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"I got the girl," my father told me over and over, but "Paul McCartney got the song." That's what went through my mind when the phone call came from the manager of the High View Motel to clear out Da's things. The Ashtabula police figured that Da stumbled into the motel pool, drunk after the last call at a bar, and drowned.
I didn't feel anything much about him drowning. Although you do feel something when your father dies, even if you haven't seen him for ten years and he missed your high school graduation and didn't even know you were thinking about getting married. I saw Da three times in Des Moines when he worked for a cannery: once in Kankakee, three times in Carbondale, and twice in Moline when he drove a truck for a fertilizer company before Mom moved us East. I had just come in from my morning run, and as I put the receiver back on the wall, all I could think about was what he told me about Paul McCartney, and I just had this feeling that I was standing in an empty airplane hangar waiting for the doors to open. I felt as if I were 11 years old again, waiting on the porch for him to pick me up.
My boyfriend, Winn, drove me on his new Harley to the bus station to catch the 12:10 am bus to Ohio to collect Da's ashes from the funeral place and the little stuff he had left. It would take me 16 hours from Hoosick Falls to get to Ashtabula. Since I'd be sleeping on the bus, I didn't take much except my knapsack.
"Wish I could come with you, Suzy-Q," Winn said, tugging at my ponytail when we got to the bus station. "For moral support and all."
"It's okay," I said. I knew he couldn't get any time off from the garage. "I didn't know him. And besides, just as soon as I get there, I'm turning right back around."
I climbed up the steps into the bus. "Besides, there are some things you have to do on your own," I said.
Winn said he understood. Some things he's really good at understanding. I chose a seat near a window. There were only about 15 people, so I had my pick. I settled my knapsack on the seat beside me, looked out the window for Winn. After checking our tickets, the bus driver pulled the door shut, released the brake, and arm over arm turned the steering wheel away from the curb. I watched Winn strap on his helmet, throw his leg over the Harley, and rev it up. I waved until Winn's leather jacket was just a little black speck.
No one was next to me on the bus, so I pushed up the arm rest and tucked my knees up to my chin and sprawled out over both seats. I tried to let the hum and vibration of the bus motor rock me to sleep. I woke up at 3:35 am and then again when the sun rose at 5:30 am. At 6:15 am I splashed water on my face in the sink of the bus bathroom. I didn't sleep too well. There were too many things I was thinking.
The police in Ashtabula had tracked me down from a life insurance policy listing me as a beneficiary that Mom made Da take out long before she married Stan. Da met my mother in Times Square one New Year's Eve. He used to joke that I was his Saturday Night Special. Mom got my stepfather to wire money to the funeral home so they could cremate Da. It seemed like the best thing to do. It was too expensive to send his body back across the Atlantic Ocean, and there would be no one there to take it.
Da came from Liverpool, in England. That's how he knew Paul McCartney, he said. They were from the same neighborhood. He told me there was this girl, Ellie McDougal, who had red hair past her waist. He'd raise his hands to trace an hourglass figure in the air. With hands over their hearts, he and Paul would sing when she passed on the street, "love, love me do," in a kind of ditty. Da said Paul scribbled her telephone number on a cardboard coaster from the pub, but she'd have "naught to do with Paul" Da said. Had her eye on him instead. This was before the Beatles. Even before the Quarrymen. The song "Love, Love Me Do" was a big hit. After the Beatles went on TV with Ed Sullivan, Da told me he tried to see Paul, and even sat on a bench in Miami for three days, trying. He said he just wanted Paul to say where that song came from.
The bus stopped at 7 am in Rochester, where they changed drivers. I got a muffin and coffee at the rest stop. More people got on, a mother with a screaming baby, an old couple, and some others. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I mostly just looked out the window at the strip malls and the fields of corn and soy and the 18 wheelers. I read the big billboards with the Marlboro Men and Good Samaritans and watched the tractors churn and kick up dirt and dust in fields begging for rain.
