My Dear Alice,

It is an exercise in futility to write a letter I know I’ll never send.  Sounds like a lame suggestion from a psycho therapist.  But it was you who opened me up.  It was you who showed me the value of talking.  And now that I am ready to talk, I find myself with no one to talk to.  

I guess I’m just missing you.  More than usual.

So allow me this self indulgence, this exercise in talking to myself.   Maybe it will help clarify what I’m trying to do, what you set me on the path to do: to reconnect with Henry.

I contacted Penny to set it up, to ask for her approval maybe, and I’m taking Henry to a secluded park where I used to sort out my thoughts long ago.  It is my intention to talk to him the way I wish my father would have talked to me – without boundaries, without judgment.  Just clear, straight forward answers to questions and hopefully some insight into each other. 

You’ve shown me that the way out of loneliness is to open myself, to let someone get to know me.  I’ve never been comfortable with it, as you learned.  All of my training taught me to shut the hell up, conceal every detail.  I extended that to my life because it became easier than exposure.  As in a mission, less risk meant more chance of success.  But what I succeeded at was keeping myself in a sort of silent bondage and losing connection to the world.

Even if it may not feel like it to him, Henry is my son, so it makes sense to start there.  I intend to let him vent all the anger he’s built up.  I expect it to be uncomfortable, maybe even difficult.  But I owe it to him. 

I imagine you would approve.  I imagine you would tell me I am strong enough for this.  All I can do now is to imagine what you would think or say.  I wish that just imagining was enough.

Terry

Somehow it seemed utterly inane to sign my name to that letter.  Talking to myself, indeed.  I shoved it in the drawer, with the others, and headed to Penny’s to meet with my son.  My estranged son, perhaps, but son, nonetheless. 

My arrival in the driveway was not greeted with enthusiasm.  He slumped into the seat, leaning uncomfortably against the passenger door, his body posture screaming objection.  I had foolishly hoped he might relish spending some time with me on any terms.  But his level of anger was greater than I anticipated.  I braced for it, but did my best not to shield myself, so he could still get at me if he needed to.

We stopped at the far end of the park where rock formations, large enough to sit on, afforded a stunning view of the tree-lined stream.  But he elected to stay in the car.  So we sat in close quarters, silently sharing our discomfort. 

When he finally glanced at me briefly it was with obvious mistrust.  I wondered what he was expecting from me: attempts at humor, apologies, orders?  But then it occurred to me, he probably had no expectations of me at all.

I angled myself in the seat to face him and began.

“I thought we could have a talk and get some things out in the air.” 

There was a long pause, and the fear that he would shut me out altogether seeped into my voice.

“It can be about anything you’d like.”

He looked out the window and spoke with a flat tone of boredom.

“Can’t think of anything I have to say to you.”

Good, a touch of anger.  That I could use.

“Oh, I bet you could think of something,” I egged.  “Haven’t you ever wanted to tell me off?  Yell at me?  Say all the angry things you’ve thought over the years?  Or just to ask me why?”

No response.

“Well, now you can,” I said calmly.

“Oh really?” he spat, sarcastically.   “Anything goes?”

“Yes.” 

“I can ask any question?”  Sarcasm changed to skepticism.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll give me a straight answer?  An honest answer?”  Skepticism changed to intrigue, yet he still didn’t look at me.

“Yes.”

“And I can yell at you?”  Intrigue changed to a sort of joyful opportunity, a sense of freedom, a chance for victory.

“Yes.”

“Like you’d allow that.”  He was still baiting.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“And you won’t walk out?” 

“No.  I’ll sit here and take it.”

He maintained a hesitant curiosity, but it was enough to turn his head to face me.

“Why?  Why would you?” 

Ah, eye contact at last. 

“Because I deserve it.  Because I owe it to you.” I smiled. “And because I remember what it’s like to want to rail at a father.”

He sat up slightly.  “Did you ever rail at yours?” 

I chuckled quietly at the thought.  “I started to a couple of times.  Didn’t get very far.”

“Why not?  Did he walk out?”

“No.”  Now how could I phrase this?   “He… convinced me to stop talking.”

“How’d he convince you?” he sneered.

“With his back hand,” I said lightly.

He paused, surprised.  “Your father hit you?”

I was instantly sorry I had brought it up.   “Sometimes,” I shrugged.

“A lot?” he pressed.

I shrugged again, but it seemed false.  I already wanted him to drop it.  An honest answer would have been, yes, a lot, but I wanted to move on.

