My whole body wanted to melt into the front seat of the car and sleep. I hadn’t been this tired sense Emily was little and had colic. No one slept. I sat in my father’s driveway as twilight dimmed and forced myself to enter the trailer with his dinner in hand. The floors sounded hollow under my feet, not solid as stick built homes. The whole building seemed to move as I walked. It felt fragile, temporary.
I stood in the normally bright kitchen and watched. He was cleaning the floor with a mop which was older than dirt. It left streaks on the linoleum, long, brown, bands of dirty water. I swallow the sigh I wanted to release, I didn’t want to start an argument. I had to save it for something important like getting him to eat. I placed a tinfoil covered plate on the table and the other in the refrigerator. It had four beers and shelves full of outdated condiments. Mom held onto them as if they were mana from heaven.
“Hey.” I said, “Why don’t I do that. You eat.”
“What? Are you the only male that can clean a floor?” He snarled.
“No.” I was trying to be careful with my words – a new thing for me. “I want your opinion of my cooking skills. Maybe talk?” About what I am not sure. I wanted him to eat. He wanted me to leave.
“Fine.” He handed me the mop and limped to the table. Flipped over the covering on the plate he reached over to a drawer and pulled out a fork, “Speak.” He used the utensil as a scepter. I turned my back so I could roll my eyes.
I emptied the bucket of sludge out the back door and hoped I didn’t kill the azalea bush. While the bucket filled in the kitchen sink, I started with the only thing on my mind, my escapade that afternoon. “I entered another dimension,” I said and he grunted at me. “Alison calls it a grocery store but it is more like commercial labyrinth with piss poor lighting and signage.” He listened; I mopped. “You think you have it figured out and boom. Marketing throws you under the bus with too many choices it’s absurd.” I pause, “Then throw the girls in the mix!” I physically shuttered.
I turned at his chuckle.
“Wait here.” He hobbled down the hall using the wall for balance and turned into a small bedroom he used as an office. It was mostly a collection of what started out as artistically hung mementos of his life. As my mother unpacked more boxes, unearthing more souvenirs it became what the family matron referred to it as Clampit Yard Sale sheik, much to my artistic mother’s dismay.
He came out with a long narrow shadow box for me. Dust clung to it so thick that it took a couple of swipes of my hand to clean the top. I flipped it over. It was a broken fishing rod mounted on green flannel. I brushed off the glass to see a small brass plaque mounted inside, with the date. 7.15.1994
I was totally confused.
“I bought it broken.” He sighed leaning back in his chair.
“Why did you buy a broken fishing pole?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to.” I watched his eyes go blank as he got lost in the memory. “Your mother came down with pneumonia and your grandmother had come to take care of her, and you kids.” He folded his arms with his hands tucked in his pits. “It was raining for over a week. The next day was supposed to be nice.” He grunted. “I’ve had better ideas.”
“I thought that I would take the pair of you fishing, but we needed fishing poles and a license.” Shaking his head, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand before he placed it back over his chest. “I decided to take the pair of you with me and give your grandmother a break.” He stared at the ceiling and squinted. “You were three – so that makes your sister seven or eight.” He sucked in a deep breath and continued, while looking down again. “We went to Bretons Fishing and Hunting store.” He looked at me from under his bushy brows. “Your mother giggled every time we drove past.” He smiled with warmth at the memory. “Let’s just say that I bought a $145 rod and requested that I not to come back.”
“I broke this?” This explains so much about my children.
My father settled back and began.
The cold summer rain had been going on so long it clung to everything, it made everything feel damp and cold, including a person. The homes of North Junction Idaho were buttoned up tight and if weather cleared enough television could be seen flickering with VHS movies in the hopes of keeping children occupied. One brave family, or maybe desperate, came out in the storm to garner hope of a brighter tomorrow that the weather man promised.
Little Emerson Beaulieu came racing in first, energy and curiosity pulsed from his body which made every store clerk pause and blanch. He was followed by his eight-year-old sister who tried to catch him and his father who did.
Grabbing the fast toddler by the back of his rain jacket and with a single hand Gregory hauled Emerson up so they were face to face. A forty-pound squirming child would have been a challenge for most men to pick up one handed, but a life of hard physical labor and hobbies to match made it seen normal. A Beaulieu bowed to no one and a three-year-old was no exception. He waited. When the youngster stopped kicking and looked at his father a single word was spoken, “Stop,” and his son did.