It was the same dirt and dusty grit that seeped in everywhere when Da took
me to the rodeo. It was in my braids, in my nose, and when I peeled
off my socks at the end of the day I could see the dirt line on my
shins separating the tops of my feet. After Mom left me off, he bragged
the whole way to the rodeo that he had stayed on a bull for a whole
30 seconds. They even sent a reporter out from the Sentinel.
"Thirty seconds," I sniffed. "Doesn't seem like very long to me. I can count 30 seconds in no time flat. One, one thousand, two, one thousand. . . ."
"Not long?" He puffed his chest out. "It's a bloody eternity when you're sitting on a crazed beast that's madder than hell. All he wants is you off his back so he can turn around to gore you through the liver. He's bucking and churning even before he gets out of the chute," and here Da acted out the motion, "and your only hope of seeing daylight again is to hang onto an itty bitty piece of rope. Let me tell you, Miss One, One thousand, even two seconds is a bloody long time."
Dust kicked up from the ring, from the calf roping and barrel racing, even
just from people passing to get to the bleachers. We sat at the top,
eating hot dogs with relish, me in my Holly Hobbie sundress and Mary
Janes and Da swaggering about like he was that Australian actor in
Crocodile Dundee.
We watched the calf roping, and Da pointed out how the horse knew to back up to tighten the lasso rope as soon as the rider jumped off to wrap the calf's hind leg. Da was clapping, whistling, putting his arm around my shoulder, popping up to buy me cotton candy, and I was happy to be with him.
We were leaving when we ran into two couples he knew. Da introduced me, his hand on my head like I was Waterford crystal. They chatted some and then the taller man asked me what I thought of the rodeo.
"Pretty good," I said.
"Ever been to a rodeo before?"
"Nope. But my Da's been to lots of them. He's even stayed on a bull for a whole 30 seconds."
The taller man let out a huge laugh.
"Oh, that's a good one. The kid says you rode a bucking bull for a whole 30 seconds." He slapped his thigh. "If your dad could ride a bull for 30 seconds, he'd be the state champ. Hell, he'd be world champ. He'd even be the champ on Mars."
My father turned back to us.
The tall man went on. "Why, the best of the best can barely stay on for eight."
My father looked as if he had swallowed chalk.
"Da, didn't you say you had ridden a bull for 30 seconds?" I asked.
Da's mouth set hard on either side. His eyes narrowed and he jammed his hands into the back pocket of his jeans.
"That's what you said, isn't it? Da. Thirty seconds?" I asked again.
"You must have heard me wrong, Suzy." He forced a quick little laugh. "I never said that." He looked at his friends and then looked away. We said our good-byes and made our way through the crowd. He didn't say another word about it. But I knew he was lying about the bull. And he knew that I knew, too. On the way home out of the corner of my eye I could see his knuckles taut on the steering wheel, and I felt him slip away like water through my fingers, out of my reach.
The High View Motel was on Route 9. The bus driver was nice enough to make a special stop for me since it was on the way. It was a long, low building, with probably 30 units. The sign said vacancy, cable, and pool. The pool was out front, framed in concrete, and faced the highway. I stood there for a good 20 minutes, knocking my knapsack against my leg, watching the water lap up against the white tiles. I wondered which end he fell into. What was it that Da found so appealing that he accidentally lifted the latch of the gate and walked into the enclosure? I figured he must have fallen in accidentally on purpose.
The manager showed me to a storage room where he had put Da's things. He told me to holler if I needed anything and that the dumpsters were out back. I wanted to do this quickly. I didn't want to stay any longer than I had to. I looked around the storage room with the rolls of toilet paper on metal shelves and boxes of little soaps. There were only four boxes of Da's stuff. I sorted out pairs of pants, some gray boxers, a couple of T-shirts with yellow stains under the armpits, a sports jacket. I made a couple of piles, the things I'd keep and the things I'd throw out. There was his wallet, a belt buckle, some postcards, some poker chips, an address book, a hairbrush, a razor, and a couple of books. And that was all that was left.