“More often than I would have preferred.”

“Always with his back hand?” he probed further.

“Is this really relevant?” I offered quickly.

“How fathers and sons get along is on point, I think.”  

“Yeah, well, it’s not something I normally…”

“You said I could ask about anything,” he pounced.   “You going back on that promise, too?”

I set my jaw and allowed it.  You have to earn this.  You laid out the terms.  Answer the questions.

“No,” I sighed, too loudly.   “No, not always a back hand.  Sometimes a fist.   Most often a belt.”

“So he beat you.” 

I hated that word.  It implied something I didn’t want to admit.  And worse, it evoked those memories: my fingers clutched over the top of the door, holding myself upright, his way of keeping the skin on my back taut and more vulnerable to the belt’s edge.  I could almost hear myself breathlessly counting the whacks aloud, as required, clenching my teeth to keep the screams in my throat.

“Ah,” I responded casually, “that word always sounds a bit overly dramatic, don’t you think?”

I felt that unexpected thwack across the back of my legs, my knees buckling, my hold on the door lost as I slammed to the carpet. 

“Depends,” he said slowly.  “Did he ever hit you enough times that you had trouble getting up again?”

My memory gripped the handful of blanket to pull myself, unsteady and panting, off the floor and onto the bed.

“Sometimes,” I said, almost under my breath.    Was he vicariously enjoying my father’s treatment of me, or was he questioning at this level of detail because of something more personal?

“What’s your fascination with this, anyway?”  I was suddenly angry, but not at him.  “Does Michael hit you?”  I had never trusted Penny’s husband.  A good instinct, perhaps?

He looked away and answered as if the question had been ridiculous.

“No.”

I wasn’t buying it.  “Look at me,” I insisted in an unfamiliar, fatherly tone.   “Has Michael ever hit you?”

He faced me.

“No,” he said, believably.  “He talks me to death sometimes, but he’s never hit me.  Mum wouldn’t allow that anyway, I don’t imagine.”  He cocked his head.  “Didn’t your mum try to stop him?”

I sensed my mother slowly, silently backing into the corner of the kitchen, and shook my head, no.

“Why not?” 

“Because once he got started…” I saw his face again: that stern look of superiority and unleashed power just before he swung, “…he couldn’t be stopped.”

I shook my head to clear the image.

“He was like a force of nature,” I continued.  “You couldn’t negotiate with him, couldn’t reason with him.  If you tried to explain your side, he had this stupid little rhyme.” 

What was it, that moronic saying of his?  Ah, yes.  I smiled ironically.  

“He’d say, ‘When you argue longer, you make my arm stronger.’”  I hadn’t thought of that in years.

Henry laughed.  “He sounds like a wanker.”

I guess it was funny.  Now.  I relaxed, snorted a small laugh and explained my father’s philosophy of life.

“He was a man of firm beliefs.  He believed in the necessity of placing blame.   He believed that every problem had an immediate, physical solution.  If you hit it hard enough you wouldn’t hear about it again.  And most of all, he believed that pain helps you remember.” 

I paused, feeling that striped sunburn on my back from his relentless belt. 

“Dead right on that one.”

“So what kind of stuff did he hit you for?” he probed.

“Oh, anything really,” I evaded.  “I think generally it was because he didn’t like me much and I pissed him off a lot.  But he used to tell me it was to teach me something about life.”

He frowned.  “Teach you what?”

“He never got around to explaining that part,” I mused.  “He was a man of few words.”

What the hell was the lesson he wanted me to learn?  I hadn’t thought about this for so long.

“I don’t know.  Something like actions have consequences or life can be unfair, I suppose,” I shrugged.   “The only thing I really learned was that I would never hit a child of mine.”

I hoped he’d remembered that I had never raised a hand to him.

“You know, statistically,” I rambled, “if someone’s hit when they’re young, they tend to hit their own.  They think if they turned out alright, it must be a reasonable way to raise a child.  But I don’t get that.  They must not remember how it feels.”

I stretched my shoulders but that wasn’t where the pain lingered.

“When someone who’s supposed to protect you from harm hits you over and over, it makes you feel…”  How the hell would you explain it?  “I don’t know if there’s a word for it.”  What would capture it?  “It makes you feel....worthless.” 

Yeah.  Worthless.  

“I just knew I didn’t want to do that to anyone I cared about.”

Henry’s tone was suddenly steely.  “You mean you didn’t want to hit them.”  He paused. “You know a lot of ways to make a kid feel worthless, don’t you?”