After placing Emmerson back on his feet, Gregory simply put out his hand and the child gave his tiny paw over to him, then grinned at his father. Being no ones fool he arched an eyebrow at the child, but chose not to listen to his gut. He pretended the child would behave but knew deep down he was wrong. They headed towards the fishing department. First stop, the watering hole where a man could try out poles and reals inside the store before it was purchased. Then the fish tank where three-foot tarpon and catfish swam without a care until Emerson started knocking on the glass. His father again calmly picked him up and flung him over his shoulder as he moved towards the counter with the latest reels displayed. The child’s squeal could be heard though out the store.
Placing the boy at his feet and watching in silence with a blank look on his face as the child shucked his rain coat before his sister could stop him. Emerson held it up to his father with a grin.
Gregory looked at the him. “Where’s your shirt?” The boy stood in a pair of red coveralls and black rain boots. He shrugged and lifted the jacket a little higher.
“Grammy put one on him this morning but he kept gettin’ it off.” Di spoke up. “That is why he is in overalls because she thought he would keep it on then, but-” she tossed up her hands, “he got it off anyway.”
“He just takes his shirt off himself and not his pants?”
“Oh, he takes them off too.” A look of pure disgust crossed her face. “Grammy put him in overalls because he can’t get them off. Mommy doesn’t because he pees in them.” She rolled of her eyes. “All the time.”
Looking down at his son who still held up his coat, Gregory pointed and took the offered garment. “Hang on to your sister’s hand and don’t let go.” He started to turn towards the counter and waiting sales clerk then turned back. “And Em, don’t pee your pants.” The child nodded.
Gregory decided that getting this trip done as quickly as possible was in the best interest for all involved. As he filled out the paper work for the license while discussing the best options for the children, Diane interrupted.
“Dad, Em’s taking off his boots.”
A stormy scowl crossed Gregory’s face as he spoke in his drill Sargent’s voice to his son. “Put those back on.” The child put on the one boot he had taken off. Satisfied Gregory turned back to his task.
“My son was a stripper too,” the clerk smiled, “couldn’t keep him in clothes until he went to school.” Em’s father grunted and pulled out his credit card as the salesman started to ring him up. Then the man paused in the middle of his task and cleared his throat, pointed and simply stated, “Sir.”
A sight no one would ever forget was playing out across the department. Little Emerson Beaulieu managed to climb a stuffed black bear using other various sized taxidermized animals. His bare feet wrapped around the beast’s neck and was precariously reaching for the expensive rods on the wall.
A childhood working on a cattle ranch and twenty years in the army did not make Gregory faster than a determined child on a mission. Little Em reached the fishing rod as the bear started to fall and by some luck, he gripped the pole in his tight little fist which gave the large animal time to fall under him. Then the pole broke and he came down with a chorus of shouts and screams. None of them his.
Gregory reached the wreckage first. Not stopping, he jumped over the split rail fence meant to keep people out, then started throwing animals. The porcupine went into the store dummy which displayed waders and a vest, then the raccoon into a sales clerk who rushed up behind him and finally he rolled the eight-foot bear away. He found his son on the Astroturf carpet clutching his prize like a tight-end with the game winning touchdown. The stunned child lay there, took one look at his father’s expression and did the only sane thing a rational child could do cry for all he was worth.
After apologizing and paying for his purchases Gregory Beaulieu left with: one fishing license -$5, one child’s fishing rod and reel -$20, a toy fishing pole which included plastic fish -$10 and one broken W&M Tesserae Jigging Rod, limited edition -$145. They moved to the door, Gregory’s old duster flying out behind him and his young daughter running to keep up. She shouted, “Aren’t you going to put his boots and coat on?”
Gregory stopped to look down at his princess holding the small boots and green jacket. He contemplated the safest choice when he felt a small hand on his cheek with the lightest pressure. Gregory turned his face. Two regretful eyes looked back at him. Nothing was said as the wet warmth soaked his shirt and ran down his pants. “Daddy?”
“No point.” He headed for the door as urine filled his shoes.
We are both laughing as he finished. “Nothing will embarrass you, frustrate you or humbles you like a child.” He wiped his eyes of laughter and pointed at the item in my hand. “Framed it to remind me to let your mother plan all family outings.” He gave a quiet snort and then spoke again. “It has hung in every office I ever had.” He sighed and got up.
I looked at this memento from my childhood and comprehended that Dad was twenty years older than Mom. “You keep it.” He called over his shoulder. “Let it remind you that someone, somewhere and at some time – has been in your shoes.”
No good-bye, he just walked off.
I got up and picked up his plate and fork. I automatically opened the dishwasher. It had a full tray of dirty silverware and two glasses. The trashcan had two beer cans, paper plates and tin foil, all from my house. I looked at the door he disappeared behind.
As I dozed off that night, my mother’s voice lingered in my head. “The most important thing you can share is yourself.”
