Eileen Slovak

Chapter Twenty-two: Dad Therapy with Beer  

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scarlet

Saturday afternoon, I’m running late as usual on my way to my dad’s house in Sung Harbor. I say a secret prayer that Catherine has resisted saying anything to him about Sean. Talking about Sean brings back a flood of sadness. I have no desire to discuss my failing love life with my dad. Better to avoid the look of worry that translates into: “I hate to see you spending your life alone, Scarlet.”   

     It’s a majestic day for the forty-five-minute drive; still bitter cold, but the sun is high in a cloudless sky. I take the scenic route past Narragansett beach where I grew up. Winding down route 1A to Boston Neck Road, I come out on Ocean Road to South Pier. I need to see the ocean today. It does not disappoint; cobalt swells glisten against glittering sunlight. Even in the winter months people walk or run on the beach and the surrounding sea wall.

      I pass under the historic “Towers”, two massive stone cylinders with peaked roofs joined by a stone archway. I roll down my window and breathe in the briny air. The Towers are the remnant of the bygone era, where a casino once stood. Built in the 1800’s, it’s the symbolic town icon. Now wedding receptions are held in the renovated upper level. Narragansett will always be home but it isn’t the same place it was when I grew up here. Now it’s like Cape Cod on steroids.

      On the way to dad’s, I stop for cinnamon buns at my dad’s favorite bakery. After Sweet Sandy’s, I visit to the package store in Wakefield for a six-pack of Bud Light. Dad considers gifts of food items to be acceptable meddling. But I don’t share Catherine’s obsession with rehabilitating his diet. Every week, she visits armed with sacks of healthy groceries and homemade dinners. She ignores Dad’s preference for foods he can toast, or eat straight from a box or a can. There’s no stopping Catherine. I typically spend the first half hour of every visit cleaning out the refrigerator, tossing out uneaten, crusted over casseroles and overripe fruit. The oven causes Dad almost as much anxiety as the supermarket.

      “Why is the market so crowded in the middle of the day? Doesn’t anyone work anymore?” He asks. “There are too many darn choices. I like the mini mart. It’s quick. I’m in and out in fifteen minutes.”

      “You know you pay a premium for shopping there.” I’ve told him.

      “Bah, it’s worth it for the convenience.”

      Robert “Bob” Allen O’Brien loves two things above all others, gardening and fishing. He prefers books to television, animals to people. A retired Navy Captain, dad keeps himself in excellent shape for sixty-nine, despite his sketchy eating habits. Thanks to a daily regimen that includes a four-mile walk on the beach, he’s fairly fit.

      In the past few years, my dad has become a tad crotchety. His social life is limited to the family, the few neighbors he tolerates, and the occasional visit from a Navy or fishing buddy. Accustomed to being in charge, having people do as he asks without question, he makes no apologies for his mannerisms. He dates but none of the women seem to stay in his life for long.

      When my mom lost her battle with cancer, I was eighteen. Catherine was in college at Boston University. I went off the rails, nearly flunking out of high school. Dad had no idea what to do with me or how to take care of himself, so Catherine moved home. She commuted to the University of Rhode Island for her senior year. I suspect she’s still bitter about it.

      I miss our five-bedroom Gambrel in Narragansett with its natural shingles and the large wraparound porch with ocean views. By its nature, it was a place of warmth and welcome. In winter, it was cozy and inviting. A fire typically blazed in the large central fireplace surrounded by well-worn furniture, with gently used antiques. The bookcases overflowed, throw blankets were ready to curl up beneath. In summertime, even on searing July days, sea breezes drifted through from Narragansett Bay. The wind gently moved the porch rockers ghostlike in the absence of inhabitants. Built in 1910, the house required continuous maintenance, most of which Dad did himself, hiring out only when absolutely necessary. His pride and joy was the landscaping. He designed and meticulously cared for it himself; an acre of flowering shrubs and gardens. For him it never felt like work.

      Mom never understood his fussing over the yard. To her, one shrub was much like another, but every rose was unique. Her friends envied her rose and perennial gardens. My favorite was her moon garden; consisting solely of white flowers. The garden was illuminating on summer evenings under the glow of the full moon. The window seat in my bedroom provided ideal viewing of the garden at night. Mom said fairies loved to come out to dance around on the luminescent petals under the moonlight. Anyone fortunate enough to spot one of the fairies could whisper a wish out the open window to them. Fairies known for their exceptional hearing, would listen intently and make sure that the wish came true. Many a moonlit night, I fell asleep with my head resting on the windowsill, waiting for the magical nymphs.

      One afternoon after Mom passed, Catherine found Dad in the middle of the lawn blasting at rabbits with a pellet gun.

      “They were eating Mary’s flowers,” he said, “I won’t stand for that!”

      The following week the “For Sale” sign went up in front of the old house.

      Aside from what Dad needed to furnish the small waterfront Cape Cod where he now lives, the furniture was divided between Catherine and me. Catherine and Gary had bought their first house so the timing was perfect. The remaining items were sold in a yard sale.

      “Save you from fighting over it when I’m gone,” Dad said at the time, but we knew better. Sorting through a lifetime of possessions was a monumental, painful task. It was just as well we did it quickly. I took some kitchen items, my bedroom set, a couch, plus Mom’s beloved wicker furniture. I vow to remove the wicker from storage one day when I have my own home. I kept Mom’s collection of garden party teapots. They’re packed away as well for a day when I have shelves to display them.

