“I’m guess you get a lot of those in accounting,” I said.
“And I loved numbers. I guess I still love numbers. Numbers impose order. They make everything work. They create this, this sense of balance in the universe. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as when things add up the way they’re supposed to. But one day, I’m sitting at my desk, doing the Fiderberg account, they had this chain of office supply stores, and I’m looking at the numbers, and it was like I’d never seen them before. I was looking at a three, the way it’s like two incomplete circles stacked atop each other, and I thought, why is that a three? Who decided that three things would be represented by a symbol that looked like that? Why couldn’t it have been a straight line coming down into a semicircle, like a cup? It would have made just as much sense. And then I started looking at all the numbers that way. Why is a seven a line across and then down on an angle? What does that have to do with seven things?”
“You’re scarin’ me, Dad,” I said, but when he looked at me he could see that I was kidding.
“I decided I’d had enough. Your mother was gone, I was ready to do something else, to leave all that bullshit behind. And I remembered how at peace I felt up here, how I might be able to relax in a way I’d never been able to before. I found Denny’s Cabins, and I liked the fact that there was just five of them. A single digit. Something manageable.” Dad pointed to Henry’s Grocery. “We need a couple things.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I can get a toothbrush.”
I pulled over to the curb, put the truck in park, killed the ignition, but made no move to open the door.
“Do you think Mom would have liked living up here?” I asked.
Dad lips went in and out while he pondered that. “I’ve thought about that. Because,” he struggled for a moment here, “I still miss her. I mean, Lana’s terrific, and we have fun together.”
I smiled, and resisted the temptation to tease.
“But there was only one woman like your mother.” Dad blew his nose into a handkerchief, shoved it back into his pocket. “She put up with a lot with me.” He looked out his window so I couldn’t see his face. “And anything she ever did, it was nothing compared to what a pain in the ass I could be to her. That’s why I think she might have liked it up here, because living here has made me a better person, I think.”
“We all have our moments,” I said. “You should talk to Sarah about me.”
Dad nodded, still looking away. “I don’t know whether you’ve ever noticed this,” he said, “but I can be a bit difficult to get along with at times.”
“Really,” I said. “Where I work, this is where someone would shout ‘Stop the presses!’ ”
He smiled tiredly. “Yeah, that’s a bulletin all right. I just kind of like things done a certain way, and all the things I’ve ever done, as a husband and as a father, it’s been to make sure you and your mom and Cindy were safe.”
“Yeah, well, I think I understand.”
“And that meant that sometimes I may have nitpicked a bit,” Dad said. “I was hard on your mother.”
He was being so forthright, I thought maybe I could broach that period of my youth that remained the most shrouded in mystery, when Mom left for six months.
“Is that why Mom went away, that time?” I said. “Why she walked out on us?”
Dad seemed to be focused on the lock to the glove box, staring at it. “That’s hard for me to talk about.”
“This is going to come out sounding, you know, accusatory,” I said, hesitantly, “but what did you do that made Mom leave?”
Dad kept looking at the glove box, poking his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “Let me tell you what we need,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“We need some milk, some cream for coffee, since that’s the way you take yours, something for dinner. You pick something. I don’t care. Pork chops, a roast chicken, whatever the hell you want. I’ll just wait here and listen to the radio. Wait, let me give you some money.” He was reaching around to his back pocket for his wallet.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“No, no, you’re my guest. I can pay for the damn groceries.”
“Dad, forget it.” I had the door open and was crossing the street before he could protest any further.
I grabbed a small plastic basket, figuring I wouldn’t be buying enough to justify a big wobbly cart. I bought myself a toothbrush and toothpaste and a basic plastic comb, then headed for the meat section. I looked at steak and pork tenderloin and cuts of chicken, settled on some thick butterfly chops, then checked out the varieties of instant side dishes. I had a package of Uncle Ben’s wild rice in my hand when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, something short standing next to me.
I turned and saw young Jeffrey Wickens standing there, and not far behind him, pushing a cart, his mother, May.
“Hi,” said Jeffrey. “Remember me?”