CHAPTER TWELVE
Conor stopped packing clothes into the suitcase on his bed.
He reached under his bed, grabbed an aluminum baseball bat, and turned, raising the bat.
A man with a gray, matted beard, and long, gray hair pulled back into a ponytail stared at him.
Somehow, he’d walked right into Conor’s bedroom without making a sound. The man raised his hands.
“Take it easy. It’s me.”
Conor tilted his head back and exhaled hard. “You’re lucky I didn’t crack your head open.”
His father, Mickey, tipped his head at the bat. “You want to put that away?”
Conor slid the bat back under the bed. He rubbed his face. “What are you doing?” he said, trying to calm his heart.
His father’s gaze focused on the clothes and toiletries piled next to the suitcase on top of his bed.
“So, you are leaving,” said his father.
“Yeah.”
“On account of me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Conor walked up to his father. “Let’s go in the other room,” he said. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
Conor led his father to the couch in the living room. Then he grabbed a couple beers from the fridge and dragged a chair out of the kitchen. He gave his father a beer and sat.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he said, watching his father drain half the beer.
His dad answered with another tilt of the can. He burped and held up the empty. “Is that other one for me?”
Conor gave him the other beer.
His father opened the can and settled back. “Where you going?”
“Can’t say.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a drunk,” said Conor. “You might tell people that don’t need to know.”
His dad took a deep breath and exhaled. “Can’t argue with that.” He took a long pull on his beer and looked out the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. The day was sunny and clear. “If you can’t tell me where you’re going, can you at least tell me why?” he said.
“Sorry,” said Conor. “Same answer.”
“Makes sense,” his father replied, still staring at the perfect summer day visible through the sliding glass door. “You know, ever since you said you were leaving, I’ve been sober. I wanted to talk to you with a clear head.”
Conor watched him tilt his beer to take another long swallow.
“I need to say a couple things,” his dad continued, clearing his throat. “One is, I love you. Might not seem like it, but I do. The other is, I know why you’re leaving. Can’t be easy living here.” He tapped his beer can. “Must be hard hearing people say what a lousy bum your father is.”
“They don’t say that to me,” Conor said. “Not if they’re smart.”
His dad smiled. “You always did have a chip on your shoulder. I used to be like that. Fighting a battle every day.” He took a long pull of his beer. When he lowered the can, his eyes were unfocused. It looked like he was staring at nothing as he said, “You know what I do now?”
Conor shook his head.
“Think about when you were little and me and your mom were together,” his father said. “I had the whole world in my hands and didn’t even know it. I loved life back then.”
Conor watched his father’s chest expand.
He filled out before Conor’s eyes, becoming the man who used to come into the house singing and flashing money, giving Mom a playful swat on the ass as he danced with her through the kitchen.
If he took a shower, dyed the gray out of his hair, and smoothed out a wrinkle or two, he would look exactly like that man, except for one thing.
This version of his father had a noticeable tremor in his hands.
Today’s sobriety had obviously been hard on him after all his years of hard drinking.
“Anyway, I’ll finish what I came to say and leave you to it,” his dad said.
“Everybody wants things. Money. Security. Respect. Power.” He put his beer down, stood, and leaned over Conor, putting his hands on Conor’s shoulders.
He whispered, “And here’s the secret. None of it matters.
All you need is somebody to build a life with. The rest is crap.”
He straightened and stepped back toward the sliding glass door. Turning his back on Conor, he opened the door and walked out on the balcony. He pointed at Conor. “Just remember. Don’t be a screw up like me.”
Conor looked down, feeling embarrassed that his father thought so poorly of himself. When he looked up, his dad was gone. Then he heard him singing somewhere down in the parking lot, his voice fading as he walked away.
Conor walked out onto the balcony. He looked over the edge and slowly walked around its perimeter.
No ropes or anything hung off the railing.
So how did his dad get onto a balcony that was two stories up?
Then he saw the row of garbage cans. The metal lid of one of the cans was smashed in, like it had bent under the weight of someone standing on it.
He shook his head, laughing softly. Because his father had fallen so low, Conor sometimes forgot that his father was once a man of infinite skills.
Conor grew up thinking his dad was the strongest, smartest man alive.
Finding a way to climb up onto a two-story balcony was the least of his powers.
As a kid there wasn’t a week that went by without his dad teaching him something.
When Conor wanted to learn how to fight, his dad took him out in the garage and taught him things that got him out of situations that should’ve put him in the hospital.
When Conor wanted to know how to meet girls, his dad took him to a local bar and soon had a bevy of women hanging around, listening to his stories, enjoying his flattery, and laughing at his quick wit.
Although he’d tried to copy his father’s gift for gab, that skill never stuck.
He figured it was one of those things you either had or you didn’t.
It wasn’t something a person could just copy—at least not for him.
His father’s lesson tonight, however, was different.
Showing Conor how to be faithful to his girl and his friends was impossible—Mickey Monroe was known all over town as the exact opposite.
He’d lost both his best friend and wife because of his drinking.
But in spite of that—or maybe because of it—he’d dried up long enough to be a father for one more day.
Although he couldn’t show Conor how to be faithful, he’d made an effort to tell him how to do it.
Forget about money, power, and all the rest of it.
Just find someone to spend a life with. It was the best of his father’s hard-gained wisdom, and the most Conor could ask for.
With his father’s voice still echoing in his head, Conor conjured an image of Julia back at the river with her dark hair dripping water down her beautiful face.
He held the image of Julia as long as he could. A warm spot grew in his chest, then receded as Julia’s image faded. He turned, walked back into his apartment, and locked the sliding glass door.
Today’s lesson from his dad was one he’d remember. All he—or anyone else—needed was somebody to build a life with.
Conor picked up the empty beer cans in the living room and put them in the trash can under his kitchen sink.
All the rest was crap.
He walked back toward his bedroom to continue packing.
It was time to leave the crap behind.