The time draws near to Dad’s expected arrival. Two hours before he is supposed to show up, we are dressed in our best, keeping vigil at the windows. I wear my coolest clothes: magenta elephant bellbottoms, beige midriff top, and desert boots. I fling an oversized, green Army jacket with a smiley face patch on the front pocket over my shoulder. (It is too hot in Florida to actually wear such a jacket.) My down-to-my-waist, light brown hair is parted in the middle and pulled behind my ears to keep it out of my face and a pale splattering of freckles dust my nose. At fifteen I want to show my father how cool I am and how much I love him… still.
Terry dresses in similar clothes. She also wears elephant bells and some kind of fashionable knit top. She paces anxiously, jumping at the sound of each passing car. Her hair parts down the middle and is a bit darker and shorter than mine, and her face is covered in more of the family freckles. Her cat-green eyes are lined with worry that Dad will be devastated at the news of Grandma’s death a few months earlier, and so we decide to let Mom break it to him.
Wayne keeps a silent seat crouched behind the heavy drapes at the dining room window facing the front of the house. He wears no shoes, cutoff shorts, and a tattered T-shirt. His sun-streaked blond hair badly needs cutting and hangs raggedly into his large chocolate eyes. The eight-foot-long body of his favorite boa constrictor is wrapped around him, and he holds its head close to his face. “Queen,” his prize possession and guardian, is the one thing he can’t wait to proudly share with Dad.
Mom shocks us all when she emerges in a full-length red negligee and matching see-through robe. That’s so gross, I think to myself as she poises herself at the front door, blocking my sister and me from being first to open it.
“Go over derr,” she directs, her German accent still thick after all these years. “I vahnt to open da doorr vehn he gets herr,” she announces. She is determined to see her husband again and show him exactly what he has been missing all these years. Mom knows she is still a babe, damn it, and she is still in love with him.
Like a recurring dream, Dad’s car pulls up in front of the house. There is no snow on the ground as there was in New Jersey when he came home from Vietnam, but there is a strange sense of déjà vu in the air. Time is motionless until he finally steps out of the car, a long-haired stranger wearing bell-bottoms, a tiedyed shirt, and sandals. “Dad’s a hippie. Cool!” Tentatively, my father’s oddly familiar shape walks toward the house. Beside ourselves with excitement, the three of us kids simultaneously race to the front door, fling it open, and fight for first position, squeezing Mom unceremoniously out of the way. Dad cracks a small smile at our reaction to his arrival, pretends not to notice, and continues up the walk. I see a tiny opening and take it. In an instant I manage to break free and dash out and away from the others, run with all my might, and jump into his arms. I hug him tight, not believing this moment is real. I don’t say anything, only a few mumbles that are supposed to convey how glad I am that he is home. My brother, sister, and mother follow right behind me, crying and hugging him too.
Mom and Dad head into their bedroom after only a short while in the house. My impression that things aren’t going as Mom planned comes from the tearful face and the change of clothes she wears when they emerge only a few minutes later. Dad comes out and sits with us in the living room as Mom storms silently into the kitchen to make sandwiches for dinner. I can hear her crying through the clinking of mayonnaise jars and knives as the refrigerator opens and closes. Finishing, she places the platter on the dining room table and disappears into her room, leaving Dad, Terry, Wayne, and me to eat the light meal together at the heavy octagon table. We feel the awkwardness and tension of their reunion, and even with a thousand things to say, we find it difficult to make any conversation.
“How’s school?” Dad asks.
“Fine,” we lie, and an uneasy silence again fills the air.
“Sorry to hear about Grandma,” he adds, embarrassed and looking genuinely saddened.
We nod and hang our heads. There is more silence as we watch time pass. The setting sun casts its shadow through the curtains of the sliding glass door, and before the light disappears completely, Mom, eyes swollen and red, comes out with a handful of blankets and a pillow. She lays them on the couch without saying a word and returns to her room. We still say nothing.
The next day it is announced to us that Mom and Dad are divorcing. From what we witnessed the night before it doesn’t really surprise us, but the news is still depressing. This isn’t what any of us expected. I feel desperate, thinking this might mean that we will lose Dad again. Angry with Mom, I blame her again for him wanting to leave. Dad is “cool"; Mom is mean and doesn’t understand us. There is a bitter, heavy silence in the house for the next few days after their announcement, a silence louder than any explosion can be to a child. It is the end of the family we long ago briefly knew and had spent most of our lives hoping and fantasizing to be once again. The fireflies are gone forever. What now? I wonder. What will happen to us now?
CHAPTER TWO
The Man in the Box
In the days that follow, Dad gets up early, sits at the dining room table, lights a menthol, and shuffles his deck of cards. Frrrruuuttth, click, click. Frrrruuuutttthhh, click, click, click. The cards smack the table with a sharp snap.
“You drink coffee, Dawn?” he asks me, as I stand watching.
“No, but I can make some.”
“Ahh… yeah,” he says as if he is drooling. “Cool, man.”
I shuffle into the kitchen and pull out the instant coffee that has been hidden in the cabinet for a forgotten number of years, boil some water, and mix a strong, black cup.
“Two sugars,” he calls, hearing me stir the heady brew. Carefully, I walk the hot cup out to him and place it on the table. “Sit down,” he says, not looking up from his cards. Pleased to be near him, yet nervous that he might notice that I don’t know what he is playing, I do as I’m told. “Do you play solitaire?” he asks, already knowing the game is lost to my understanding.
“No. I don’t think so. What is it?”
“Ahhh! Never mind! You’ll find out about it later,” he teases, waving his arm and dismissing me. I stand, unwilling to leave. Dad ignores my hovering, continuing his game and chainsmoking. I begin to feel bored, but I’m curious about him, so I dash to my room and return with my macramé. I am making a roach clip and it is going to be a nice one. Suddenly, the corner of Dad’s eye lifts. “What’s that?” he asks with a pleased, curious lilt to his voice.
“What’s it look like?” I answer, smiling at the fact that he’s showing some interest. A tingle of excitement sits me up straight and quickly I want to sound like I know what being cool is all about.
“Don’t mess with me, Dawn,” he says, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I tease. I had sensed it all along.
“Well? You got any?”
There is a long pause before I decide to answer. Is my father asking me for a joint? I can’t believe my luck. Man, he is cool. This is soooo cool! I dart back to my room and pull out my box of stash from under my bed. An old cigar box, torn and dirty along the edges, holds a couple packs of Zig-Zag rolling papers, several books of matches, and a plastic bag with a few roaches, ash, seeds, and a sprinkling of sticky yellow leaves. I race back to the table and proceed to roll up my best Jamaican Gold bud. Dad’s eyes light up, and he is smiling big.