I took a taxi to Donnelly & Sons in the center of town. I waited in an air-conditioned room with a stained-glass window that made the room an amber color. The funeral director came back with his assistant and presented me with a small black cardboard box. It weighed about two pounds.
"This is a difficult time, I know." The funeral director folded his hands in front of him. "Would you like to see a selection of our urns for the remains? Some are very tasteful and discreet and quite inexpensive."
I shook my head. "Thanks, anyway."
"Not an easy time for sure. Some people like a different kind of keepsake. There are other solutions beside the traditional urn. You could put them in a windchime."
"No, thanks," I said, "I'm not sure I want to keep them."
"I see," the man said, bowing and nodding his head. "Are you planning to scatter them, then?" I told him I hadn't given it much thought. I tucked the box into my knapsack with the rest of Da's things, making sure the box was upright.
I had coffee at a diner downtown next to the bus stop. The waitress kept giving me refills of coffee. She snapped her gum and called me "hon," even though I don't think she was much older than me. While I waited I pulled out Da's wallet. I spread the things across the table: his driver's license (Arizona with an address in Mesa), a social security card, $23 in cash, a number for a foreman at a factory—the words written in felt pen were smudged from water, from Da in the pool, I guess. There was an old picture of me at six, two halves of a credit card that had been cut up, three employee ID cards, for Dunlop Tires, Andersen Brothers, and J & P Pest Control, and his permanent residency card for the US. Nothing more.
Nothing more was what Mom said the last time Da was supposed to pick me up. I was waiting on the porch, swinging on the old wooden swing, looking down our street for his blue pickup. He was supposed to come get me at 9:30 that morning. I waited. Then I got out my chalk and drew a hopscotch on the sidewalk and played that for a while. Then I just tossed the pebble in my hand back and forth. Every now and then I could see Mom raise the curtain to see if I were still there on the porch. I got hungry around noon and went inside to get a peanut butter sandwich, and Mom was on the phone. I could hear her:
"So what's the point of my staying in the Midwest? I might as well live in Alaska for what you're good for."
"It's just not fair to her," she said. She hung up.
Her back was toward me. "Nothing more," she said. I could hear her tapping her fingernails on the Formica table.
"When's Da coming," I asked.
"He's not." She didn't turn.
"Is he coming later?"
"No."
I went to the refrigerator looking for jelly. I hung on the door, feeling the cool air on my face. "Did he just lie about coming today, too?"
"Yes."
I thought about that for a while. "Does he lie about loving people too?'
Mom turned and pulled me toward her. "Suzy, sweetie. No. He just doesn't exactly live up to the truth."
The bus was packed and hot. The air conditioning had broken, and all the windows were cranked open. I balled up my jacket and leaned my head up against the window, turning my face to the road. When the bus stopped again, a man took the seat next to me. He had a shock of white hair, like a lion's mane, and he smelled of pickles. He asked me where I was going.
"Ashtabula. I was visiting my father." I didn't want to get into it, and that was sort of the truth.
"Is good. What he is?" He had a thick accent.
"What?" I asked.
"What he is? What profession?"
My answer floated up on its own. "He's a doctor," I lied. "Dermatologist. You know, skin care."
"A good living, no?" the man said.
"Yes," I said.
"He'll never run out of patients."
"I guess not."
"Does he do the surgery?"
I pursed my lips. "Surgery?"
"You know, plasticky?"
"You mean plastic surgery?"
"Ah, yes." He sounded the word out. "Plah-stick surgery."
"Uh, yeah, I guess so." I shifted forward, hoping my movement would break the flow of the conversation.
"Long time he studied, no?
"Yes."
"Many years to be a doctor."
"So what do you do?" I asked.
"Shoes. Fix. New heels. New soles. Polish. Clean. I have a shop in the downtown."
