The Boots My Mother Gave Me (12 page)

Anytime Mom’s family got together food constituted the main event. We blessed it, celebrated it, and enjoyed it, every meal an experience. The quickest way to offend Gram was to turn down a second helping.

Fascinating, really, when you think about it. Instinctively mothers, all mothers, humans and animals, feed their young. It’s one of the primary tasks they complete, a baby’s life surely dependent on their mother’s nutrition. It’s inherent, biological. I guess it would only make sense for Mom to fuss over my eating habits. She had done so since my conception.

I watched her devoutly show me everything in the cooler, with instructions on when and how much I should eat. I thought, how difficult a task for her. At one time in my life I depended on Mom for everything. She kept me, bathed me, clothed me, and fed me. She embodied my world. My life, as I know it, is mine because of my mother.

And now she must step away, sending me out into the world on my own. Giving life, the single most profound, astonishing task, then having that life, that being, flourish, become independent of you, what must that feel like?

“Harley, wait, I made this for you,” Kat called, hurrying from inside the house to my car. “It’s a quilt. Gram showed me how. I took a bunch of our old clothes from the attic and quilted them together. See, here’s a piece of your old Levi’s from kindergarten, and a piece of Hulk Hogan’s shirt. Remember when Gramps took us to State College to see him? He ripped his shirt off, like he always did, and threw it out into the audience, and Gramps caught it for you.”

“I loved Hulk Hogan!” I scanned the quilt, amazed at the memories the material held. “How did you do this?”

She smiled proudly, continuing, “Here’s a piece of my old blanket, remember you used to call me Linus, you know, the kid from Snoopy, because I carried that thing everywhere.” I nodded my head, chuckling at the image. “There are pieces of Mom’s old maternity clothes from when she carried us. And look here, a piece of Gram’s apron. And look at this, guess what this is?” she asked, pointing at a blue and gold meshed material, bearing the number thirteen.

“That’s Jeremiah’s football jersey,” I said perplexed. “I thought they put that in the case at school, because of all his records.”

“They did, his practice jersey. This is the original.” She pointed to the other side of the quilt displaying another piece with his last name, JOHNSON, staring back at me. “I told him about my project, and he insisted I use his jersey.”

I stared at the blanket, every piece of fabric told a story. “Kit-Kat, it’s just beautiful. You are so talented.” I wrapped the quilt around her, hugging her tightly. “I love it. I love you. How about we sew you in it, then I can take you, too.”

“Okay!” she agreed, her smile replaced with melancholy. “Promise you’ll come back for me.” She held up her pinky.

I hooked mine in hers. We practiced pinky swearing for as long as I can recall. “Three years, your graduation day. You’ve got so much to offer. This town can’t hold you.” I let go of her pinky taking both of her hands, holding them in mine. “Just keep your head about you. Forget about the boys. You’ll have plenty of time for them later. You focus on Kat. Look out for you. You can’t depend on anyone else to do it. You got me?” She nodded, tears forming in her eyes and mine. I hugged her firmly. “I am so proud of you and I love you always.”

“Dad got you something too,” Kat said, looking in his direction. I turned to see him coming out of the house toward us, gathered around Charlene. He carried a guitar case.
Surely he didn’t get me a guitar?

“Here, Dad, put it right up here.” Kat tapped Charlene’s trunk. “Break that baby open. Let’s see what’s inside.”

Mom watched nervously beaming with pride. Dad, anxious and unsure in his actions, set the case on the trunk and opened it, much to Kat’s delight. “I thought you might find this helpful in writing your songs,” he said. “If you don’t want it, I can take it back, exchange it or something.” How odd, my father nervous and understated. The guitar was beautiful, a black Washburn. I studied it with nary a word entering my mind, utterly speechless. “Ya see, it’s got electric hookups here on the side. In case you ever play out or do any recording.”

Dad had an old flat-top Gibson. I wanted to learn how to play that thing so badly. I would stand in front of it staring, abstaining from the urge to reach out and touch it, as it was not a
toy
and we knew never to
play
with it. And now, he gave me my very own guitar.
What’s the catch,
I wondered? I stared at it, hands at my side. I didn’t dare touch it. Old reflexes die hard, I guess.

“Well, pick it up, Harley. Check it out,” Kat said.

I looked at Dad, as if asking permission. He nodded. I pulled it from its case and looked it over, unsure of what to feel. I had grown resistant to my father’s lack of involvement in my life. This gesture seemed unnecessary. Maybe I didn’t want him involved. Maybe I didn’t want anything from him, ever again. He used to hear me singing in the barn and send me on my way with, “What’s all the racket in here? Take that shit elsewhere.” Then, he would turn around a few days later and insist I sing with him while he played, praising me for my vocal ability.

I was so confused. For almost anything my father did, he expected something in return. What did he expect from me? He calculated every move, a manipulation for a desired outcome. What should I make of this guitar? What was its purpose?

Kat couldn’t take my silence. “What do you think, Harley? Pretty cool, huh?”

“I don’t know what to say.” I stood dazed.

“Thank you might be a nice place to start,” Mom said.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just enjoy it. You always wanted to play mine. I figured you might like one of your own.” I almost believed him, his tone sincere. “You won’t have any problem picking it up, you’ve got the fingers for it,” he pointed out as I held the neck of the guitar, my long fingers all-encompassing. “There’s a tuner and a chord book inside the case. That should get you started,” he said, diverting his eyes from my gaze.

