Dear John (8 page)

Five

M
ornin’, Dad,” I said, staggering into the kitchen. I squinted in the bright morning light and saw my dad standing in front of the stove. The smell of bacon filled the air.

“Oh . . . hi, John.”

I plopped myself on the chair, still trying to wake up. “Yeah, I know I’m up early, but I wanted to catch you before you headed off to work.”

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. Let me just get a bit more food going.”

He seemed almost excited, despite this wrinkle in the routine. It was times like these that let me know he was glad I was home.

“Is there any coffee?” I asked.

“It’s in the pot,” he said.

I poured myself a cup and wandered to the table. The newspaper lay as it had arrived. My dad always read it over breakfast, and I knew enough not to touch it. He had always been funny about being the first to read it, and he always read it in exactly the same order.

I expected my dad to ask how the evening had gone with Savannah, but instead he said nothing, preferring to concentrate on his cooking. Noting the clock, I knew Savannah would be leaving for the site in a few minutes, and I wondered whether she was thinking about me as much as I was thinking about her. In the rush of what was no doubt a chaotic morning for her, I doubted she was. The realization made me ache unexpectedly.

“What did you do last night?” I finally asked, trying to get my mind off Savannah. He kept on cooking as if he hadn’t heard me. “Dad?” I said.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“How’d it go last night?”

“How’d what go?”

“Your night. Anything exciting happen?”

“No,” he said, “nothing.” He smiled at me before turning a couple of slices in the pan. I could hear the sizzling intensify.

“I had a great time,” I volunteered. “Savannah’s really something. We actually went to church together yesterday.”

Somehow I thought he’d ask more about it, and I’ll admit that I wanted him to. I imagined that we might have a real conversation, the kind that other fathers might have with their sons, that he might laugh and maybe crack a joke or two. Instead, he turned on another burner. He sprayed a small frying pan with oil and poured in the egg batter.

“Would you mind putting some bread in the toaster?” he asked.

I sighed. “No,” I said, already knowing that we’d eat in silence. “No problem at all.”

I spent the rest of the day surfing, or rather, trying to surf. The ocean had calmed overnight, and the small swells were nothing to get excited about. Making matters worse, they broke nearer to shore than they had the day before, so even if I did find a few worth riding, the experience didn’t last long before the waves petered out. In the past, I might have gone to Oak Island or even driven up to Atlantic Beach, where I could catch a ride out to Shackleford Banks in the hope that I’d find something better. Today, I just wasn’t in the mood.

Instead, I surfed where I had the previous two days. The house was a little way down the beach, and it looked almost uninhabited. The back door was closed, the towels were gone, and no one passed by the window or stepped out on the deck. I wondered when everyone would be getting back. Probably around four or five o’clock, and I had already made the decision that I’d be long gone by then. There was no reason to be here in the first place, and the last thing I wanted Savannah to think was that I was some kind of stalker.

I left around three and swung by Leroy’s. The bar was darker and dingier than I remembered, and I hated the place as soon as I walked in the door. I had always thought of it as a pro bar, as in professional alcoholics bar, and I saw the proof as lonely men sat hovering over glasses of Tennessee’s finest, hoping for refuge from life’s problems. Leroy was there, and he recognized me when I walked in. When I took a seat at the bar, he automatically brought a glass to the beer tap and began filling it.

“Long time no see,” he commented. “You keeping out of trouble?”

“Trying,” I grunted. I glanced around the bar as he slid the glass in front of me. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said, motioning over my shoulder.

“Good. It’s all for you. You gonna eat anything?”

“No. This is fine, thanks.”

He wiped the counter in front of me, then flipped the rag over his shoulder and moved away to take someone else’s order. A moment later, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Johnny! What’re you doing here?”

I turned and saw one of the many friends I had come to despise. That’s the way it was here. I hated everything about the place, including my friends, and I realized that I always had. I had no idea why I’d come, or even why I’d ever made this a regular hangout, other than the fact that it was here and I had no place else to go.

“Hey, Toby,” I said.