I wasn’t prepared for that shot and it hit its mark.  He was right.

“Henry,” I felt myself wince.  “I’m honestly sorry for any time that I’ve hurt you.”

He sighed sardonically.  “Don’t you mean every time?”

He struck again, dead on.  The late birthday cards, the missed games, the infrequent and painfully silent phone calls, the years of neglect. 

“Yeah,” I had to clear my throat.  “Every time.”

There was silence for a moment.  I was almost afraid of what he would say next.  And sure enough, when he spoke, it was another punch.

“So, did you hate your father?” he asked calmly.

Does he really hate me?  Jesus, I’ve done more damage than I thought.  Face up to it.  Answer the question.  Did I hate my old man?

“Sometimes,” I almost whispered.   “It’s kind of hard not to hate someone who’s hitting...hurting you.”  I couldn’t let it go at that. 

“But I tried to care about him, too,” I sounded a little desperate.   “I didn’t have the option you had – for a second chance at a father.  I didn’t have a Michael around.”

“Yeah, thank God for Michael,” he said, victoriously.

Felt that one, too.

“Yeah,” I tried to brush it off.   “I only had my own.  But it was important to me.  I really wanted to care about him, so I tried.  He made it problematic sometimes.”  I paused and tested the water.  “Kind of like I do for you.”

His voice was strong and indignant.

“You actually think I give a stuff for you?”

I had destroyed it.  I had lost it all.

“No,” I said weakly.  “I’ve made that pretty impossible, I guess.”  I swallowed hard.   “I just hope you only hate me some of the time.”

“I don’t think I feel anything about you, either way,” he retorted.

Get your balance back.  This fight isn’t over.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I quipped lightly.  “There’s a healthy animosity to your tone.  You’re enjoying batting me around a little, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, like a cat batting around catnip.  Doesn’t mean he has any feelings for it.”

“Fair enough,” I said quietly.

Silence again.  He’d have to break it.

“What,” he said tentatively, “you got feelings about me?”

Good, maybe he needs to hear it.

“Yeah,” my voice was strong now, “a lot of them.” 

“Like what?”

Careful now.

“I feel regret,” I began, “that I haven’t been there for you.  For the things I missed out on because of it.  I feel a sense of curiosity: to see what kind of man you’re becoming.  Slightly impressed by some qualities I see in you already.  Feel a little nervous, since I’m not on sure footing...”

“Is love way down the list,” he cut me short, “or doesn’t it make it at all?”

I nodded my head and smiled.

“Now, if I had led with that, would you have believed me?”

He considered it and smirked.  “No.”

I sighed.  That was the answer I wanted.  Now how to explain?

“Actually, I don’t use that word much.”  I immediately thought of Alice.   “In fact, I only recently learned what it really means.  But now that I know….yes, I do love you.” 

I tried to gauge his reaction, but there was none.  So I changed tactics.

“I can tell you I value you more than anyone else in my life.”

“Well, that doesn’t say much for your life.”  Ah, the sarcasm returns.

“It says a lot about my life.”  I meant to go on, but suddenly he squared his shoulders toward me and attacked.

“It explains why you’re here, doesn’t it?” he sneered.  “You’re lonely.  You’ve got nobody.  So you figure you can latch onto me.  Strike up some relationship now so I’ll look after you when you’re old and gray.” 

He took a breath and swung again. 

“Well, if that’s what you think, you’re dead wrong.   If you need someone for that, you can just use any other kids if you’ve got them.”

“I don’t have any others,” I said calmly.

“Well, you’d better go out and make some then,” he persisted.

“Can’t.”

“What,” he laughed, “you get fixed or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Well then you’re really screwed,” he seemed almost pleased, “because you’re gonna get old and gray alone.”

“I don’t really worry about that.”  I maintained my calm.

“Why the hell not?”  He didn’t want his victory snatched away from him.  But I took it.

“Because men in my profession don’t generally get old and gray.”

He looked somewhat deflated and slumped in the seat again.

“Look, Henry,” I said slowly, “I’m not asking you for anything.  Today is about what I owe you.”

His silence implied the question.

“I owe you apologies, I owe you explanations, I owe you time.  That’s what today is about.” 

I felt on surer footing and was ready for more.
 
“Now you can keep swinging at me if you want to, but don’t you have questions you want to ask?  Anything you’ve been curious about over the years?  You’re wasting an opportunity to get answers.”

