Sixteen Small Deaths (2 page)

He sighed and turned away. “Trevor, all of my life I’ve given you nothing but the honest insides of my heart. I don’t understand how you could so eagerly embrace a man, a so-called ‘father,’ that
abandoned
you and your mother when you were just a child.”

“Dad…” I looked inside but couldn’t find a thing to say that justified the small overnight bag that was sitting so gently in the backseat of my truck. The truth was that all of that anger and rage had disappeared years ago when I realized it didn’t matter if the man that raised me was my natural father or not. What mattered was the countless hours teaching me how to ride a bike, the days and days spent in the little league baseball park. What I would always remember were the nights in the local drive-in, the early Saturday mornings fishing when the first light of day would rise above the darkened rim of the horizon.

“You’re old enough now to do whatever you want,” he said, nose crinkled into the typical Gregory J. Armstrong sneer that I feared whenever I came home from school with a horrid report card or a broken bone from playing football with the neighborhood kids.

“Dad, I can understand why you’re upset, but please just listen to me for a minute.” I sat down on the edge of the kitchen windowsill and pulled out a chair from under the table. “Just sit with me for a minute, please.”

The sneer dissolved into wrinkly cheeks and eyes of winter. He sat down with a deep and resounding breath, arms crossed as if ready to deal with a used car salesman. “You have five minutes before I start dinner.”

I smiled and nodded. “This trip is more out of curiosity than anything else, Dad. Believe me, there is nothing that this man is going to say that’s going to ever make me smile like you make me do. I know what he did to Mom and me, and there’s no room in my heart left for someone that abandoned their only child without an explanation. You are my father, biological or not, and nothing is ever going to change that.” I was always afraid to cry in front of him, and this was no exception. I could feel my eyes water with the residue of a million memories. “I’m going to take a ride and have a cup of coffee, maybe stay a night at hotel nearby if the weather’s too bad to drive. I’m going to get closure from him, and then I’m done with this small chapter of my life.”

My father pinched the end of the kitchen table, crumbling aged pieces of maroon paint between his fingertips. After a minute or two he stood up and looked out the window. The beginnings of snow fell from the December sky, day beginning its descent into the darkness of night. He pushed the chair back and leaned against the edge of the table. “I’m not angry that you’re going, Trevor. I’m angry that he even had the nerve to call you. The minute he walked out on you and your mother was the minute he lost out on watching you grow up.” He cleared his
throat and pulled open the kitchen curtains, his eyes darting back and forth between the waves of plush white snow sticking to the oak trees outside of the house. “Just remember where your home is. I know you don’t live here anymore, but this house is where your heart is. No matter what this man says to you, that’s the only thing I want you to remember, Trevor.”

My lips curled into warmth. “I promise, Dad.”

“Good. And I want you to think of your mother when you see him. She may not be with us anymore, but I know she’s thinking the same things that I have ever since he called you.”

I nodded in agreement.

“You’re staying for dinner, I hope. Nothing better on an early winter’s evening than a hot bowl of chili.” He was already standing next to the refrigerator, pulling out a fresh package of ground beef. “Feel free to give me a hand over here.”

“I’d love to, Dad.”

#

I woke up around eleven-thirty. My father had thrown a red-and-black patchwork quilt over the lower half of my body. We ended up talking for hours after dinner, which led to a round of cards and too many glasses of wine. I told him I wanted to rest my eyes a bit on the couch before taking off for my apartment. Before long, the mix of wine, chili and smiles dragged my body into a satisfying fit of slumber.

I sat up on the couch and for a moment I was a teenager again, the inkling of inebriation still a hazy fog in my youthful mind. The couch was much older than me, made of fluffy cushions and plush velvet lining. I would routinely fall asleep in the living room since there was never a television in my bedroom. Even after I left for college, the best night’s sleep came with a little alcohol and a weary body resting on an aged three-cushion sofa.

