“Dad,” I say as he starts weaving around the rubble.
“What, son, I am trying to-”
“Look,” I say, gesturing at the open metal flap of the glove compartment.
The compartment door serves as an ancient cup holder, two circles stamped deeply into the metal. Must have passed for fancy a world and a half ago. In between the cups, written in a stylish script, are raised, silver-plated initials: D.C.
“So what?” Dad says. “Daniel, we have to get-”
“Those are Da’s initials. Dad? Those are Da’s initials. This
He growls his low and small growl of concentration, fear, anxiety as he concentrates on maneuvering a car that is no sports car, trying pathetically to hang with a car that is a whatever-it-wants-to-be car.
“Don’t be so dumb and adventurous, Daniel. It doesn’t mean anything. Those are your initials, too, and I don’t think this is your car. Is it?”
I look at the side of his face. He has his father’s profile, and almost nothing else at all. There is a weird, almost completely new expression there that I am trying to read, can almost read, cannot read.
“It was his car, Dad.”
“No it wasn’t, Daniel.”
Now I can read the expression. It is willful, fearful denial, and I realize I have seen it before.
Hundreds of times.
I shut up.
4
Tests, they said. Observation, they said.
Why? I said. We already know. We know who he is and what he is and why.
Like hell you do, Da said. He laughed.
Pop, will you please shut up, Dad said.
Don’t ever talk to him like that, I said. That was violent. For us. Then. That was violence then.
Understand, son, the man said.
I do not, and I am not, I said. He has been all through this before. You have no test he has not taken.
And failed, Da said. And laughed.
He needs a period of observation, clearly.
He is in the middle of one. Clearly. I observe him. Every day.
It is for the best.
It is for him.
It is for everyone.
It is for the best.
Why are you being so contrary, Daniel?
Contrary Mary, Da said. He laughed.
Why are you being so obstructive, Daniel?
Your acquiescence is not required anyway, son. This is a courtesy.
I am not your son.
No, that is right. You are mine. And I say-
And you’re his son, Dad. So why let him go through more unnecessary and unexplained testing when we already know where it all ends up?
Where does it all end up? Da asked. He laughed.
Simple equation, fellas. A brief period of observation on the one hand, a buttload of fines and damages and charges on the other.
Zeke owns the mansion, Da said.
I am a friend of the owner, nothing more.
Observation, Dad said.
Acquiescence, I said. Observation, acquiescence, observation. Acquiescence.
Do not look at me like that, my father said.
That was violence. That was it right there.
Acquiescence, I said.
Observation, said Da. So long, said Da.
5
“Wake up.”
“What? No. And tell those birds to shut the hell up too.”
“Time for our walk, Da.”
He rolls over, just his head, toward his digital alarm clock. He does this amazingly, in my opinion, like his head is a separate entity entirely, or like an owl or a beacon on a lighthouse. Always did that, turning his head that way. He looks at the clock, squints even though the numbers are about seven inches high. Then he shields his eyes with his hands as if he is being blinded by the sun at the same time.
“What time is it, Da?” I ask, standing over him. It is good to keep asking them questions, keeping them as sharp with the basics as possible for as long as possible.
He turns away from the clock, gives me the squinty quizzical look now.
“The numbers are seven inches high for goodness’ sake. Are you blind already, Young Man?”
I am never Daniel or Dan or Danny or D.C. or Danny Boy or even District of Columbia, which I loved, not first thing in the morning. That would be too much to ask, and so I don’t ask for it. Young Man suits me just fine, as does the attitude. Feisty. We’ll actually be needing some feisty.
“What time is it, Old Boy?”
“XL,” he says, curling back under the covers like a high school sophomore. At some point, and for no discernible reason, XL became his abbreviation for extremely early. He’s rewriting the language by bits now.
“It’s time for our walk, Da? Remember, Doc said you were supposed to keep up with it, religious-like. The walking.”
He sighs, growls, sits up.
“Doc also says I am supposed to report for
I splut a laugh out loud at the spit-perfect bratty-boy way he says the word “observation.” This is the Da I want.
“Well, walking comes first. Remember he said that? Remember, Da? Remember he said to remember, that every day the walking comes first? Remember?”
These days Da remembers lots of things that never happened, as far as I know. He unremembers lots of stuff that did. Then there is lots more middle ground that who knows whether it did or not, but anyway, I am hoping I can slip some things past him just now.
He grins at me, closes one eye like a pirate, and says, “What are you playing at, boy?”
I make the exact same face. “Not playing at anything. Just carrying out my duties of care and love for my beloved grandfather. That so bad?”
Among his many advanced skills, my grandfather can
“What are you playing at?” he says again. “Who walks at this hour? Rats and raccoons, that’s who, and that’s
