I grasped the cold metal handle on the hatch door, twisting hard against the ravages of time and the elements. I climbed down into the cockpit. The smell of mildew, wood varnish, and salted metal was like coming home. Only my father being here too would complete that feeling. Sliding the fabric back from the windows along its string to let some dull morning light in, I sat on the orange vinyl cushion and reached beneath me. My finger looped into the brass ring pull, and I slid open the wood veneer panel exposing the storage compartment that extended toward the fiberglass hull. I pulled out my old shoe box. Pink Cowgirl Glitter Boots. Size one. I remembered the day I got them. Of course, the box didn’t contain them still. I’d worn them every day until they fell off my feet. I cried the day Momma threw them away. No, this box held my hopes and memories. This box held, as tangibly as I could, my relationship with my father.
It was stupid really. A roll of tokens we always said we’d use again at the county fair the next time they came. They did. And we didn’t. An Indian head penny on a leather lariat to go with my cowgirl boots that Daddy got me when he was photographing some tribes out in Utah, but Momma never let me have anything around my neck. An assortment of dumb receipts that were as faded as the memories they were supposed to remind me of, and postcards. Lots and lots of postcards. Of those I had too many to fit in the box. Cairo, Phuket, Kuala Lumpur, Sydney, Bombay, Baghdad, London … the stack was immense. And I kept every last one.
This was my ritual. I knew if I delayed looking at the mail delivery as long as possible, the more time I had before the disappointment of not hearing from him hit. But I was a junkie. Most people would shut it down, stop looking, stop waiting, stop hoping. Not me. The hope was fresh each time, and each time there was no news the hurt cut deep. If my mom knew I still did this she’d have nipped it a long time ago. Stopped anyone at Woody’s giving me the mail. Done something.
I carefully laid aside each envelope. An offer for a new phone line. A coupon card for the Laundromat. A credit card bill for a big box store over in Bluffton that my mom could never get paid down. More junk. Nothing for me. I swallowed my disappointment, set the stack of mail aside, and pulled out a blank postcard I’d picked up from the marina store. It was of an alligator in mid thrash, it’s mouth open and head bent around to face the camera. “See ya later!” the caption read in cartoon yellow. I turned it over and clicked my pen.
David Fraser
C/o The Colony Apartments
42 1/2 West Congress Avenue
New York, NY 10021
Pops/Dad/Daddy/Papa/David
What do you expect your almost 18-year-old daughter to call you these days? I haven’t heard from you since last year (yes, I’m counting), and you’re starting to freak me out. Let’s not even talk about how long it’s been since you’ve seen me. I think maybe I’m old enough to call you David, what do you say? Can you even be a dad when you never show up? Wait, I didn’t mean that really. But I’m not crossing it out because maybe you should think about it a bit. I’ve decided on college without you. Remember we talked about doing that together? Well, time slows for no man, right? I’ll tell you where I chose when you write me. So I may as well tell you then that I’m also planning on losing my virginity this …
I ran out of room on the postcard. Fumbling in the box for the writing paper set that Keri Ann’s Nana had given me, I rewrote my father’s address on an envelope, then opened up a pre folded piece of paper.
...ctd from postcard: As I was saying, I may as well tell you that I’m planning on losing my virginity this summer. Shocked that I’d tell you that? Good. So if you have something to say about that too, then I suggest you write to me soon. I still hold hope that you’ll show up on my birthday like you promised you would. I haven’t told Momma I’m hoping, she’ll shit all over that parade. She hates when I expect too much from you. Quick updates: Keri Ann is still my best friend. Dirty Harry is still propping up the bar at Woody’s. Woody is still Woody. I still sneak out the sliding door of my bedroom rather than the front door. Momma is still working two jobs. She’s starting a new one at the hospital soon. I finish high school forever (forever, forever!) in a few weeks. I’m writing to you from your boat and it is still here, although I’ve heard people at Woody’s saying the county is talking about having the boats towed away. If that happens, I’ll stage a sit-in. Don’t worry. I won’t let them take it. Yours isn’t the only one anyway. What’s up with that?
All right — I guess I used up my bonus space. I love you, Dad. I miss you. But, you know that. It’s probably not enough, but can you just come back anyway?
With love, Jazzy Bear.
I paused, then added,
Jessica.
I was too old for nicknames.
Dammit. Depressing. I quickly folded the letter and stuffed it with the postcard into the envelope. I licked it closed and rummaged for a Forever stamp. Sticking it on, I thought about all the letters I hadn’t sent. Ones that had been a bit too … unlike me. I was a positive, happy, person. I hated being down. I refused to be depressed. Most of the time when I tried to wallow, I got bored fairly quickly. I endeavored not to send the letters and postcards I wrote when I was too much in that mood. I mean, if you were a glamorous award-winning photojournalist, would you give up the excitement of life to come home to a small town on the Carolina coast that was home to a woman you didn’t love and the sad, whiny offspring you accidentally produced with her?
I wouldn’t.
“Jazz?” a male voice called.