My father shuffled about in his room a floor above. He was
always a restless sleeper, victim to overexcited legs that needed a quick lap or two around the room before falling back to weariness. I didn’t want to disturb him so late at night so I instead walked into the kitchen for a glass of water. Cool liquid slid down a parched tongue and the fuzzy siren-call of sleep was nipping at the back of my head again. I paused and peered out the kitchen window before heading back into the living room. A perfect coverlet of snow dressed the front yard, great oak and pine trees now housing a winter’s dose of frozen ice.

I laid my head under a quilted throw-pillow and remembered one of the first moments I realized my stepfather loved me like I was his own. It was only a year into he and my mother’s marriage, and I spent the majority of my time wondering where my real father had retreated after ditching what I imagined to be the two people closest to him. It was the early winter and the multi-colored fireflies of Christmas lights adorned the trees in our front yard. I sat on the front steps, watching a layer of thick snow dance amidst a perfect winter landscape. Crushing a fistful of snow and ice in my hand, I tossed it as far as I could manage. It smacked the end of the driveway in a soundless explosion. My stepfather emerged from the front door, wooly jacket covering his hairy and tattooed arms. He sat next to me and smiled, scraping snow from the stairs with his boots.

“Has anyone ever shown you how to make the perfect snowball?” he asked.

I shook my head, staring at the ground.

He leaned forward and scooped a mix of slush and puffy snow, curling it in his fist like it was a hardboiled egg. I watched as he pouted his lips and worked the ice until it was nearly perfect in circumference. He showed it to me, holding it between the tips of his now red fingertips.

“This,” he said, “is good enough to throw.”

He tossed it with a gentle heave, nearly tripling the distance of my throw a few minutes earlier. It shattered with a glittery boom,
fractures of moonlight shining with each mirrored piece.

I sighed and adjusted the pillow under my head. I could see the reflection of the storm’s final drippings on the blank television screen a few feet away. The shuffling upstairs stopped, and I silently wondered if my father was going to experience the same memory-laden dreams as I was about to encounter.

#

The aromatic pleasure of fresh coffee woke me from a solid dreaming state. I could hear spoons and pans colliding in the kitchen like a momentary morning symphony. I lifted my legs off the couch and stretched the stiffness in my back. Before I could stand up, my father greeted me with a smile and a cornflower-blue mug, wisps of steam floating from its open mouth.

He sat next to me and placed the mug on the wooden coffee table a few inches away. “Just the way you like it,” he said. “A little bit of skim milk and three spoons of sugar.”

I took a long sip, sizzling springs of caffeine jolting my body into full consciousness. I crossed my legs over the table and pointed behind me. “How does it look out there?”

My father inched his head over his shoulder and peeked out the living-room window. “Shouldn’t be too bad out there, son. I bet all of the main roads and highways should be fine.” He cleared his throat. “What time do you have to meet him?”

“Noon, or a little after.”

My father nodded, then stood up. “Well, you’re going to have to get some eggs and toast in that body if you want energy for that long drive. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Great. Thanks, Dad.” I tilted my mug towards him in a joyous toast.

He chuckled. “Save the theatrics for breakfast.”

#

I shoved my hands through my jet-black pea coat and silently wished for summer. When I was a kid, my father and I traveled to a bakery outside of town for a cake for my mother’s birthday. The roads were icy, and one quick turn forced our Jeep into a nearby tree. Neither of us was hurt, but since then I’ve been afraid to drive with snow and ice on the road.

I was about to open the front door when I heard his voice from behind me.

“Trevor?” My father stood with a silver travel mug in his arms. “I know you’re not going to forget our discussion last night, but please, do not let this man sway you with anything, not even memories of your childhood. Your mother swore that she would never let him see you again.”

I blew a round of cool air through my teeth. “Do you think I’m breaking Mom’s heart by going through with this?”

“Not at all,” he said, tightening the cap on the mug. “If she were still alive, I know she’d give you her blessing to see him because you’re old enough to deal with that chapter of your life.” He handed the mug to me. “Here, some coffee for the road. I’ll feel better if you call me when you get there.”