He rose slightly at the idea of it, a renewed chance to make me uncomfortable.

“Sure,” his tone was matter of fact.  “Why did you divorce her?”

“Good start.”  Here we go.  “Well, to be accurate I didn’t divorce her.  We divorced each other.  It was a very mutual decision.”

“But the divorce was your idea,” he said quickly.   “You brought it up first, right?”

I paused for a moment, wondering how he knew that.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

Would a thirteen year old understand the complexities of divorce?  How should I distill it down?

“Basically, we hadn’t been close for a long time.  I was away a lot and she needed somebody here.  She found Michael, and it worked out.”

It wasn’t enough for him.

“Why didn’t you fight for her?  For me?  Why were you so willing to hand us over to someone else?”

Of course, he’s asking because it hurt him, not her.

“Like I said, she wanted someone on site, for you as well as for her.  A full time father.  Not somebody who just ‘checked in between assignments’ I think is how she put it.   My duties kept me away too much.”

“Oh, so you were being noble,” he scoffed.

“Not really.  It was just time.”

It wasn’t enough.

“I thought you said straight answers.”

“That’s what I’m giving you.”

“But there’s more to it.”

“Divorce is always complicated.  There are a lot of things that lead to it.  People grow apart, priorities change.”

I didn’t want to talk down to him, but still wasn’t sure how much he could understand.  He seemed incensed at my hesitation.

“You promised straight answers,” he insisted, loudly.

“Then give me clearer questions.”

“Were you faithful to her?”

Christ. 

“No,” I confessed.

“Ever?” he shouted.

“At the beginning I was.”  It was true.  “But later on, no.  Like I said, I was away a lot and I didn’t keep a good check on my....appetites.”

“Was she unfaithful to you?” he asked, “I mean before Michael?”

Hmmm.  This was complicated.  I wasn’t there to trash her.  But I was there to tell the truth.  I decided on a compromise.

“I’ll answer questions about me,” I said firmly.   “I won’t answer about your mother.  You’ll have to ask her for that information.”

He snorted a laugh and shook his head.

“Well, ‘no’ would have been a simpler answer, so I’ll take that as a yes.”

Okay, he was smarter than I thought.  It didn’t matter if she was unfaithful.  Not at this moment, anyway.

“I think it worked out, don’t you?  Michael’s been a better father to you than I was.”

“That wouldn’t have been hard.” 

I walked into that one.  He stared at me with an almost evil grin.

“But you’re still not telling me the real reason for the divorce.”

I was done dancing.  Either he had some question he couldn’t comfortably ask or he was going in for the kill.  Whichever, let’s have it.

“Okay, what is it you think you know?”

He took a deep breath.

“You suggested the divorce because of what happened to you.”

I arched an eyebrow.  What was this?

“Because of what happened to me?  What does that mean?”

“What they did to you when…” he looked at me, unflinching, “…when you were in POW camp.”

I couldn’t stop the wince or the sudden intake of air.  Damn it.  God Damn it.

“Who told you about camp?”  I gritted my teeth.

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Matters to me,” I said, too defensively.

“What rights have you got in this?” he shouted.   “If I waited for you to tell me about you, I’d still be waiting, right?”  He held his ground.  “I overhear conversations between mum and grandma.  I listen to the things grandpa says about you under his breath ... or sometimes right at me.”

I closed my eyes briefly to regroup.  Okay, it’s out there.  Deal with it.

“I was hoping to tell you about camp on my own terms.  But you’re right.  I’m too late for that.”  I braced myself.   “So what is it that you think happened to me?”

“Grandpa says you brought up the idea of divorce because when you came back …” he paused, “… you were less of a man.”

I laughed out loud.

“Well,” I spoke between chuckles, “since he never thought I was much of a man to begin with, less of one wouldn’t be too far of a drop, I don’t imagine.”

Henry wasn’t amused.  He wanted me uncomfortable, not laughing.  So I returned to a more serious demeanor.

“Did he explain what he meant by that?”  Please, God, don’t let him know too much.

“He wouldn’t say.” He raised his chin in an attempt to maintain a victory of sorts.  “He said I should ask you if I ever got the opportunity.  Do you know what he’s referring to?”

Well, thank God he hadn’t gone into detail with him.  But he left it to me, the old bastard.  He knew this was something I never talked about.  I hated the thought so much I had never even told Alice.  But it was time to tell Henry.

“Yeah,” I rubbed my fingers over my chin.  “What he means is … when I returned the doctor discovered I was sterile.”

