Despite the sunlight that fell dustily through the windows, my bedroom was cold. When I was twenty-one I’d moved out of the house to live with Marla and my father had stripped it bare. It had been empty ever since and on the day of my return all I could find of the time I had spent there was a set of grubby outlines on the cream walls where my posters had been. A single bed had been placed under one of the windows and there was a small table beside it. There was nothing else.
I had not expected a magically reconstructed teenage cocoon, but the barrenness of the room was dispiriting. Like my father not being there to meet me.
I sat on the edge of the bed. Outside, I could hear a bird singing and further away the occasional distant grinding of an engine as someone drove up the slope from town. The scent of the carpet, the walls, the dusty air… All of it closed about me and for a moment I was able to force a sense of belonging. But it wouldn’t hold and I was left with what the room most meant to me-sitting, like this, every night when I was eighteen and nineteen and twenty, staring at nothing, wishing that I had not left Stan alone the day we went up to Tunney Lake.
I lay down on the bed and after a while I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 2
In the late afternoon I went downstairs and my father was home. There was a smell of Chinese food in the house and in the dining room the table was set with plates and chopsticks and cartons of takeout. My father had just finished lighting a single candle on a cake that had the words
Stan made a trumpeting sound when he saw me and clapped his hands and yelled, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!”
My father hugged me and made a big show of me being home, but I could hear his throat constrict as he told me how good it was to see me again.
I had memories of him being loving, of being swung up onto his shoulders and spun around. But that was a long way back when I was a child and still too young to demand much of his emotions. What I remembered more was his withdrawal of affection as I’d grown older, how the small badges of encouragement and pride and worth had disappeared one by one.
Later, no doubt, there were reasons for him to be disappointed. I worked only when I felt like it, I drank too much. And, of course, there was Stan and Tunney Lake. But before this, what can a boy in the first years of adolescence do that turns his father away from him? It took me until I was an adult and had had time to observe him with other people to realize this distance between us stemmed not from any transgression I was guilty of but rather from the fact that he was simply incapable of being close to
The day of my return, though, we sat and ate and talked, and it felt good to be with him and Stan again, to be in that house, to be part of the small bedrock pleasures that bind a family-food, conversation, sharing time…
After dinner Stan went into the living room to watch a Spider-Man DVD and my father stood over the sink in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled and washed the dishes. He wouldn’t let me help so I sat at the kitchen table and watched him-a man in his late fifties wearing office clothes, working his way through a chore that in most other families someone else would be doing.
He spoke as he worked, about conditions at the office, the state of the housing market, various properties he was pushing. This was one of the few subjects he ever showed much interest in and to me it had always seemed faintly hilarious. Oakridge was a town that had seen constant growth. He sold real estate. Any other man in his position would have grown rich, but our family had only ever just scraped by and it had taken a small life insurance payout when my mother died to get anywhere close to paying off the house.
“Stanley has a job now, you know.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“Makes him feel worthwhile.”
“I think he feels that way anyhow, Dad.”
“I mean in a community sense. Work is the oil that allows the wheels of life to turn, John. What are your plans, now that you’re back?”
“To spend time with Stan. And you. I haven’t thought beyond that.”
“And a job? I can’t support you, you know.”
“I’ll be okay for a while. I saved some money in the UK. I want to see Marla too.”
My father frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Why not?”
“You’ve been away a long time.”
“Well, I have to at least say hello, don’t you think? I’m bound to run into her sooner or later.”
“Have you considered that it might be better for her if you didn’t go stirring up the past? You need to be careful not to be too selfish, John.”
Stan ran into the kitchen then, smelling of toothpaste, wearing pajamas with pictures of Batman on them. He hugged me tightly.
“Sorry, Johnny, I was going to come back in but I forgot because of the TV. Can you drive me to work in your car tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Awesome. All right, pardner, I gotta hit the hay.”
He turned abruptly and galloped from the room. At the foot of the stairs he yelled, “Yee Har!” then thundered on up to bed.
My father made small talk after he’d gone, papering over the cracks of our last exchange. But both of us, I think, were saddened by the fact that after so long apart it seemed that nothing had changed between us. In the end he went into the living room to watch the late news.
When I got up the next day I found Stan pacing quickly back and forth along the upstairs landing. He was wearing a full Superman costume and was trying to get the cape to billow out behind him.
“Hiya, Johnny. Dad already went to work.”
“Nice suit.”
Stan stopped and looked down at himself. He ran his hands over the blue material that covered his bulging stomach.
“Dad doesn’t like them… But I paid with money from my job, so it’s okay. I’m not allowed to wear them outside, though. One of the neighbors saw me in the backyard and told Dad I was weird.”
“Them?”
Stan beckoned me into his bedroom at the far end of the landing. He slid open the door of a large built-in ward-robe, reached into a rack of hanging clothes, and pulled out a black and gray outfit.
“Batman.”
He put it back and pulled out another.
“Captain America. Sometimes it’s good to be someone different.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You can feel the power more too.”
“Superhero power?”
Stan looked a little at a loss and shrugged.
Later that morning I drove him to work. The road took us through Back Town, Oakridge’s business and commercial district, and as we passed the shops there Stan stared dreamily out of the window.
“You think it would be fun having a shop, Johnny? Or a business? Doing stuff around town?”
“Be better than working for someone else, that’s for sure.”
“I think it would be great. People would come and ask you things and you’d tell them what was right and what they should have. And they’d know you were the guy for what they wanted.”
Bill Prentice’s garden center was a ten-minute drive along the Oakridge Loop once you got out of town. It was a large fieldstone building built high off the ground and set fifty yards back from the road. It had a lovely view over the Swallow River and one side of it had been converted into a cafe. A large pressed-metal warehouse connected to the rear of the building and out front there was an ornamental garden with a birdbath and a fountain. A