Tall and scrawny, Toby took a seat beside me, and when he turned to face me, I saw that his eyes were already glassy. He smelled as if he hadn’t showered in days, and his shirt was stained. “You still playing Rambo?” he asked, his words slurred. “You look like you’ve been working out.”

“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to go into it. “What are you doing these days?”

“Hanging out, mainly. For the last couple of weeks, anyway. I was working at Quick Stop until a couple of weeks ago, but the owner was a real ass.”

“Still living at home?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding almost proud of the fact. He tipped the bottle and took a long drink, then focused on my arms. “You look good. You been working out?” he asked again.

“A little,” I said, knowing he didn’t remember he’d already asked.

“You’re big.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Toby took another drink.

“Hey, there’s a party tonight at Mandy’s,” he said. “You remember Mandy, right?”

Yeah, I remembered. A girl from my past who lasted less than a weekend. Toby was still going on.

“Her parents are up in New York or someplace like that, and it should be a real banger. We’re just having a little pre-party to get us in the proper mood. You want to join us?”

He motioned over his shoulder toward four guys at a corner table littered with three empty pitchers. I recognized two from my past life, but the others were strangers.

“I can’t,” I said, “I’m supposed to be meeting my dad for dinner. Thanks, though.”

“Blow him off. It’s going to be a blast. Kim’ll be there.”

Another woman from my past, another reminder that made me wince inside. I could barely stomach the person I used to be.

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. I stood, leaving the mostly full glass in front of me. “I promised. And he’s letting me stay with him. You know how it is.”

That made sense to him, and he nodded. “Then let’s get together this weekend. A bunch of us are heading up to Ocracoke to go surfing.”

“Maybe,” I said, knowing there wasn’t a chance.

“Your dad still have the same number?”

“Yeah,” I said.

I left, sure that he’d never call and that I’d never return to Leroy’s.

On my way home, I picked up steaks for dinner, along with a bag of salad, some dressing, and a couple of potatoes. Without a car, it wasn’t easy carrying the bag along with my surfboard all the way back home, but I didn’t really mind the walk. I’d done it for years, and my shoes were a whole lot more comfortable than the boots I’d grown used to.

Once home, I dragged the grill from the garage, along with a bag of briquettes and lighter fluid. The grill was dusty, as if it hadn’t been used for years. I set it up on the back porch and emptied out the charcoal dust before hosing off the cobwebs and letting it dry in the sun. Inside, I added some salt, pepper, and garlic powder to the steaks, wrapped the potatoes in foil and put them in the oven, then poured the salad in a bowl. Once the grill was dry, I got the briquettes going and set the table out back.

Dad walked in just as I was adding the steaks to the grill.

“Hey, Dad,” I said over my shoulder. “I thought I’d make us dinner tonight.”

“Oh,” he said. It seemed to take him an instant to grasp the fact that he wouldn’t be cooking for me. “Okay,” he finally added.

“How do you like your steak?”

“Medium,” he said. He continued to stand near the sliding glass door.

“It looks like you haven’t used the grill since I left,” I said. “But you should. There’s nothing better than a grilled steak. My mouth was watering all the way home.”

“I’m going to go change my clothes.”

“Steaks will be done in about ten minutes.”

When he left I went back into the kitchen, took out the potatoes and the bowl of salad—along with dressing, butter, and steak sauce—and put them on the table. I heard the patio door slide open, and my dad emerged carrying two glasses of milk, looking like a cruise ship tourist. He was dressed in shorts, black socks, tennis shoes, and a flowered Hawaiian shirt. His legs were painfully white, as if he hadn’t worn shorts in years. If ever. Thinking back, I’m not sure I’d ever seen him in shorts. I did my best to pretend he looked normal.

“Just in time,” I said, returning to the grill. I loaded both plates with steaks and set one in front of him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“My pleasure.”

He added salad to his plate and poured the dressing, then unwrapped his potato. He added butter, then poured steak sauce onto the plate, making a small puddle. Normal and expected, except for the fact that he did all this in silence.

“How was your day?” I asked, as always.

“The same,” he answered. As always. He smiled again but added nothing else.

