Warren Adler Fall 2008 Short Story Contest Finalists

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I must go to confession tomorrow. Today I took my father from the nursing home. No one—not Doctor Ephardt, or my siblings Brad, JJ, and especially Lisa—they don't know about this, this breach of contract as Lisa would say.

Last week I couldn't be at my father's small party. As usual, everyone gathered to sing Happy Birthday and watch him open his gifts. Lisa served her vegetarian shepherd's pie and gluten-free carrot cake. I called Dad later that evening.

"Where were you, Son?" he asked.

I reminded him that Budd had been hit in a hockey game and we were in the emergency room while JJ's kids were probably lighting the birthday cake.

"Grade two concussion. Real sorry we missed your 68th, Poppy, but I'll come by on Friday." I said.

My father looked fresh, sharp, and ready to go when I arrived.

Odd. Dad doesn't make big deals of my visits. I thought we'd stroll around the grounds, sit in the garden and eat Cecelia's homemade lunch. I figured we'd talk about the family, my job and politics. He'd say he felt strong enough for a triathlon. "I'll outlive my grandkids, see?" He'd flex and hold The Thinker pose.

My father stands. "Let's go to Piper's," he says. Piper's is a pedestrian thoroughfare that follows the coastline for miles.

I drive with lowered windows so Dad can feel the fresh air. I should've grabbed a blanket or brought a hat. About a hundred yards from the pier I ease into a space, but since I don't have change, Dad slides his blue coin-holder towards me. It's one of those flat, lippish, squeeze-open purses. I find eight quarters and watch Dad slip them into the meter with such childlike care that I expect gumballs to roll into his palm.

I unload a walker, cooler, backpack and the old hockey jacket from Budd's Purple Haze days. It's mine now. My father snuggles into its tobacco-smelling warmth but refuses his walker.

"Hey Poppy, you could be a Purple Haze goalie," I joke. He scowls and pretends to punch an opponent.

Now he shuffles towards the pier like a hungry man scenting stew and cornbread. To our left are beachfront custom homes where nannies adjust strollers and maids windex picture windows and gardeners rectangularize hedges. I marvel at this casual wealth the way Cecelia marvels at sedentary women who eat anything, yet remain slim. My father pauses to touch some walls and study a few chimneys.

When my phone vibrates I know I shouldn't answer, but I do.

"Where's Dad?" asks Lisa.

I pause. "With me."

"Who said you could take him, what are you doing ?"

I'm following in my Honda while he unicycles on the freeway, I want to say.

Instead I catch Dad's eye and mouth Lisa's name. He shakes his head.

"He's busy."

Her resentment and distrust are like vibrations from a subwoofer. "I want Dad to tell me himself. Give him the cell."

I hold the phone close to my mouth. "We're at Hooter's. No gazpacho and green tea for him today."

I'm immediately repentant. Three years ago dad lost part of his lung to cancer. He quit smoking and drinking, but wouldn't give up junk foods until Lisa started fixing attractive, healthy meals. She altered his diet and took him on walks. When she asked for family cooperation everyone helped. I was the least available and least dependable. My sister ignored my calls when I was on the road with Budd.

Lisa gets the most credit for Dad's 23-month remission. We're grateful for her energetic devotion, which is why I'm silent now when she calls me a "selfish, opportunistic bastard" before the phone goes click.

Dad coughs and zips his jacket. I suggest we eat lunch in the heated car, but he's stubborn.

"Pier bench sit," he mumbles. His voice is thinned by the wind, but I lower my head and follow like an obedient Labrador.

We choose a bench that faces ocean and shore. The world feels tubular: curved above by white clouds, below by a changing ocean; a steady chill comes from east and west. The pier shudders with every smashing wave.

Cecelias's prepared a cheese-tomato pita sandwich, cranberry juice, peanuts, and sliced cantaloupe for Dad. For me there's a ham sandwich, beer, cheezy curlz, and brownies. The bench is stained with dried bird droppings and fish goop so I arrange our meal on paper towels. The wind diffuses the sharp, crustaceous odors.

Dad chews slowly while I straighten the straw in his juice box. "Ceecee's a good cook. This is good," he says.

"She's a good deli-stician. Lisa's the real cook," I concede.

