I’m not afraid, Dad said.
Don’t be afraid, son.
I’m not.
It’s not like folks think, she said.
Is it all right though?
Don’t worry about it, son.
I’m not worried about it.
We’ll be a-seeing you, the old man said. You just take it easy here now. That’s all you got to do.
Enjoy all of it while you can, she said.
Take her good and easy, boy. We got to go on.
When Dad woke again the old man and the old woman in their old Sunday clothes were gone. Frank was sitting next to the two empty chairs in the low barn light coming in from under the shade.
They left, I guess, Dad said.
They said they had to go, Frank said. They weren’t so bad. Not like you said. You always made them sound like they were terrible people.
You never met them before now.
No. When would I?
Well, you saw them now.
They weren’t so bad. They didn’t bother me.
It was because he wanted to beat me again, Dad said. I wasn’t going to have it. I was fifteen and I run away. I never went home after that.
History repeats, Frank said.
What?
I’m saying I know that story. A version of it, anyway.
Maybe so, Dad said. He looked at Frank for a while. Goddamn it, I didn’t even know how to cut my meat or eat my potatoes right, I chased my peas around the plate with a knife. I come out of that kind of life, out of their house, knowing nothing but hard work and sweat and paying heed and dodging cow shit and taking orders. I cut my meat about like it was a piece of stove wood.
None of that matters, Frank said.
No. That don’t matter, Dad said. But it matters what it stands for. He talks about luck. Your mom was my luck. I was lucky in your mom.
I know, Dad.
Your mom helped me change.
Well, I don’t like to tell you, but you’re not all that sophisticated yet, Dad. If that’s what you’re talking about.
What?
Never mind. That doesn’t matter either.
Wait now. I know what you’re talking about. I know what you mean. But you don’t know where I come from. I wanted more. I wanted out of that. I wanted to work inside someplace. Talk to people. Live in a town. Make a place for myself on Main Street. Own a store, sell things to people, provide what they needed. I worked hard, like I told him. It wasn’t just luck. Your mom was my luck. I know that but I worked hard too.
Dad, who are you talking to? Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I know all that. I was here, remember?
Dad stared at him. All right. I’ll pipe down. He looked around the shadowy room. You want some coffee? I know you drink coffee.
No. Not now.
Go ahead and smoke if you want. I don’t care. What difference does it make now.
All right. I’ll do that.
Frank took a pack from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette with a match and blew smoke toward the window. The smoke was sucked out by the night air.
Your mom went to find you in Denver, Dad said.
I know she did.
How do you know?
They told me.
Who?
At the café.
I thought you weren’t there no more.
I’m not. But I drop in.
They didn’t tell your mom.
I drop in once in a while.
What are you doing now?
I’ve been out in California where most of us end up. Where else?
I guess it’s nice and warm all year long out there, Dad said.
It’s warm. Yeah. But we’re out there in numbers. That’s what I’m talking about.
You mean others like you.
Yeah. Other weirdos and cocksuckers.
Don’t talk like that about yourself, Dad said.
It’s the truth, isn’t it. Isn’t that what you think?
I did once.
What do you think now?
Not that.
What then?
I don’t know. I don’t understand it. I’m too ignorant. I don’t know nothing about it. I told you, I come off a farm in Kansas. That’s all I knew where I come from. It took all I had to get this far, a little plains town, with a store on Main Street.
You did all right, Dad. You’ve come a long way.
Not far enough.
No. That’s true. Not yet you haven’t.
Dad looked at him, his eyes watering again.
What’s wrong? Frank said.
Nothing.
I thought you were going to cry.
That’s the first kind thing you’ve said to me in forty years, Dad said. About me doing all right, coming a long way.
Well, I must have forgotten myself. I let my guard down. Don’t count on it happening again.
I know. I learned that much. I’m not ignorant about everything.
He woke once more. Frank had moved his chair to a place closer beside the bed. The other two chairs were gone now. The air was fresh and pleasant coming in the window, the light still shining from the barn outside.
You’re still here, Dad said.
Yeah. I’m here. I haven’t left yet.
My old mother and old dad didn’t come back.
No. They’re gone now.
Those others didn’t come back either.
Who?
Tanya. And Rudy and Bob.
No, they aren’t with me.
Dad looked at him for a while. Frank had turned sideways so he could see out the window. The shade had been drawn up now. Son, are you doing all right? Dad said.
Me?
Yes.
I’m all right, more or less. I could use a better job. I never could get going right. I get dissatisfied and take off.
You always could do a lot of different things.
Maybe. But I don’t know what. I don’t have any college degree like Lorraine does.
You could of.
You think so?
We would of helped you like we helped her.
I couldn’t do it back then.
Why was that?
I wasn’t thinking about studying. I didn’t have the time. Or the desire for it.
You wanted out of here, Dad said. Didn’t you. That’s what you wanted.
That was part of it.
Away from me, you mean.
Not just that. Away from this little limited postage-stamp view of things. You and this place both.
But you still could of gone to school. That would of helped.
I didn’t think so then. I just wanted out on my own.
Well. You done that.
Yeah. He laughed. I’ve done that, all right. I’ve been out on my own. A lot of good it did me.
But you done all right, didn’t you?
What are you talking about, Dad? I’ve been a waiter. A night clerk. A janitor. A hired hand. A garbage man. A taxi driver. You don’t want to know what all I’ve done for money.
But that’s just somebody getting started. You’re still getting on your feet.
Dad, I’m fifty years old. What am I going to do now? How can I start now?
Dad moved in the bed and then lay still.
Hand me one of those pills there, he said.
Here?
Yeah.
You want some water?
Yeah. He took the glass and drank and handed it back and lay still again.
You can always come back here, he said. After I’m gone you can come back.
And do what, Dad?
Help run the store.
Lorraine’s running the store.
You can help her.
It wouldn’t work. It’s not going to happen.
Then you can have some of the value of it, Dad said. You and Mom and Lorraine can divide it up. Take your third of it. Do something. Start over.
No. I don’t want any money from you. I won’t take your money. I swore I wouldn’t.
Dad stared at him a long time. Frank looked past Dad at the wall and turned again to stare out the window. He lit another cigarette.
You never forgave me, did you, Dad said.
You never forgave yourself.
I couldn’t. How could I? Now it’s too late.
You’re still alive, Frank said. Maybe you’ll have a deathbed conversion.
Dad studied Frank’s face. You’re being cynical. You’re just talking.
Of course.
You don’t mean what you said.
No, I don’t mean it. I’ve been too goddamn angry. I’ve been too filled up to my throat with bitterness. Oh Jesus. I could smash your dying face right now.
Why don’t you? I wish you would. Go ahead. I want you to.
Frank stood up. I got to go. He stepped on his cigarette and put it out.
Wait. You don’t have to leave yet, Dad said. You should see your mother. Are you going now?
Yeah. I better.
Well. Good-bye, then, son.
Frank moved toward the door.
Wait. Would you give me your hand? Dad said. Before you go. But he was gone on out into the doorway now. Dad still watched him. This tall middle-aged balding man. Broad in the doorway. Not too old yet. But wearing old clothes. Ragged-looking. Still, there was something there. He was still a good-looking man. There was something there yet. It hadn’t come out yet.