My dad, the social misfit. I wondered again why he found conversation so difficult and tried to imagine what he’d been like in his youth. How had he ever found someone to marry? I knew the last question sounded petty, but it hadn’t come from spite. I was genuinely curious. We ate for a while, the clatter of forks the only sound to keep us company.

“Savannah said she’d like to meet you,” I finally said, trying again.

He cut at his steak. “Your lady friend?”

Only my dad would phrase it that way. “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’ll like her.”

He nodded.

“She’s a student at UNC,” I explained.

He knew it was his turn, and I could sense his relief when another question came to him. “How did you meet her?”

I told him about the bag, painting the picture, trying to make the story as humorous as possible, but laughter eluded him.

“That was kind of you,” he observed.

Another conversation stopper. I cut another piece of steak. “Dad? Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Of course not.”

“How did you and Mom meet?”

It was the first time I’d asked about her in years. Because she’d never been part of my life, because I had no memories, I’d seldom felt the need to do so. Even now, I didn’t really care; I just wanted him to talk to me. He took his time adding more butter to his potato, and I knew he didn’t want to answer.

“We met at a diner,” he said finally. “She was a waitress.”

I waited. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What was she like?”

He mashed the potato and added salt, sprinkling it with care. “She was like you,” he concluded.

“What do you mean?”

“Umm . . .” He hesitated. “She could be . . . stubborn.”

I wasn’t sure what to think or even what he meant. Before I could dwell on it, he rose from the table and seized his glass.

“Would you like some more milk?” he asked, and I knew he would say no more about her.

Six

T
ime is relative. I know I’m not the first to realize it and far from the most famous, and my realization had nothing to do with energy or mass or the speed of light or anything else Einstein might have postulated. Rather, it had to do with the drag of hours while I waited for Savannah.

After my dad and I finished dinner, I thought about her; I thought of her again soon after I woke. I spent the day surfing, and though the waves were better than they’d been the day before, I couldn’t really concentrate and decided to call it quits by midafternoon. I debated whether or not to grab a cheeseburger at a little place by the beach—the best burgers in town, by the way—but even though I was in the mood, I just went home, hoping that I could talk Savannah into a burger later. I read a bit of the latest Stephen King novel, showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a polo, then read for another couple of hours before glancing at the clock and realizing only twenty minutes had passed. That’s what I meant by time being relative.

When my dad got home, he saw the way I was dressed and offered his keys.

“Are you going to see Savannah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, rising from the couch. I took the keys. “I might be late getting in.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Okay,” he said.

“Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Okay.” For a reason I couldn’t understand, he sounded almost scared.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“I’ll probably be sleeping.”

“I didn’t mean it literally.”

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”

I headed for the door. Just as I opened it, I heard him sigh.

“I’d like to meet Savannah, too,” he said in a voice so soft, I barely heard it.

The sky was still bright and the sun was bending light across the water when I arrived at the house. As I got out, I realized I was nervous. I couldn’t remember the last time any girl had made me nervous, but I couldn’t shake the thought that somehow things might have changed between us. I didn’t know how or why I felt that way; all I knew was that I wasn’t sure what I’d do if my fears proved correct.

I didn’t bother knocking and simply wandered in. The living room was empty, but I could hear voices down the hall, and there was the usual collection of people on the back deck. I stepped out, asking for Savannah, and was told she was at the beach.

I trotted down to the sand and froze when I saw her seated near the dune, next to Randy, Brad, and Susan. She hadn’t noticed me, and I heard her laugh at something Randy said. She and Randy looked as much a couple as Susan and Brad. I knew they weren’t, that they were probably just talking about the house they were building or sharing experiences from the last couple of days, but I didn’t like it. Nor did I like the fact that Savannah was sitting as close to Randy as she’d been to me. As I stood there, I wondered whether she even remembered our date, but she smiled when she saw me as if nothing were amiss.

“There you are,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Randy grinned. Despite her comment, he wore an almost victorious expression.
When the cat’s away, the mice are at play
, he seemed to be saying.