He bites into his sandwich, "This is really good." He eyes my beer and brownies. If my sister were here she'd grab my food and fling it oceanwards. She'd call me an insensitive bastard for tempting dad with stuff he won't-but would like-to eat. Her rule is 'Thou Shalt Do as Thy Father When In His Presence'. But before Dad's illness, he and I had a different rule: Do Whatever The Hell You Want.

I chomp into the ham sandwich and swig my beer. Food always tastes better among good company and today I'm eating gourmet.

My father asks about Budd and I tell him he can't play for three weeks. I tell him about Budd's overtime assist when he caromed the puck off the boards to a teammate who angled the puck a hair above the goalies glove, against the crossbar (ping!) and into the net. That's when Budd got cross-checked by a frustrated opponent.

Dad wipes his lips and his eyes brighten. "My heart would've failed!"

He can't come to Budd's games anymore. Last season the cold rinks, erratic schedules and bad hotel food made him relapse. Lisa's fury matched my regret; as penance I agreed to her restrictions. No more hockey games (make some damn videos), no excursions without notifying her or Doctor Ephardt (consider this a contract), keep Dad away from smokers (he had lung cancer, remember?) and no messing with his routine (predictable schedules keep Dad relaxed). Her utter control and my deep humiliation have caused a Grand Canyonic rift between us.

Today Dad looks so satisfied that I ask him why he didn't tell everyone that here, not the nursing home, was where he wanted to celebrate his birthday.

He tosses crumbs to the terns. "You know how it is. Lisa already made plans. I couldn't change them. But it was fine. Look…" he stands, and unzips the jacket. "…new shirt, pants, shoes. From the grandkids. See? Comfortable, nice."

Which reminds me. I give him two packages, "Happy Birthday, Poppy."
The first is a stained-glass nightlight from Cecelia. In a wifely gesture she's also signed my name on the card. The second is a Purple Haze beanie from Budd. Dad says it's warm and will look better than the lone white hair on his head.

"Now my wardrobe's complete," he beams. His cheeks are pink and he looks giddy.

"You're ready for an Alaskan cruise, Poppy. Let's go after lunch."

"Okay. Better call Lisa when we get to Kodiak," he jokes. He offers me some peanuts; I tease him with cheezy curlz and am surprised when he pops some in his mouth. He glances at the brownies, but I point to the fruit. He holds his juicebox, I my Heiniken.

"Son, I'm lucky. My family made me better."

I wonder if he means me too.

He continues, "What do folks gain when sick people get better from their care?"

Hmmm…how did my siblings feel as Dad went into remission?

I chew a brownie. "Well…good caregivers get satisfaction mostly, I guess. They like having a part in your improvement. So… I guess they have some pride. And trust. You trust them because they aren't-- " I look down. "-selfish bastards. Like me."

I wonder why I can't enjoy my greasy, sugary junk food when Lisa's around. "Guilt. Good caregivers don't have guilt. Or humiliation."

My father puts a hand on my knee. His metacarpals and fingers are long. Piano hands mom called them although Dad was a mason. He did such fine work that I'm sure he built walls and chimneys on several Piper's homes.

"My kids aren't selfish. Your sister and brothers? Solid as a pallet of cement. But cement needs water for the final mix." He claps my knee once as if he's cupped a fly. "Caregivers and sick people-it's give and take on both sides, Son. Now I'll be taking from you… "

I laugh nervously and jerk my head at the bench. "Yeah, you're taking my starchy bread, cantaloupe, juice and peanuts. What's in it for me? An overweight senior citizen and a pissed-off sister. I have to kidnap you every weekend if you want to keep taking like this."

The sky shows pale blue through the thin clouds. A fisherman hauls up a cluster of deflated helium balloons. Birthday Shmirthday, says one. My phone rings. It's for my father.

The cell is dwarfed in his sinewy hands, "Ceecee? Thanks much! The outlet near my bed. Piper's. A small chill. Uh-huh, Budd's jacket. Yes, very good…don't say that-I like your food, too. Okay, we will... he is, he can? Love you too…Hey Buddy, how's the head? Yeah, dad told me. Wish I saw-you did? I'll watch it! Yep, wearing it now. Perfect. This must be size B for Bald. Tournament, where…Quebec? Good luck Budd. Take a picture? From this phone? Uh-huh back at you, Buddy-boy."