Henry lit up immediately.  “You mean always?  Like you’re not my father?”  His excitement dug a little.

“Sorry,” I deflated his pseudo-victory again.  “I’m afraid you’re stuck with my genes.  No, as a result of … of injuries at camp.”

“What, they cut your nuts off?” he said lightly.

My jaw set hard before I could answer civilly.

“No.  I’m still in tact, thanks for asking.   But their interrogation techniques took a toll and that was the result.”

He paused to consider it.  I spoke before he could fire back.

“That’s why I said I wouldn’t be having any more children.”

He wanted to push.  “What did they do to you?”

We weren’t going there yet.  I’d been caught off guard and needed to gain control.

“You don’t need those images in your head.”

“You said straight answers to everything,” he attacked.

I spoke slowly to impact his momentum.  “Yeah, well this one’s a bit harder for me to discuss.”

“Full and honest answers  ...”  His tone gave me a chill.

“Now you sound like an interrogator.”

Alright, fine.  Maybe he needs to hear this.  Maybe he needs to know it’s not a game.

“They burned my testicles during questioning.  The tissue was damaged and got infected.  Prisoners didn’t get medical care, so the infections ran their course and the result was sterility.” 

I took another breath.  “In your grandfather’s eyes, that made me less of a man.”

He pounced immediately.

“So you brought up divorce because you weren’t good enough for her anymore?”

God, he sounded just like the General.  I could almost hear him saying it.

“I brought up divorce because she wanted more children and I couldn’t provide them,” I said firmly.  “You like having a brother and sister, don’t you?”

He nodded vaguely.

“You wouldn’t have them if I had fought to stay with you and your mother.” 

He wasn’t persuaded.

“Being noble again, eh?”

“Not nobility.  Practicality.”  I was losing patience.   “What else?”

“How long were you in POW camp?”  He knew this could knock me off my footing again.

“We really don’t need to discuss this.”

“You said anything.”

“This is different.  This is difficult for me to…”

“You expected only easy questions?”   He relished this.

“You’re enjoying this a little too much now.”

“It’s been a long time coming.”

I took control again.

“I was there five months.  And we’re really not discussing this today.  We’ll save that for the next time.”

He laughed.  “You don’t know there will be a next time with me.”

“Well that will be the hook that reels you in.  Next time I’ll talk about camp.”

“Yeah, like your promises have always been something I could count on,” he spat.

“You’ll have to take your chances.” 

Another silence.  I could feel his anger.  And he could feel mine.

Suddenly, he opened his door and stepped out of the car.  I hesitated, but knew I had to follow.  This fight wasn’t over.  It had just become too claustrophobic.  We both needed air. 

His strides were short but determined, and I followed at a safe distance, waiting for him to either settle somewhere or turn and resume the battle.  He chose to sit on the edge of a rock, overlooking the stream. 

God, he looked like me.  How many times had I come to this same spot to be alone, to think, to plan?  And here I was, trying to reconcile myself to my past.  I chose a seat close enough to hear if he muttered, but far enough to give us both breathing room. 

Bits of branches stumbled over the jagged rocks in the water and made their escape in the gentle current.  Although finally free from their attachment to the unyielding tree, they seemed somehow aimless and almost lonely in their journey downstream.  We both watched them, our separate perspectives evaluating the success or failure of their quest.

I broke the silence with an unavoidable edge of resentment.

“I hear your grandfather spewing out of you a bit.”

“Yeah, well whose fault is that?”  Clever.

I smiled and looked down.  He was right.  That was my doing: leaving him in his grandfather’s hands without being there to contradict his bile against me.

“He doesn’t like you very much, you know,” he sneered in solidarity with him.  “Is there a particular reason?”

“Well, I assume you can count,” I said, rather too sarcastically, “so you know you were on the way before your mother and I got married.”

“Yeah, I can count,” he said flatly.

“Your grandfather was none too pleased about that … as no father would be.  Just a word to the wise: if you get a girl pregnant, you’ve made an enemy of her father.”

He matched my sarcasm.  “Great.  Fatherly advice from you.  So that made you his enemy for life?”

“Yeah, partly.  It also had to do with the fact that I’m Australian.  Brits and Aussies are kind of on rival teams.  A lot of Brits don’t like Australians, and your grandfather is one of them.”

“Yeah, he’s mentioned that,” he quipped.  “So you don’t like Grandpa because he’s British?”

I smiled.  “No, I have enough other reasons for not liking your grandfather.”

