondered about him sometimes. Where he was, who he was, how he was. I wondered if he had any clue he had a son. Wondered if he would like to be a grandfather. Wondered if he liked to paint. Wondered if he looked like me. I wondered. I guess it’s just human nature.

Millie knew who her dad was. He knew who she was. He knew where she was. But he’d chosen to distance himself from her and from his son, and I wondered if that wasn’t worse. Odds are, my father hadn’t had a clue. Odds are, he hadn’t chosen to abandon me. I could give him the benefit of the doubt. Henry and Millie didn’t have that luxury.

I’d stepped out of the room when Tag had described running through the house, following a trail of blood. It made my palms itch and my neck hot, his descriptions and feelings too reminiscent of the time I’d walked through my own house to find tragedy had struck. Plus, I’d noticed the heat on Millie’s skin and the way her finger hovered over the buttons on the tape recorder, as if readying herself to push stop when things got too personal. Georgia had followed me from the room, and though Millie must have heard us go, she didn’t stop us.

Even Henry vacated the living room with us, trailing us into the kitchen. He hadn’t said anything about Tag’s absence, hadn’t asked questions, and I wondered how much Millie was telling him. He wasn’t listening to Tag’s tapes. When he wasn’t at school, he sat with earphones on his head, listening to podcasts, watching YouTube videos, or he was up in his room playing the Xbox, cocooning himself in his own activities.

“Researchers have found that saturated fat intake increases sixteen percent among sports fans after their team loses a big game,” Henry said matter-of-factly, as he opened the freezer and eyed a huge tub of rocky road ice cream. I wasn’t sure if he was just making conversation, making a larger statement about loss, or if he was just hungry.

“Do you need dinner? We could order a pizza or something,” I volunteered.

Henry inclined his head toward the crock pot on the counter top, and I noticed belatedly that the kitchen smelled warm and spicy.

“Amelie made chili. Lots of chili. Major League Baseball fans consume approximately ten million chili dogs per year.”

“Well, Kathleen is hungry, and chili dogs aren’t on her menu,” Georgia replied, putting Kathleen’s seat on the counter and digging in the overflowing bag she lugged everywhere, looking for something to feed her. Kathleen let out a yowl of impatience.

Henry shut the freezer on the ice cream temptation and pulled a stack of bowls from the cupboard. We were clearly invited for dinner. He took crackers and sour cream and cheese from the fridge, setting things out, stealing looks at Kathleen as her complaining gained momentum.

“Kathleen doesn’t look like you,” Henry said suddenly, staring at me.

“Uh, no. She doesn’t. Not really,” I stammered, not knowing what else to say. Without another word, Henry turned and left the kitchen. I heard him run up the stairs and looked at Georgia who met my gaze with bafflement.

“Did you hear that, woman?” I asked Georgia. “Henry doesn’t think Kathleen looks like me. You got something to tell me?”

Kathleen shrieked again. Georgia wasn’t moving fast enough with the jar of bananas she’d produced.

Georgia smirked and stuck out her tongue at me, and Kathleen bellowed. Georgia hastily dipped the tiny spoon into the yellow goo and proceeded to feed our little beast, who wailed as she inhaled.

“She may not look like you, Moses. But she definitely has your sunny disposition,” Georgia sassed, but she leaned into me when I dropped a kiss on her lips. It didn’t hurt my feelings at all that my dimpled baby girl looked more like her mother.

I heard Henry thundering back down the stairs and pulled back from my wife’s soft mouth as he strode through the kitchen seconds later. He stopped beside me.

“See?” He clutched a picture in his hand, and he waved it in front of my face. “I don’t look like my dad either.”

I took the photo from his hand and studied it. It was worn on the edges and it had lost its sheen, like Henry had held it often. The man in the picture was familiar to me in the way sports figures are familiar to many. Andre Anderson was fairly well-known and admired. He stood smiling at the camera with a very small Henry, maybe three years old, clutched in his arms. He looked happy and relaxed, and he and Henry wore matching Giants jerseys and ball caps.

“You’re right. You and Millie look more like your mom,” I said, handing the picture back. I didn’t like pictures. Pictures rarely told the truth. They were like gold lacquer over Styrofoam, making things seem shiny and bright, disguising the fragility beneath. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it still wasn’t worth a whole hell of a lot.

“That’s because we spent more time with her,” Henry said seriously, as if it were common knowledge, as if resemblances were based on nurture instead of nature. It was true, to a point. Mannerisms, quirks, style. All those things could be learned and copied.