catalyst for tall tales. Dad told me he got the scar when he was stationed in Cairo. He told me he got it in a street fight. He said I should have seen the other guy.
Winter is starting to annoy me. I’m not usually bothered by extreme cold, but tonight it presses against my face and makes my beard brittle. If I brush my hand against the coarse hairs, they’ll break. I know it. Dad scoots a little closer. My body is a board; it won’t respond to the boy’s offer of affection. It can’t. We have no common frame of reference, no history of touching. We’ve played ball and endured each other’s seasons of antipathy. But we’ve never had room for loving words or loving deeds. Winter is starting to annoy me.
“Do you know where you are?” I ask. Dad looks up at me, says, “I’m here wichoo.” He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know that, as a nine year old, he’s been dead for thirty-eight years. He doesn’t know his adult self is about ten miles away, dreaming in a bed I’ve never seen in a house I couldn’t find because I’ve never been there, and that the man dreams of a boy from Georgia who’s lost yet content here at my side. “Are we s’posed to be someplace else?” “Not really,” I say. “This is as good a place as any, I guess.” He’s not really listening. He jumps up on the fountain’s edge and runs around it until he’s at my other side. Then he plops down and rests his chin in his palms.
“I think we should get going,” I say. I reach out and take dad’s hand. He slides off the fountain and skips beside me. I look down at him because I feel his tenure coming to a close. I ask: “Anything else you want to do before you leave?” “I ain’t going anywhere,” he says, then looks straight ahead; he knows something is not right about his being here. His little mind can’t encompass the idea of the haunt. He belongs somewhere else. He belongs in a Georgia existing only in my father’s dream. The others, when they come to me older than the nine-year-old, are more dangerous. They skirt an understanding of what they are about, as they seep into my awareness and stay with me until I can’t stand them any longer. But like the others, dad won’t face his fleeting moment in the present, where he doesn’t belong.
Dad’s seen enough, I think, because he’s moved away from logical questions about getting ice cream, and now asks silly, disturbing things like: “Have you ever seen how bad a bunch of white boys are to a black lady?” As with the ice cream, I say no. I know he’ll persist. He’s a wandering Jew; he’ll press his point all the way to the root. “I’ve seen what they can do,” he presses. “It’s like in a National Geographic, when you see tigers walking in circles around a dead moose.”
“I’ve never seen a moose,” I say. I’m walking faster. His little hand is tight in mine, slippery, but that’s because my palms are slick. His chin dips a little; he’s disappointed in me. It’s typical of us to head each other off at the crossroads: me, peeling away on fumes of shame because I’m not the son he wanted; he, broaching embarrassing subjects and then withdrawing behind motor-powered windows, eternally cool, tinted glass.
Dad stops dead. He’s small, bony, but he’s an anchor. I’m holding his hand so tightly I stumble backward and almost fall on him. He yanks his hand free. His chin starts to quiver. With a breathy timbre, he says, “I don’t wanna be wichoo anymore. Where’s ma?”
He’s a little big man now. He’d like me to believe he can handle anything. I know better. Children are pretty good at absorbing trauma, but if there’s one thing that’ll break them down every time, it’s the notion, the oppression, of being lost. I’ve seen it before, like a hint of madness. Lost kids… unravel.
“Where’s ma?” He’s real tough. I could tell him his mother was raped and killed twenty years ago by a group of black teenagers. But I’m not like that. I want only for him to go away, leave me alone. I want to unravel this little boy, but only because I can’t touch the man.
“You’re lost,” I say.
I have no tears left for these personal exorcisms. I do them all the time. I learn what I can from the loved ones who haunt me, yet still live, then I let them go. Giving up ghosts, and all that.
Anger. “I
My chin dips a little; I’m disappointed. In me. “No, dad,” I whisper. “You don’t know me at all.” I can see the first thread in dad’s round face. His eyes are big, tearless like mine, but behind them there’s not much of anything. It’s an emptiness I know very well. The thread is smoke, empty in its own way. It rises from his face, curls around his ears, his throat. I turn away before my belly turns to steel and I really start to hurt.