"Ah."
"Good living."
I nodded.
"You learn much about a person from shoes," he continued. "Heels worn down, to left or to right. Maybe they have a limp. Or maybe you know what car they drive. With a stick shift there's always a scuff mark on the left heel. Maybe you know if husband is cheating on wife."
He leaned forward and peered down at my red high tops.
"I can tell about you."
"What?"
"You are running . . . running from something."
"What makes you think that?" I asked.
"I can see," he said.
I was annoyed.
"Maybe I'm running to something," I snapped. But I couldn't think exactly
what.
"Maybe," he shrugged.
"Or maybe I'm running for something. Like maybe I'm running for office,
like town clerk or something. Or maybe I'm running to find a cure
for lung cancer in one of those charity races. You know the ones where
you pledge a dollar a mile or something."
"Could be." He smiled. He opened up his newspaper again. He got off
in Syracuse. I pulled open my knapsack and pulled out Da's three books:
an Encyclopedia of American History, Hawthorne's Twice Told
Tales, and a bible. I flipped through the pages of the Hawthorne
book, wondering why Da had it. Then I looked at the bible. As I picked
it up, something fell out into my lap. It was a round red cardboard
coaster. On one side there was a lion on his hind legs with "Red Lion
Pub" in a semi-circle on the top. On the back was the logo for Foster's
Lager. In the white space someone had scrawled a telephone number.
Anybody could have scrawled that number. Just because it was there didn't make the story true. But supposing he did know Paul McCartney, and he and Paul did sing to the red-haired girl with their hands over their hearts, what difference did it make? In the end he was fished out of a motel pool. He didn't have the girl or the song. All his life he chased a song that may or may not have been his. The chase was motivated by a sense that the world had done him wrong. There were other things in the world to chase, other things to want. I had wanted him to want me.
I couldn't stand it anymore. I got up with the knapsack and made my way down the aisle, to the toilet. I looked in the mirror. Wisps of hair had come out from my ponytail and my mouth was set hard around the edges. There was hardly room to turn around. I was breathing hard. Balancing myself on the edge of the tiny metal sink, I pulled the box out of my knapsack. I held it for a moment, my hands shaking. Inside, there was a plastic bag.
I wrestled with the fastener and let the bag fall open. It was not at all what I expected. I thought it would be like black ash from the fireplace. I was looking at something ground up, whitish, almost like kitty litter. My heart pounding, I lifted up the toilet lid and moved toward it. I was going to pour it all away. The bus hit a pothole, and I lost my footing. I thought for a moment the box was going to go flying, but when I looked down, it was still in my hand.
I put the toilet lid down and sat on it. I touched the contents, which felt like talcum powder and pebbles. I let it slip through my hand, like sand, sifting through my fingers like an hourglass until all the ashes were back in the box, and all that was left on my palm was the faintest trace that something or someone had ever been there. And then I let the tears come.
Once back in my seat, I sat not moving for what seemed like several hours with the little black box in my lap. I felt a sense of calm that I hadn't felt in a long while when thinking about Da. Mostly just that it was all over. I watched the sun set, the shadows getting longer, the sky washed in purples and yellows and oranges, casting everything in ambers and golds. We passed a long field of corn and a tractor still churning the earth over and over. I opened up the lid on the box, slid the window open as far as I could, and gently opened up the plastic bag. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, I thought, the words I remembered hearing at funerals. I lifted the bag out the window and slowly tilted it, watching the speed of the bus lift and sweep up the contents of the bag so they mingled with something unknown.
We got back to Albany around 11 pm. Winn was waiting with his Harley. I was happy to see his crooked grin. He said he'd be there, and there he was. We walked slowly to the Harley, propped up against a post. Winn started to ask how it was, but I stopped him. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted to feel my arms around his leather jacket and breathe in that leather smell. He felt solid, not fleeting, in the present. Winn was real. And I began to understand the difference between lying and not living up to the truth.
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