Savannah stood and ambled toward me. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse and a light, flowing skirt that swayed when she walked. I could see the additional color on her shoulders that spoke of hours in the sun. When she got close, she stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Hi,” she said, circling an arm around my waist.

“Hi.”

She leaned back slightly, as if evaluating my expression. “You look like you missed me,” she said, her voice teasing.

As usual, I couldn’t think of a response, and she winked at my inability to admit that I had. “Maybe I missed you, too,” she added.

I touched her bare shoulder. “You ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said.

We started toward the car and I reached for her hand, her touch making me feel all was right with the world. Well, almost. . . .

I straightened. “I saw you talking to Randy,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

She squeezed my hand. “You did, huh?”

I tried again. “I take it you two got to know each other while you were working.”

“We sure did. I was right, too. He’s a nice young man. After he finishes here, he’s heading up to New York for a six-week internship at Morgan Stanley.”

“Hmm,” I grunted.

She laughed under her breath. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” she concluded, squeezing my hand again. “Because there’s no reason to be.”

I hung on those last few words. She needn’t have said them, but I couldn’t be happier that she had. When we reached the car, I opened her door.

“I was thinking of taking you out to Oysters,” I said. “It’s a nightclub a little way down the beach. They’ll have a band later, and we could go dancing.”

“What are we doing until then?”

“Are you hungry?” I asked, thinking about the cheeseburger I’d passed on earlier. “A little,” she said. “I had a snack when I got back, so I’m not too hungry yet.”

“How about a walk on the beach?”

“Hmm . . . maybe later.”

It was obvious that she already had something in mind. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to do?”

She brightened. “How about if we go say hi to your father.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she said. “Just for a little while. Then we can get something to eat and go out dancing.”

When I hesitated, she put a hand on my shoulder. “Please?”

I wasn’t all that happy about going, but the way she asked made it impossible for me to say no. I was getting used to that, I suppose, but I would rather have had her all to myself for the rest of the evening. Nor did I understand why she wanted to see my dad tonight, unless it meant she wasn’t quite as thrilled as I was at the prospect of being alone. To be honest, the thought depressed me.

Still, she was in a good mood as she talked about the work they’d accomplished over the last couple days. Tomorrow, they planned to start on the windows. Randy, it turned out, had worked alongside her on both days, which explained their “newfound friendship.” That’s how she described it. I doubted Randy would have described his interest in the same way.

We pulled into the drive a few minutes later, and I noted the light in my father’s den. When I turned off the engine, I fiddled with the keys before getting out.

“I told you my father is quiet, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It doesn’t matter, though. I just want to meet him.”

“Why?” I asked. I know how it sounded, but I couldn’t help it.

“Because,” she said, “he’s your only family. And he was the one who raised you.”

Once my dad got over the shock of my return with Savannah in tow and the introductions were made, he ran a quick hand over his wispy hair and stared at the floor.

“I’m sorry we didn’t call first, but don’t blame John,” she said. “It was all my fault.”

“Oh,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“Did we catch you at a bad time?”

“No.” He glanced up, then back to the floor again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

For a moment, we all stood in the living room, none of us saying anything. Savannah wore an easy smile, but I wondered if my dad even realized it.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, as if suddenly remembering he was supposed to play host.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “John tells me that you’re quite the coin collector.”

He turned to me, as if wondering whether he should answer. “I try,” he finally said.

“Is that what we so rudely interrupted?” she asked, using the same teasing tone she used with me. To my surprise, I heard my dad give a nervous laugh. Not loud, but a laugh nonetheless. Amazing.

“No, you didn’t interrupt. I was just examining a new coin I got today.”

As he spoke, I could sense him trying to gauge how I’d react. Savannah either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Really?” she asked. “What kind?”

My dad shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then, to my astonishment, he looked up and asked her, “Would you like to see it?”

We spent forty minutes in the den.