We walk to the end of the pier where benches and an outdoor telescope face the horizon. Its corroded knobs are frozen, its maintube grafittied by Gina who luvs Lester 4-ever.

Dad leans on his walker. "Remember the wall near our mailbox?"

I do. I was five and it was a family project. Dad had stacked bricks in a wagon so I could carry one at a time to Lisa, Brad, and JJ. They centered each brick as dad slathered and smoothed the cement beside them. My other simple job was to turn the hose on and off as dad mixed batches of fresh cement.

When the wall was nearly finished, Dad called me over. I pushed my sister and brothers aside, tripped over a bucket and slipped in the clumpy, gray water. I felt embarrassed and clumsy. Dad held and lifted me until I was eye-to-eye with the top row. The bill of his baseball cap brushed my ear as he whispered, "This is the best part, Son!" Then he held me steady as I, sweating and nervous, smooshed the last three bricks in place.

Now I ask if any of the homes on Piper's look familiar. He shrugs. "A few. They look pretty good, but most are upgraded."

I tap the telescope and wonder how many people assume that this rusting eyepiece is focused on an unusual horizon.

Dad clears his throat. "Got my test results."

I blink. Test results?

"It's nobody's business but Ephardt's and yours."

I blink again. Tests. For what? Results. For what? I try to think. Nobody's business. Dr. Ephardt. Me.

Dad says brightly, "I said I'd outlive the grandkids. And I will!"

I start a high-five.

"—If they die before next year." he says lightly.

My hand drops and now I'm stunned and angry. "Says who?"

"Says me. Says the labwork, says Ephardt. And other things."

"What other things? A little cough, some tiredness? Big deal! Tests aren't accurate."

He turns from the ocean to face me squarely, feet planted shoulder-width, eyes unflinching, the Purple Haze beanie pulled tight and low. A goalie refusing to yield an inch. "I know what I'm talking about."

I feel for my Marlboros but Dad pulls them from his jacket. He turns the pack over and over as if searching for the opening in a new card deck. Then he removes two cigarettes and watches me watch him as he casually slips one between his lips. His hand is steady, but mine shakes as I raise the lighter.

Dad puffs tentatively; I inhale deeply. We stare out and say nothing, a camaraderie I didn't know I missed so much until now.

He gestures so our smoke curls, mingles, and separates. "Just between me and you."

I play dumb. "What's between me and you--this surreptitious smoke out? This private birthday party?"

Dad inhales. "Nobody needs to know anything. Yet."

Insecurity and panic makes me blurt, "What about Lisa?"

"I said, 'Nobody,'" he says sharply.

Between coughs Dad says that he wants and needs me to help him set the final bricks of his sturdy life. He talks about giving and taking, absence and presence--how it's a jumble of sacrifice to be surrendered in due season. He says he wants what he's missed and feels we deserve. His words become an eyepiece trained on a father-son horizon of mutual compassion, grace, and solidarity.

We start back. When his walker snags on some fishing line I hold and steady him. Okay Poppy, I say. The best part starts now, today. He winks gratefully and I want to weep.

Gulls have scavenged our lunch. Dad opens the last beer and we finish what's left of the brownies. When he gobbles the fudgy treat with gusto I wonder what Lisa will say about the smudges on his new shirt. We split the cheezy curlz and as we're wiping orange fingers on our pants I point to my cell and ask the fisherman for a favor.

The next day I don't go to confession. In three months my father will be gone.

Between that day at Piper's and his final moments in hospice he and I will do more together than the two prior years. Grudgingly, Lisa will step aside as she did when a clumsy child once tripped and splashed her with water. Dad will come to three hockey games. We'll watch the Superbowl from Lulu's Bar and Grill. He'll still eat Lisa's special meals, but not exclusively. We'll play rummy for skittles and quarters. He'll spend two weekends at our home; when he falls asleep in the den Budd will carry him to a room that Cecelia's lit with softglow nightlights. In his dying, my father will be docile and demanding, difficult and pleasant, but mostly he, we, will be
content and grateful.

After the memorial I give my nieces and nephews a picture of their Grandpa. In it he smiles and stands tall as he points to his new clothes. I am turned towards him, but looking up and laughing at something off camera. A gull, a gull flying shoreward with a baggie of sliced cantaloupe in its bill.