He shared my smile for the first time.  Could I diffuse the General’s effect on him?

“I know you’ve spent a lot of time with him, but I hope you’ll judge things for yourself and not just adopt his opinions.”

“You mean about you.”

“Well, everything in life, really.  But yes, me among them.”  I needed to tread lightly here.  “How about getting to know me first?”  It was a risky question.

He knit his brow as he considered it.

“Your father knew you and didn’t seem to like you much, right?”

“Not much, no.”  I saw where this was going.

“And grandpa knows you and doesn’t like you.  And mum must have not liked you much to want Michael instead.  So getting to know you wouldn’t guarantee I’d like you.”

I snorted a laugh.  “Guess not.  But I figure you’re old enough to make up your own mind.  Not just base it on their assessment of me.”

He didn’t join in my laugh.   Instead, he spoke resolutely as if he had decided the outcome long ago.

“My assessment of you so far is pretty bad.”

Where was that little child who loved to cuddle, who giggled as he saluted me?  I’d lost him.  I’d destroyed him with neglect and coldness.

“You know there was a time, when you were really little, that we got on pretty well,” I sounded too desperate again. “We had some good times.”

“Like when?” he smirked, unconvinced.

“I read to you, we played in the park, I put you on my shoulders.  You know.  Good times.”

I was trying to grip a rope that I knew was slipping out of my hands. 

He looked at me directly, to add punch.

“I don’t remember.”

My grasp was suddenly empty and my fists clenched to confirm it.  Jesus, was there nothing there to even build on?  Was it really too late?  Was this attempt to reach him again all going to be for nothing?  I barely had wind left to speak.

“Well, you were pretty young,” I said quietly.

The silence that followed seemed longer, almost conclusive.  I wasn’t sure what to do next.  Maybe we should call this off.  Maybe I should take him home and resign myself to the truth of it.  What I had done.  What I had lost.

I had almost decided to give up, when instead, I felt Alice somehow near me, her unfaltering gaze, her certainty that this was what I needed to do, her faith that I had the strength to pursue it.  I took in a full breath and resolved to keep trying.  But I had no idea what to say.

Thank God he spoke first.

“Would you have married mum if I hadn’t been on the way?”

I was as relieved that he asked something as I was stumped by the question.

“I don’t really know,” I stumbled.  “We probably wouldn’t have married as early in our relationship, but we may have eventually.  Can’t really answer that one for sure.”

“Did you love her?”

Oh God, how to explain this one?

“I ... I cared about her more than any other girl I’d met.  She had a laugh that could bring me out of my darkest moods.  I thought it was love, or as close as I would get to it.  I didn’t understand what it really meant then.”

“Yeah,” he said smugly.  “You said you just figured it out.”

For some reason, that hit a nerve.  The sense of Alice I had felt so close a moment ago evaporated as if she had been a candle he had viciously snuffed out.  I was missing her, missing the feeling of being near someone you love.  It had been replaced with the feeling of being far from that person, a hell of an unfair but unavoidable exchange.

“It takes a while to understand it fully.”  He couldn’t possibly have any concept at his age.  “It’s not just about having good times and laughing and feeling giddy.  It’s also about sacrifice and knowing the other person is more important than you are.”  I saw her again, wrapping her arms around Peter at the landing site.  “That what they need is more important.”

He sensed my vulnerability and took aim.

“Then how the hell can you say you love me?’ he shouted.  “When did you ever put my needs first?”

It shook me back to the moment, and I stumbled, coming up with only bullshit.

“I’ll admit I haven’t shown it well.  But getting out of the way so Michael could form a bond with you was done with that in mind.  I took it too far, I know now.” 

The lie didn’t convince him.  So I leaned into the truth.

“It’s also part of what today is about: your need to bash me around for awhile.  It’s not all that enjoyable for me, you know.”

“Haven’t noticed that it’s bothered you at all,” he said flatly.

I tilted my head.

“Ah, you’ve gotten a couple of direct hits.  You felt it.  Even if I don’t show it much.”

“So what if I have,” he shouted.  “You’re not here because of what I need.  You’re here because of what you need.” 

He suddenly stood up for straighter aim.  Now towering over me, he shrieked, “You do want something from me, long term.  And until you admit what it is, I think it’s stupid that we even continue this.”

I wasn’t ready for that one.  I wanted to ease into it, after a few talks, not this first one.

“So give me a straight answer,” he insisted.   “What is it you want, really?”