“I’ll ring you as soon as I pull up to his house.”

“Sounds good.” He initiated a hug that could have lasted for an hour. All I know is that it felt like I was a kid again; the gentle push of his muscles against mine was not nearly as strong as it was years ago. I found myself pressing my forehead into his shoulder, something I would do whenever I was nervous.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, letting me go. “Now, go on. There’s a long drive ahead of you.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small envelope. “Wait…I wanted to give you this,” he said, shoving the small beige envelope into the inside pocket of my jacket. “If you feel that this encounter is going to stir up unwanted emotions, open that little envelope and I promise that it’ll bring a smile to your face.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

We said our goodbyes and in minutes I was behind the wheel of my car, engine beginning to purr in the shriveled air of another winter’s day.

#

The conversation last week only lasted a few minutes. My cell phone rang with a number I had never seen before. The voice on the other line sounded familiar, but I didn’t know who the caller was until he said my name with a long and extended breath. For the first minute, every muscle in my body quivered with an icy chill. When you think someone is long dead and forgotten and all of a sudden their voice is loud and clear on the other line of the telephone, you forget where and who you are. You forget that time has passed. You forget that this man on the other line made the decision to cut you out of his life over two decades ago.

You forget that he’s just an outsider now, nothing more.

I don’t know why I agreed to meet him, but I said “Yes” after thirty seconds of hesitation. I canceled two days of consulting projects with my clients and packed a small bag, eager to spend the night before the meeting with the man who actually raised me as a boy.

Five hours after setting out on Interstate-95 and I was idling two houses down from his. I shut off the truck and leaned my head against the seat. My eyes closed, I imagined what he looked like now. I hadn’t seen a picture of him since I was a teenager, and I couldn’t even remember if we shared the same eye color. I couldn’t remember what his favorite food was, what he liked to do on a winter day. When I swung my hand on the door handle, the cold tinge of metallic touch reminded me why this man wasn’t a part of my life anymore. I refrained from opening the door, hoping that I would summon the courage to leave the truck and knock on his door in just a few seconds. A few seconds turned into a few minutes turned into a few tears.

I didn’t picture a person hopelessly wondering if his son grew up to be a man. I didn’t picture a person spending their days hoping that one day his son would just walk right back into his life as if nothing had occurred oh so many years ago.

An hour burned off the truck radio and it was at this moment when I pulled out the envelope my father had shoved into my pocket, the one I now realized was dressed with the purple cursive handwriting of my mother. I flicked open the top and a single picture fell onto my lap. My mother’s eyes were the first thing that came to me. Two drops of perfect green, the color of an uncut pine tree glimmering in the morning sun. Snowflakes were frozen in the air and the three of us were smiling as if we knew that life would give us nothing but the best. My father had one arm draped over my mother’s shoulder, the other barely pinching my cheek. I couldn’t quite recall when the picture was taken, but I knew that this was a sliver of happiness, a flash in time where nothing else mattered except the love burning between these three souls.

I turned on the ignition and blew past his house, not taking a second to see if he was standing by a window. Eyes focused on the road, and soon enough I was flying on the highway, eager traces of snow falling from the sky like little rogue angels dancing in a winter solstice.

#

I found a hotel less than an hour later. I plunked down my credit card at the front desk and asked for the cheapest room they had available. I knew that I wanted to sleep off the day, let the thoughts in my head burn into embers wild as a forest fire. Two flights of stairs and my room was in the very corner of the floor. I didn’t bother to turn on the television, just kicked off my boots and placed my cell phone on the nightstand next to the clock radio.

At some point, my eyes closed and I remember the cooling whispers of the night beckoning me to slumber.

#

My cell phone rang around three in the morning. On the second ring I jerked out of a dead sleep, unaware I was resting on a hotel bed. I flipped open the phone without ever seeing who the caller was. The voice was a woman’s, and if I didn’t know that I was now fully awake I would forever swear that what she said was just the soundtrack to a temporary nightmare.