arms with these little faigelah barbells. Walking shoes, he calls them. What the hell is that anyway? I never had a pair of shoes I couldn't walk in, am I right?'
He waited for an answer. Myron said, 'As rain.'
Dad stood up. He grabbed a screwdriver and feigned working. 'So now, because I don't want to move like an old Chinaman or walk around a godforsaken mall in overpriced sneakers, your mother thinks I'm not adjusting. You hear what I'm saying?'
'Yes.'
Dad stayed bent, fiddling a little more with the railing. In the distance, Myron heard children playing. A bike bell rang. Someone laughed. A lawn mower purred. Dad's voice, when he finally spoke again, was surprisingly soft. 'You know what your mother really wants us to do?' he said.
'What?'
'She wants you and I to reverse roles.' Dad finally looked up through his heavy-lidded eyes. 'I don't want to reverse roles, Myron. I'm the father. I like being the father. Let me stay that, okay?'
Myron found it hard to speak. 'Sure, Dad.'
His father put his head back down, the gray wisps upright in the humidity, his breathing tool-work heavy, and Myron again felt something open up his chest and grab hold of his heart. He looked at this man he'd loved for so long, who'd gone without complaint to that damn muggy warehouse in Newark for more than thirty years, and Myron realized that he didn't know him. He didn't know what his father dreamed about, what he wanted to be when he was a kid, what he thought about his own life.
Dad kept working on the screw. Myron watched him.
He almost said it out loud.
Dad straightened himself out and studied his handiwork. Satisfied, he sat back down. They started talking about the Knicks and the recent Kevin Costner movie and the new Nelson DeMille book. They put away the toolbox. They had some iced tea. They lounged side by side in matching molded-resin chaises. An hour passed. They fell into a comfortable silence. Myron fingered the condensation on his glass. He could hear his father's breathing, moderately wheezy. Dusk had settled in, bruising the sky purple, the trees going a burnt orange.
Myron closed his eyes and said, 'I got a hypothetical for you.'
'Oh?'
'What would you do if you found out you weren't my real father?'
Dad's eyebrows went skyward. 'You trying to tell me something?'
'Just a hypothetical. Suppose you found out right now that I wasn't your biological son. How would you react?'
'Depends,' Dad said.
'On?'
'How you reacted.'
'It wouldn't make a difference to me,' Myron said.
Dad smiled.
'What?' Myron said.
'Easy for both of us to say it wouldn't matter. But news like that is a bombshell. You can't predict what someone will do when a bomb lands. When I was in Korea—' Dad stopped, Myron sat up. 'Well, you never knew how someone would react…' His voice tailed off. He coughed into his fist and then started up again. 'Guys you were sure would be heroes completely lost it — and vice versa. That's why you can't ask stuff like this as a hypothetical.'
Myron looked at his father. His father kept his eyes on the grass, taking another deep sip. 'You never talk about Korea,' Myron said.
'I do,' Dad said.
'Not with me.'
'No, not with you.'
'Why not?'
'It's what I fought for. So we wouldn't have to talk about it.'
It didn't make sense and Myron understood.
'There a reason you raised this particular hypothetical?' Dad asked.
'No.'
Dad nodded. He knew it was a lie, but he wouldn't push it. They settled back and watched the familiar surroundings.
'Tai chi isn't so bad,' Myron said. 'It's a martial art. Like tae kwon do. I've been thinking of taking it up myself.'
Dad took another sip. Myron sneaked a glance. Something on his father's face began to quiver. Was Dad indeed getting smaller, more fragile — or was it like the backyard and safety, again the shifting perception of a child turned adult?
'Dad…?'
'Let's go inside,' his father said, standing. 'We stay out much longer, one of us is going to get misty and say, 'Wanna play catch?' '
Myron bit off a laugh and followed him inside. Mom came home not long after that, lugging two bags of food as though they were stone tablets. 'Everybody hungry?' she called out.
'Starving,' Dad said. 'I'm so hungry I could eat a vegetarian.'
'Very funny, Al.'
'Or even your cooking…'
'Ha-ha,' Mom said.
'… though I'd prefer the vegetarian.'
'Stop it, Al, I'm going to phlegm up, you keep making me laugh like this.' Mom dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter. 'See, Myron? It's a good thing your mother is shallow.'
'Shallow?' Myron asked.
'If I judged a man on brains or sense of humor,' Mom continued, 'you'd have never been born.'
'Right-o,' Dad said with a hearty smile. 'But one look at your old man in a bathing suit and whammo— all mine.'
'Oh please,' Mom said.
'Yes,' Myron said. 'Please.'
They both looked at him. Mom cleared her throat. 'So did you two, uh, have a nice talk?'
'We talked,' Dad said. 'It was very life-affirming. I see the errors of my ways.'
'I'm being serious.'
'So am I. I see everything differently now.'
She put her arms around his waist and nuzzled him. 'So you'll call Heshy?'
'I'll call Heshy,' he said.
'Promise.'
'Yes, Ellen, I promise.'
'You'll go to the Y and do jai alai with him?'
'Tai chi,' Dad corrected.
'What?'
'It's called tai chi, not jai alai.'
'I thought it was jai alai.'
'Tai chi. Jai alai is the game with the curved rackets down in Florida.'
'That's shuffleboard, Al.'
'Not shuffleboard. The other thing with the sticks. And the gambling.'
'Tai chi?' Mom said, testing it for sound. 'Are you sure?'
'I think so.'
'But you're not positive?'
'No, I'm not positive,' Dad said. 'Maybe you're right. Maybe it is called jai alai.'