Dad never held anyone’s eyes very long, a common trait among Vietnam veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder, according to his counselor from rehab. I didn’t want him to feel anxious or uncomfortable. My heart always went out to him, regardless of what I might tell it otherwise. I put the guitar back in its case and with one fluid movement, I turned to him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, hugging him for the first time in a very long time. The last I recall was two years ago, simply because I didn’t know what else to do.

Sixteen, and driving myself home from evening basketball practice, I neared the house, my stomach growing nervous as usual. I pulled into the driveway surrounded by darkness, no light in the house or the barn. My parents’ vehicles sat in the drive, leading me to assume they were home. It didn’t make any sense, no lights in the house, what with chores and milking complete, the night too young for their bedtime. Even still, Mom always left a light on for me.

At least I knew Kat was safe. She stayed with Gram that night for their ritual third Saturday of the month trip to the fabric store.
Maybe I should go on to Gram’s,
I thought, turning the ignition off in the old, brown flatbed Ford, making my way apprehensively to the house.
What was I walking into?
As I reached the front door, the lock wouldn’t budge. I searched inside the pocket of an old winter coat hanging on the porch, my fingers nimbly discovering the key I felt ambivalent about finding. Quietly, I opened the door, stepping inside.

The moment my foot hit the utility rug, my senses rang with ambient sounds. I heard a shifting on the floor to my left, accompanied by whispers, my father’s voice. I tried to adjust my eyes in his direction, my pupils growing larger, peering through the darkness.

Mom’s voice sounded to the right of me, scared, pleading, “John, get up. What is wrong with you?”
How long has this scenario played out,
I wondered?
What the hell was going on now?

“Mom, turn on the light.”

“He turned them all off,” she said. “John, please get up.”

I put my hands out in front of me as feelers, while I made my way to the lamp on the end table. I flicked it on to find Mom standing beside it, steadying herself. My head immediately turned in my father’s direction as I continued to hear him scurrying around on the living room carpet, accompanied by his frantic, low whispers. He crawled on his hands and knees, as if searching for something or someone.

“He keeps talking about
foxholes
and
Charlie,
must be a flashback,” Mom said, her voice breaking as she watched him, fear mixed with pain displayed in her eyes. Unsure of what to do, I had to do something.

“Dad,” I called, thinking maybe I could reach him, bring him out of it. “Dad,” I said, louder this time, but he remained unfazed. I knelt in front of him.

“Harley,” Mom warned.
What would she have me do, just stand there and watch him?

“Dad.” I took hold of him gently. His eyes glassy, void, he looked right through me.

“I can’t find him,” he whispered. “I gotta find him.”

“Dad, look at me,” I said. Scared and frustrated, I shook him. My eyes watched his, like a pair of binoculars, the dial tuning, centering me in. From flashback to present day, his mind and his eyes worked together until he found me sitting there in front of him, on his hands and knees, on the floor of our living room.

“Harley?”

He looked at me, at himself, to Mom, and at the floor beneath him. He leaned back, resting on his legs, his shoulders slouched as his hands quickly hid his face, he began to cry, sobbing. I looked to Mom, her eyes welling as she watched him. Dad never cried. I pulled him to me, hugging him. He clung to me like the last life raft on a sinking ship.

It’s a heart-wrenching thing, to watch your father cry. I didn’t want him to feel pain, to hurt. I knew he hurt enough as a child. I wondered if his mother ever held him, embraced him. Probably not. The root of nearly every problem he had started with his mother and her hatred for him, causing his reciprocal hatred for her.
Would I allow him to affect me in kind?
I stayed with him on the floor, rocking him back and forth in my arms as I would a child.

After a while, he stopped crying and went to bed. We never spoke of it again, as if it never happened.

That was the last time I hugged him, until today. He returned my embrace. “Love ya, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad,” I said, before I could stop the words rolling off my tongue.

For some reason, after all these years, I did love my father, and it pleased me to hear him say those words. I just had difficulty believing it. When would he take it back? Mom stood with her arms around Kat, thrilled at what they witnessed. All of us, a bunch of junkies really, our arms out, just waiting for Dad to return our affection.

“I used to dream, too, Harley,” he said. “Thought about what it would be like to play and sing for a living. Used to play in bands around here every weekend, about the same age as you. I never did anything with it though, not like what you can do. It’s good to have dreams.” He tapped the guitar case, turned, and walked back to the house.

I stood there momentarily, shocked and awed, attempting to make heads or tails of the whole situation.
Did I just have an actual, genuine moment with my father? Did he tell me he used to dream, that it was good to have dreams?
My mind ran in circles.

“That was pretty cool, huh?” Kat asked excitedly.

“It was something.” I watched from a distance as my father stepped inside the house, closing the door behind him. “The best thing, though, this quilt.” I picked it up, holding it to my chest before loading it and the guitar into Charlene’s backseat. “I’m going to carry it with me forever. When I’m ninety-nine years old and you come to see your sweet, old sister dear,” I said, miming my ninety-nine-year-old self. “I’ll still have that quilt.”

“Ninety-nine!” Kat gasped. “Can people really live that long?” She looked to Mom for clarification.