patient, let things run their natural course and eventually Dallas would go away.
When they reached the firehouse intersection, they had traveled about five blocks together and Randall guessed they’d part company, Dallas heading back to the garage, Randall up Seventh toward home. If the traffic light had cooperated, their goodbyes would’ve been smooth enough, but as luck had it the WALK light flickered out just as they arrived at the crosswalk, forcing them to share a few more awkward moments in each other’s company, each aware that their normal conversation had run its limited course and that anything further would represent a wilderness adventure. Had either been alone, he simply would’ve crossed against the light, for there was no traffic coming, but that wasn’t possible now. Both felt duty-bound by the other’s presence to wait for the signal.
Just as the WALK sign flashed again, Dallas thought of something to say. “You got any money?”
Randall hesitated, misunderstanding for a moment. Dallas must’ve guessed, because he looked hurt. “If you ever need any, you can just drop by the garage. I’m not always flush, but.…”
When his father didn’t appear to know how to finish, Randall said he would remember, though it was difficult to imagine asking his father for money. He never doubted Dallas would give it to him, but there were just some people you didn’t ask, even if they happened to be your father.
“Maybe I’ll stop by the house sometime,” Dallas concluded, a familiar promise that nothing would come of. Randall wished more than anything that his father wouldn’t make it, and there were times when he thought that things might be all right between them if Dallas could somehow refrain from saying he’d stop by the house.
In the nearly two years since Randall and his mother had moved back to Mohawk, Dallas had “stopped by” only twice. He’d intended to many other times, probably even shaved and showered, but then would stop downstreet for a paper or something and would run into a guy who’d just heard something about a poker game, and he’d stop in for a hand or two since he was early anyway, and next thing he knew the sky was gray in the east and his recently clean-shaven face was rough, his eyes bloodshot, his hands unsteady. And what he would feel more than disappointment in himself was a sense of relief—that he’d very nearly done something foolish.
As Randall and Dallas parted, the WALK sign flicked off again, and when Randall looked back, he saw his father in the middle of Main Street, cars whizzing by him on both sides. He remembered, then, something he’d overheard his grandfather observe to his mother—that for Dallas life was a series of near misses. To Randall, his father now looked kind, of sad, standing out there in the traffic, waiting for an opening so hecould scoot the rest of the way. And it occurred to him that it might have been a kindness to his father if he had lied, told him his mother was serious about somebody, instead of getting his hopes up. When he was little, there had been a time when Randall had prayed his father and mother would get back together. Now he looked at things differently. To pick out all the things that were wrong with his father wasn’t hard. His shirts never even said the right name and, though he hated to admit it, Randall was ashamed of him. Dallas needlessly complicated their lives, and his son couldn’t help thinking how much simpler everything would be if his father weren’t around.
Behind him tires screeched, seemingly in answer to the boy’s innermost thought, but when he whirled around his father was disappearing into the
Mohawk News
, where he would get a number down before returning to work.
7
Mather Grouse was home from the hospital only a week before being readmitted on the advice of Dr. Walters, the family physician. Had it been up to Mather Grouse himself, he would’ve cheerfully ignored his old friend in this
When they reached the firehouse intersection, they had traveled about five blocks together and Randall guessed they’d part company, Dallas heading back to the garage, Randall up Seventh toward home. If the traffic light had cooperated, their goodbyes would’ve been smooth enough, but as luck had it the WALK light flickered out just as they arrived at the crosswalk, forcing them to share a few more awkward moments in each other’s company, each aware that their normal conversation had run its limited course and that anything further would represent a wilderness adventure. Had either been alone, he simply would’ve crossed against the light, for there was no traffic coming, but that wasn’t possible now. Both felt duty-bound by the other’s presence to wait for the signal.
Just as the WALK sign flashed again, Dallas thought of something to say. “You got any money?”
Randall hesitated, misunderstanding for a moment. Dallas must’ve guessed, because he looked hurt. “If you ever need any, you can just drop by the garage. I’m not always flush, but.…”
When his father didn’t appear to know how to finish, Randall said he would remember, though it was difficult to imagine asking his father for money. He never doubted Dallas would give it to him, but there were just some people you didn’t ask, even if they happened to be your father.
“Maybe I’ll stop by the house sometime,” Dallas concluded, a familiar promise that nothing would come of. Randall wished more than anything that his father wouldn’t make it, and there were times when he thought that things might be all right between them if Dallas could somehow refrain from saying he’d stop by the house.
In the nearly two years since Randall and his mother had moved back to Mohawk, Dallas had “stopped by” only twice. He’d intended to many other times, probably even shaved and showered, but then would stop downstreet for a paper or something and would run into a guy who’d just heard something about a poker game, and he’d stop in for a hand or two since he was early anyway, and next thing he knew the sky was gray in the east and his recently clean-shaven face was rough, his eyes bloodshot, his hands unsteady. And what he would feel more than disappointment in himself was a sense of relief—that he’d very nearly done something foolish.
As Randall and Dallas parted, the WALK sign flicked off again, and when Randall looked back, he saw his father in the middle of Main Street, cars whizzing by him on both sides. He remembered, then, something he’d overheard his grandfather observe to his mother—that for Dallas life was a series of near misses. To Randall, his father now looked kind, of sad, standing out there in the traffic, waiting for an opening so hecould scoot the rest of the way. And it occurred to him that it might have been a kindness to his father if he had lied, told him his mother was serious about somebody, instead of getting his hopes up. When he was little, there had been a time when Randall had prayed his father and mother would get back together. Now he looked at things differently. To pick out all the things that were wrong with his father wasn’t hard. His shirts never even said the right name and, though he hated to admit it, Randall was ashamed of him. Dallas needlessly complicated their lives, and his son couldn’t help thinking how much simpler everything would be if his father weren’t around.
Behind him tires screeched, seemingly in answer to the boy’s innermost thought, but when he whirled around his father was disappearing into the
Mohawk News
, where he would get a number down before returning to work.
7
Mather Grouse was home from the hospital only a week before being readmitted on the advice of Dr. Walters, the family physician. Had it been up to Mather Grouse himself, he would’ve cheerfully ignored his old friend in this
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