      I drove by the old house soon after it was sold. A young couple was playing with two small girls on the large manicured lawn. I glanced up at the window that was once my bedroom. A pink curtain billowed in the breeze. I wondered if the little girls knew anything about fairies.

      Holidays are challenging. Catherine and I do our best to keep an eye on Dad. He insists he can take care of himself. He’s content to putter around his tidy cottage. He’s well able to manage the home’s minor maintenance issues. If ever he needs help, Gary or our cousin Mike step in to assist. The furniture Dad kept is utilitarian, the décor of mostly nautical items, suits his new bachelor lifestyle.

      During my visits, we sit at the small kitchen table in front of the bay window. If the weather is mild, we’re out on the deck in the Adirondack chairs that face the water. It’s the perfect spot to watch the boats cruise the harbor. Today it’s really too cold for it, but I find Dad out on deck.

      “Well look what the tide dragged in.”

      We hug hello. I hand him a cold beer. It’s a busy time of day on the water. The fishing boats that left before sunrise, are returning to the docks to sell their catch of day. Dad’s own cabin cruiser sits idly on its trailer in the corner of the yard, like a man out of work. He notices me surveying the boat.

      “Probably time to sell her, only collecting rust anyway.” 

      “What’s the rush? You still go out with Mike once in a while. And Catherine’s boys will be old enough soon to take fishing.”

      “Yeah, I guess.” He takes a sip of his beer.

      With each passing year, Dad’s less inclined to take the boat out. During the summer months the tourists and ‘yahoos’ as he calls them are out clogging up the waterways. The rest of the year, the cold seems to settle too quickly into his bones. On his last solo trip, he slipped on some fish guts, nearly falling out of the boat. He kept the story to himself knowing that we would make a big fuss about it. He let it slip one day to Mike, who of course told me. I didn’t tell Catherine. In Dad’s heart, I know he’s not ready to part with the boat yet.

      “Remember that time we were out by Deep Hole and we saw the shark swim by the boat?”

“How can I forget?”

      “Yeah, then the bee landed on you. You panicked, nearly jumped right out on top of the sucker?” He laughs.

      “I know! That was a crazy day! I thought he was going to tip us!”

      “You were more scared of the bee than the shark. He probably wouldn’t have eaten you, more interested in the fish we had than he was in us.”

      I often wonder if he feels cheated by having only daughters. Although Mike is like the brother we never had, I’m probably the closest thing he has to a son. I prefer drinking beer, playing pool with a group of guys, to sitting with a group of gossiping women. As a child, I chose softball over Barbie dolls. When Catherine insisted we play dolls, mine would take off on African Safari’s while hers planned an elaborate wedding.

      Watching Dad move around, I wonder why I haven’t noticed how old he’s getting. An obvious slowing down is occurring right before my eyes, something I’ve previously overlooked.

      “No point in freezing our tails off out here,” he says heading for the back door.

      “How are you, Dad?” I ask, following him inside. When I hugged him, he felt small, bony through his flannel shirt.

      “Can’t complain. No one would listen anyway. So, tell me about this Sean character.”

      My heart sinks like lead weight. Catherine has many good qualities, but keeping her mouth shut about my personal life isn’t one of them.

      “I see that look. Don’t go blaming your sister. She’s concerned about you.”

      “Well, there’s nothing to be concerned about Dad. Sean was a good friend who was in a horrendous accident. I miss him terribly.”

I place two beers on the table, putting the remainders in the refrigerator. I pop the tops, handing one to him. “It wasn’t fair what happened to Sean. I’m heartbroken, but even more angry. I can’t help it.”

      “That’s grief. That’s how it works. Then when the sadness comes around again, you’ll wish you had the anger back.”

      I look at him, trying not to cry. Not crying is physically painful at this point. It makes me feel like I have a crust of dry bread stuck in my throat.

      “Scarlet, you’re too young to go through life without anyone to share things with. I’m old, it’s different for me. I’ve already lived a full life.”

      “I know. But you know what? If I married Sean, then right now, I’d be a widow. How would that be any better than my current situation?”

      He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “I see your point.”

      “So, Dad, really, how are you doing? Anything new?”

      I’m eager to change the subject.

      “Your cousin Mike came by the other day. Brought me some fish. I put it in the freezer for one of you girls.”

      “Why don’t you cook it, Dad?”

      “There’s way too much. I couldn’t eat all of that. Besides, Mary was the expert on cooking flounder. I’d never make it as good as she did.”

      “What are you eating these days?”

      “I eat plenty. You don’t need to eat as much when you get older, you know.” 

      He drinks the beer.

      “Right.”

      We sit in silence for a few minutes watching the boats glide by the bay window.

      “It’s hard to believe Mom’s been gone ten years,” I say, taking a drink of the beer.

      “She would have known what to say. About your boyfriend, I mean.”

      “I know Dad. There’s nothing to say really. How about if I try to cook some of that fish for lunch, then we have some cinnamon buns for dessert?”

      “Mary used to bread it with something, adding lemon juice, with some kind of herbs.”

      “We’ll make due. Maybe I’ll make up a new recipe. It’ll be edible, I promise.”

      “Sure, why not.”

      He smiles and his ice blue eyes are as young and vibrant as a man half his age.