Cards on the table time.  This could blow it all.  But he wasn’t budging without it.  I stood and took a tentative step toward him, but stopped after only one.

“I want…” I took a breath, “I want you in my life.  And I want you to allow me to be part of yours.”

 His eyes narrowed signaling a new attack, but I circumvented it with my confession.

“You’re right.  I am lonely.  I’ve been that way awhile now, and I want to change it.” 

His glare wasn’t softening.

“I want people I value in my life again.  You’re at the top of the list.”  I took another step toward him and held his gaze.  “Henry, I’m not expecting your love or your forgiveness.  I’m just asking for some of your time.  I just want you in my life.”  Say it.  Say it all.  “I … I need you in my life.”

He paused, not to consider it, but to reload.

“Can’t think of anything I need you for.”

It took effort to shake that one off, but I didn’t go down.  I stood firm and took it.

“You probably don’t,” I admitted.  “But you never know.  When I was a teenager, I had a couple of uncles I liked to talk to sometimes.  If there was something I didn’t want to talk to my folks about, but I wanted an adult opinion because my friends didn’t know everything, I talked to those uncles.  You never know.  I might ... be of some use to you … sometime.”

His anger was deeper than I thought.  Full confession, full exposure and he took no lighter of a stance.  He spoke without any sign of forgiveness or compassion.  But he spoke the truth.

“Look, when I make friends, I look for mates I can rely on.  I’ve never been able to do that with you.”

“I know,” I said, too timidly.  “And I’m sorry.”

“Being sorry doesn’t change it.  How the hell do I know you’ll even call again after today?  Maybe you’ll decide this was enough of an effort for another few years.”

A spark of hope returned.  He was expecting me to call.  Or maybe he was expecting me to disappoint him.  Either way, he was expecting something from me, and that was progress.

“Well, figure it like this,” I replied, “I’m the one who needs you.  If I don’t call again, it will be my loss, not yours.  So chances are I will.”

I tried to read his face, and couldn’t.  There was anger in his voice and in his words, but his face was indiscernible.  Had I lost him, or was he just tired of the bout?  All I could feel was him drifting away, like those bits of branches, downstream.  I tried to pull him back in.

“Henry, I know it’s gonna take time for you to trust me.  I’m willing to put in the time, if you’re willing to give it to me.  So I guess I am asking something from you.  I’m asking for the opportunity to try to gain your trust.”

He shrugged.  “It’s a lot to ask.”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time had a touch of finality to it.  We’d gone the few rounds.   It didn’t feel like a retreat, just a settling of the dust.

“Look, maybe I should take you home.  Maybe you’re done swinging at me for today.  What do you think?”

He reverted to the imposed boredom routine.

“Yes, sir, I guess.”

I swallowed hard at the sound of that word.

“I’d rather you not call me sir.”

“I’ve always called you that,” he sighed.

“Well, not always,” I said slowly.   “But I’d rather you call me something else.”

“Like what?”  He punched again, but without conviction.  “You don’t expect me to call you dad, do you?”

“No.”  I honestly wasn’t.   “Anything you’d be comfortable with.”

“I’m not comfortable calling you anything.”  The vague animosity was still there, just a little tired now.

“Fine, well, don’t call me anything then.  Just don’t call me sir.”

“Why not?” he asked, in a feigned attempt to find something else I was sensitive about.

“Brings back a bad memory.”

“That supposed to intrigue me?”

“Well, you’ll get to hear that story next time.  It has to do with camp.” 

We drove back, silently.  As I pulled into the drive, he opened the door even before the car came to a full halt, and bolted into the house.  I followed, slowly, allowing him time for a clean escape. 

I had a strange urge to thank Penny, so I took her invitation to enter.

“How did it go?”  She waved me in.  

“About like I expected,” I forced a smile.  “He’s got a lot of anger to get out at me.  That’s understandable.  And I’m competing with years of your father’s indoctrination.  But that’s my own fault for not demanding equal time.”

She led me into the kitchen, and poured us each a cup of coffee.  I played along.

“At least he didn’t shut me out.  That was what I feared.”  My sigh sounded as weary as I felt.  “It’ll be a process.”

She pulled a chair out from the table and motioned me to sit.  I hesitated.

“Who told him I was in POW camp?”  My tone was harsher than I intended.   “Did you?”

“No, my father did.”  She looked sorry immediately.  “He was defending me.  Henry asked why I took up with Michael while you were away fighting.  Father told him you’d been captured and we didn’t get word on your whereabouts for so long, we assumed you were dead.”