For the most part, I sat in the den and listened to my dad tell stories I knew by heart. Like most serious collectors, he kept only a few coins at home, and I didn’t have any idea where the rest of them were stored. He would rotate part of the collection every couple of weeks, new coins appearing as if by magic. Usually there were never more than a dozen in his office at any one time and never anything valuable, but I got the impression that he could have been showing Savannah a common Lincoln penny and she would have been entranced. She asked dozens of questions, questions either I or any book on coin collecting could have answered, but as the minutes passed, her questions became more subtle. Instead of asking why a coin might be particularly valuable, she asked when and where he’d found it, and she was treated to tales of boring weekends of my youth spent in places like Atlanta and Charleston and Raleigh and Charlotte.

My dad talked a lot about those trips. Well, for him, anyway. He still had a tendency to retreat into himself for long stretches, but he probably said more in those forty minutes to her than he’d said to me since I’d arrived home. From my vantage point, I saw the passion she had referred to, but it was a passion I’d seen a thousand times before, and it didn’t alter my opinion that he used coins as a way to avoid life instead of embracing it. I’d stopped talking to him about coins because I wanted to talk about something else; my father stopped talking because he knew how I felt and could discuss nothing else.

And yet . . .

My dad was happy, and I knew it. I could see the way his eyes gleamed as he gestured to a coin, pointing out the mint mark or how crisp the stamp had been or how the value of a coin might differ because it had arrows or wreaths. He showed Savannah proof coins, coins minted at West Point, one of his favorite type to collect. He pulled out a magnifying glass to show her flaws, and when Savannah held the magnifying glass, I could see the animation on my father’s face. Despite my feelings about coins, I couldn’t help smiling, simply to see my father so happy.

But he was still my dad, and there was no miracle. Once he’d shown her the coins and told her everything about them and how they’d been collected, his comments grew further and further apart. He began to repeat himself and realized it, causing him to retreat and grow even quieter. In time, Savannah must have sensed his growing discomfort, for she gestured to the coins atop the desk.

“Thank you, Mr. Tyree. I feel like I’ve really learned something.”

My dad smiled, obviously drained, and I took it as my cue to stand.

“Yeah, that was great. But we should probably be going,” I said.

“Oh . . . okay.”

“It was wonderful meeting you.”

When my dad nodded again, Savannah leaned in and gave him a hug.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” she whispered, and though my dad hugged her back, it reminded me of the lifeless hugs I’d received as a child. I wondered if she felt as awkward as he obviously did.

In the car, Savannah seemed lost in thought. I would have asked about her impressions of my father but wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. I know my dad and I didn’t have the best relationship, but she was right when she’d said he was the only family I had and had raised me. I could complain about him, but the last thing I wanted to hear was someone else doing it, too.

Still, I didn’t think she would say anything negative, simply because it wasn’t in her nature, and when she turned to me, she was smiling.

“Thanks for bringing me by to meet him,” she said. “He’s got such a . . . warm heart.”

I’d never heard anyone describe him that way, but I liked it.

“I’m glad you liked him.”

“I did,” she said, sounding sincere. “He’s . . . gentle.” She glanced at me. “But I think I understand why you got in so much trouble when you were younger. He didn’t strike me as the kind of father who would lay down the law.”

“He didn’t,” I agreed.

She shot me a playful scowl. “And mean old you took advantage.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I suppose I did.”

She shook her head. “You should have known better.”

“I was just a kid.”

“Ah, the old youth excuse. You know that doesn’t hold water, don’t you? I never took advantage of my parents.”

“Yes, the perfect child. I think you mentioned that.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No, of course not.”

She continued to stare at me. “I think you are,” she finally decided.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

She thought about my answer. “Well, maybe I deserved that. But just so you know, I wasn’t perfect.”

“No?”

“Of course not. I remember quite plainly, for instance, that in fourth grade I got a B on a test.”

I feigned shock. “No! Don’t tell me that!”

“It’s true.”

“How did you ever recover?”

“How do you think?” She shrugged. “I told myself it would never happen again.”

I didn’t doubt it. “Are you hungry yet?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

She drew up her hair in a sloppy ponytail, then let it go. “How about a big, juicy cheeseburger?”

As soon as she said it, I found myself wondering if Savannah was too good to be true.