Thoreau's Rooster

I drove with a heightened sense of awareness, eyes scanning sidewalks for rogue dogs, slashing through dead front yards for the marshmallow-coats of small children, checking once, twice, three times before flicking the turn signal and changing lanes. My fingers clenched the steering wheel as if to choke it. I knew if I let go my hands would be shaking, and I refused to betray myself by showing that kind of weakness. Even if there wasn’t anyone in the car with me to see it. I pulled air in through my nose and let it rattle inside my chest before sighing it out my mouth. Releasing my death grip on the wheel, I moved my right hand to the dashboard, pausing to punch the Wicked soundtrack up a couple of notches before grabbing a folded square of white computer paper from the console. Although I’d never even held a cigarette, I pinched the paper between my index and middle fingers and tapped it against the wheel like a smoker gone cold turkey. But instead of setting it on fire, I threw it onto the passenger seat.
It was two-thirty; I was going to be really early.

I had not seen my father for nineteen months. One year, seven months, eleven days and (give or take) twenty-one hours. Not that I was counting.
The last time I’d seen him was my commencement ceremony, to which he was not invited but attended anyway. I graduated high school on a prematurely hot evening in May; I was seeing him for the first time since on a typically cold afternoon in January, a year and a half later.
I should have seen it coming. Visits from him had always been flanked with long periods of little or no contact. One year he would pick me up for Christmas, but wouldn’t call on my birthday. The next year he would come to watch me sing in the school variety show, but be MIA through the summer. I didn’t really know him very well. For me, his most outstanding quality was his inability to be punctual. Maybe that is why I pulled into the coffeehouse parking lot thirty minutes before our scheduled meeting.
It’s good to be early, I told myself. It was another way of taking control. He might have been the one to seek me out via e-mail at the end of last semester, but it was at my insistence we were meeting. He might have instigated a series of terse messages, but I was the one to relieve him of the safety of cyberspace.
Hey, how are you? the first e-mail inquired. That’s all it said.
Fine, what do you want? I responded.
Nothing, just to know how you are and how school is.
I didn’t respond any more after that. I held on to my anger, resentment, and pain through the holidays. Those gifts had ruined Christmas before. This was nothing new. I waited without knowing why, but two days before classes resumed I e-mailed him the time I was available and where we would meet. To my astonishment, he responded that he’d be there, and that is why I was sitting in my car, heat blasting, CD player screaming, waiting to go into a coffeehouse to meet... who was he? Certainly not “dad.” Not really a father, either. “Biological father” sounded so formal. Whoever he was, he was the reason I was idling in a parking lot, wasting gas.

Gas was too expensive to be consumed by apprehension. I turned off the ignition, and as the wind seeped through the cracks of my twelve-year-old Mercury, I retrieved and opened the folded rectangle of computer paper. Inside, in 12-point Times New Roman single-spaced type were the exact words I intended to say. Neatly typed, perfectly punctuated, grammatically dazzling.
          I re-read the words to myself. You hurt me. I almost had them memorized. I’m tired of being hurt and I’m tired of being angry. In my mind, my voice was strong, steady. This sporadic note-dropping, graduation-attending, occasional Christmas-and-birthday, guilt-motivated sort of relationship is not working for me. I was giving him an ultimatum: either become a part of my life or leave it. I want to try for something better. Maybe I am setting myself up for disappointment. If you don’t think you can do it, you better be honest with me now. Satisfied with the gravity and implications on that creased white paper, I refolded it and pushed open the car door.
Inside, the coffeehouse was warm and inviting. The room looked like a cappuccino– cream-colored walls, caramel-colored tile on the floor, counters of dark wood stained to look mahogany. A small raised platform held a faux leather couch, coffee table and matching loveseat. Nearby were clusters of burgundy armchairs, one set of which was vacant, surrounded by rows of dark wooden tables and chairs.
After ordering a mocha and a chocolate biscotti I passed on comfort, opting instead for one of the wooden tables in the back. I settled in and sipped my coffee, trying to make it last.
It didn’t. Part of being so early was a sincere intention to practice my speech, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just sat, eyes raking over the art on the walls, the empty stage at the back of the room, and the man on the loveseat, tapping away on his laptop. I was looking, but seeing only a blur.
          And then, he was there. Right on time. I hadn’t seen him come in, but there he was, standing at the counter waiting for his order. He made no indication that he’d seen me, so I waited, taking in his appearance.
          He was very thin. The wash of his jeans was too light and his puffy winter coat fell over his bony frame as though he were a child playing dress-up. The smiling young boy behind the counter placed a cardboard cup in his hand and encouraged him to enjoy it. That was my cue. I took a deep breath, stood, and closed the twenty-foot gap between us.
          I was not sure he immediately recognized me. At such a thought a twinge of satisfaction clinched my throat, the kind of good pain that comes from pulling out a splinter. I had wanted to look good, to show him that I could become an adult without his assistance. As I walked toward him, I smoothed the black shirt and straightened my tailored, khaki jacket. My jeans were clean and stylish. I looked and felt mature.
He, on the other hand, looked old. As I got closer I saw more lines on his face than I remembered. He had re-grown a goatee, but that didn’t compensate for the lack of hair under his black baseball cap. The baldness made the hat look odd, like it belonged on the head of another man, one who took up more space. I had to speak to get his attention.
          “Hi. I’m sitting over there.”
          He turned to me, eyes wide, and nodded with his whole, wiry body.
“Hey! Okay, over there is good.” He continued bobbing his head up and down enthusiastically and turned to follow. He didn’t try to hug me. I’d been afraid he would. I thought in passing that I might be taller than him. We sat.
          “I might as well just get right to it,” I said. “I mean, I wanted you to come here for a reason.” I was fumbling, losing composure, grappling for words.
“You know, I have like…a purpose.” Get to it already. “Well, I wrote it down.”
I hated myself for fumbling the introduction, but I pulled the paper from my purse and channeled my anger elsewhere.

As I read my voice was not as strong as I’d hoped, not as steady as I’d wanted, not as melodic or mesmerizing as it had been in my mind. I did not, however, cry. Nor was I surprised at his reaction.
          He said I was right. He said he knew, he was a jerk, he was sorry. He said all the right things. That he’d do better. He promised to call. We made small talk, catching up, mostly where my life was headed and what I’d been doing. Time went by quickly, and soon we were walking to the parking lot. He said good-bye and promised once more to be in touch. He wanted to get together during spring break. He still made no motion to hug me.
          I got into my car, and my body felt lighter. Like I’d just cut waist-length hair into a bob. I felt happier, more content, more alive than I had in weeks, maybe even years, because I had finally figured it out.
          He never meant a word he said.
          Oh, he might call once, and he’d maybe send a couple more e-mails. But I knew it wouldn’t last. After a while he’d disappear again, if only to resurface months later. I’d always known, but I hadn’t really known until that moment:
He was not and could never be the man I wanted him to be.
And it wasn’t my fault.
He opened the door to his black Saturn, climbed inside and left the parking lot quickly. I took her time, noting the feel of the hard plastic covering her car key, enjoying the grumble of the engine when I spurred it into motion. Adjusting the volume on my stereo, I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I drove, perhaps a little too fast, and sang, perhaps a little too loud. My well-worn heater had not yet warmed the air inside the car, but I breathed in deeply anyway, letting the cold air sting the inside of my nose. It felt good.
I was free.