Hmmm, convenient.  “How much does he know?”

“I’m not sure,” she was convincing.  “I won’t answer his questions about it but I don’t know what else father’s told him.”

“I promised to tell him about it next time,” I said quietly.  “But I’ll be careful what I include.  I don’t want any of it to disturb him.”  I laughed weakly.  “Hell, as pissed as he is at me, he might enjoy it.”

“You okay, talking about it?” she probed.  “That’s new for you, isn’t it?”

I felt a need to redirect the conversation.  Her invitation to sit gave me the opportunity.

“Listen, you’ve done a fine job with him, you and Michael,” I smiled as I sat.   “He’s quite impressive.”  I caught her eye as she sat across from me.  “Pen…”

She angled her head, amused at my familiarity.

“Pen, I always knew what a lousy father I was.  But I’ve come to realize what a lousy husband I was, too.”  It was a redirect, but hell, I actually meant it.  “I made your life harder than it needed to be.  I’m sorry for that.”

Her demeanor changed to one of sincere concern.

“Terry, what’s going on?”

I arched an eyebrow in response.

“You come back here, wanting to connect with Henry,” she said softly.  “Now you’re apologizing to me.  Are you sick or something?”

“Ah, darlin’,” I laughed quietly, “…of all the times you’ve posed that question to me, you’ve never used such a gentle tone.” 

My smile seemed to reassure her.

“No, I’m not sick.  I just recently learned a lot about life.”  How much should I tell her?    “I ... I met someone on this last job.  She showed me how my life might be different if I made the effort to ... get closer to people.”

She jumped on that immediately.  “You met someone?”

I only nodded.  I didn’t want to talk about Alice.  I wanted her to stay where she was … deep inside of me.

“She’s special to you?” she pressed.

I winced slightly as I nodded again, and tried to look away.  But she could read it on my face.

“My God, you’re in love, aren’t you?” her voice sparkled.

My silence only confirmed it.  Her excitement seemed genuine.

“I told you you’d meet someone some day.  I’m really glad for you.  Honestly, Terry.”  She tilted her head playfully.   “Do we get to meet her?”

“No,” I heard the finality in my tone.  “She’s not someone I … get to keep.”

Penny stopped, thought it through quickly, and realized the truth. 

“I’m sorry, Terry,” she whispered gently.

“Don’t be.”  I cleared my throat.  “It was worth every minute.” 

Time for another redirect.

 “Listen, I’m gonna let him ruminate for a couple of days.  Then I’ll call him and see if he wants to go another few rounds.”  I stood, placed the cup in the sink and headed for the door.

“I’m really glad you’re coming back into his life.”  

I smirked.  “Question is: is he?”

“I’m sure he is,” she said firmly.  “It’ll just be awhile before he can admit it.”  She smiled. “He takes after his father that way.”

As I opened the door to my empty, dark apartment, I cast my mind back to the sunny days in Tecala and how it felt to sit silently with Alice in her living room. My stomach ached with loneliness, so I slumped into my desk chair and put pen to paper one more futile time.

Dear Alice,

Well, I met with Henry.  Don’t really know what I was expecting.  I couldn’t believe how mature he seems.  It’s hard to admit, but I guess I’ve never had a real conversation with him before. 

He tore into me a couple of times.  I let him.  It was part of the deal.  He needed to do it.  I needed to hear it.  It hurt, but I guess that’s the cost of opening up: you get a full range of emotions thrown at you.

I was a little suspicious regarding the level of detail when he was asking about my father’s treatment of me.  It made me wonder if he’d been through it.  He convinced me he hadn’t, but I’m still not sure what his fascination was with it.  His anger at me is deep enough and strong enough, he may well have relished the thought of someone else knocking me around.

Most troubling was that someone else had already told him I was in camp.  It blindsided me, and I evaded the subject by promising to talk about it next time we meet.  I’m regretting that promise already.  I know I have to tell him.  It’s the only way to explain my behavior toward him these last few years.  But I was just hoping I could diffuse his anger and build a bit of rapport before I open up that much.

When it got its toughest today, I somehow felt you near me and it helped.  I know you would tell me to stay on this course, despite the upcoming road blocks.  I know you would make me believe it is all possible and will be worth it.

I listen, in the darkness, to my heart because I know you are there.  I listen, in the silence, for the sound of your voice, comforting and encouraging me.  I long to hear you again.  And if I listen hard enough, I almost can.

Terry