Dad’s more difficult than some of the others: Mom at ages fourteen and twenty-five; little Joey, who used to take baths with me before we knew “pee-pees” were more than stubs of flesh to be fondled playfully; Father Maddox, a surprisingly free young rebel compared to the puritan who starred in my adolescent nightmares; and Paulette, who still calls me once in a while, although she doesn’t know I’ve met her in almost every stage of her life. And have hated her for it.
Dad’s at my heels. Although he’s dissolving, he tugs the back of my shirt. His voice is a beggar’s. “Don’t leave me. I—I don’t want ma. I want you, ’cause you’re the only one I know, ’cause I don’t got ’ny friends, just the white kids who walk by and say I should carry a candle at night or I might get stepped on. Nobody says hello.”
I’m not a cruel person, but I pull away from him. It’s not difficult to do so; he’s losing form. Only his bleating remains, powerful and girlish. The world is cold as I rush up the avenue, but it can’t freeze the nagging. He’ll hang on until there’s nothing left to voice. His puny cry will mature. In fifteen years, it will accuse and hone in on vulnerable patches of another small boy’s failures. For now, though, because there’s a living man he’s too intangible to replace, the boy from 1950 will die, again.
Not that that should bother me. Dad’s still a phone call away, dreaming in a bed I’ve never seen, next to a woman who’s not ray mother.
Haunting me.
SPRING AHEAD, FALL BACK
by Michael A. Arnzen
I could see the Arch on the horizon—the lights of St. Louis appeared to be captured by its thin silhouette, a black rainbow that loomed over the night. The curving architecture was comforting—like the welcoming hips of a woman after a nonstop coast-to-coast route. My feet hurt—the patent leather shoes that were part-and-parcel with the silly bus drivers’ uniform cut into the soft tissues around my ankles—but I managed to give the gas pedal a little extra weight to push us closer to the city, closer to the “Gateway to the West.” Checking my watch, I realized that we’d make it with plenty of time to spare.
I looked up into the long rear-view, to check out the passengers. Most were snoozing, some were looking blandly at the approaching city. And The Watcher was there, too, as alert as ever, and meeting my gaze in the mirror.
I call him The Watcher because that’s all he did: watched. He watched the way I jiggled in neutral while shifting the gears, the way I used two hands to steer—even just to change lanes. He watched the way I tipped my hat up before turning up the A/C when it was getting hot in the bus. And he watched me, too—studying not only my work, but my face. As if he recognized me. As if I were parent and teacher all wrapped up into one man.
And those red eyes of his—glaring, staring, burning into my own whenever I looked in the mirror. Trying to get my attention for some reason or another. He was like one of those kids who stared at construction workers or firetrucks, though he was much older than any child. In his forties, I’d guess. White, pale white, with blue eyes and dark wrinkles across his forehead like something from a cartoon. His hair was one big squiggle of black-turning-gray, a twisting greasy tuft that stuck out in the center of his bald, shining head. He looked, again, like a cartoon—like that Charlie Brown character—except less innocent and childlike. Almost evil. Ol’ Chuck… with some serious mental problems.
I looked down at the white lines of the road, like tiny beads of time, clicking off each second as the bus crawled nearer to its final destination. To St. Louis. And for me: to sleep.
Thirteen continuous hours from Denver, stopping only once for grub at the usual fast food joint at the Kansas border. It had been a hellish journey—the usual crying babies and complaining old folks—and The Watcher was like a demon on my shoulder the whole way, his eyes a weight I could feel behind my head like a shadow. I was eager to get to the depot.
“You look tired,” he said from the seat directly behind me. It was the first time he spoke during the whole trip, though to me it had been like we’d been having an ongoing psychic conversation the whole way, with me saying, “What the hell are you looking at?” without actually mouthing the words.
