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Authors: Patrick O'Keeffe
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my dear—
—If you think they were, then they were, my dear—
—Dad married my stepmom less than two years later, my dear. And my stepmom mails gifts on my birthday, the Fourth of July, Christmas, Hanukkah, my birthday, of course. And I write my stepmom a card every time she sends a gift. I tell her how the gift was exactly what I wanted, but I’ve never liked one gift she mailed. In fact, my dear, I’ve hated every one of them. You will think me very ungrateful, my dear—
—I’m more interested in the cabin and the motorbike, my dear.
—The cabin was sold. Luke and I call it the first victim. The motorcycle was the second. I laugh now, but not then.
—I believe you there, my dear, I said.
—But I looked forward so much to visiting the cabin, my dear. The beautiful house I grew up in was dull compared to it. And I’m sure the new people have torn it down and sold the property. They bought it for that reason, I imagine. I was driving close to there last summer, and wanted to go see it, but I was afraid. I loved the big front room. I read so many books at that window, while my parents ate out in the evening with friends who lived in other summer homes. The light was beautiful in that room. The sky turned this shade of pink over the water every evening. I called it the pink hour. The small boats bobbed on the horizon. But I apologize for going on, James. I just wanted to tell about the car ride. But you must tell me about a journey you went on with your dad.
—Is this one of the games you played in the car—
—It’s just something on my mind—
—It sounds to me like a game—
—It’s not a game, my dear. We are waiting for your new friend. You begged me to come along. A fun day in the country, you said. And we have not seen each other in a while—
—We haven’t, but I think this is something I got myself into—
—A short trip. Stop fretting, my dear—
—I’m not fretting—
—You are, my dear.
—You were mad with your father, I said.
—Back then. But I love Dad. Dad is very kind. Dad is Dad.
Dad is Dad, Zoë repeated—almost sang it, when she stepped off the futon. The fridge door opened. Water poured into a glass. The fridge hummed. A cloud shifted. Sunlight filled the yard. I lit a cigarette. I kept on staring at the corner.
—Sorry, I should have put on some music, Zoë, I turned and said.
—Don’t apologize, James. And you don’t have to tell me anything—
—I’m beginning to think he’s not going to arrive.
Zoë touched my shoulder. She placed the glass on the sill.
—He’ll show up, my dear. He wants to see this aunt—
—Who would think the homeless would be so impolite—
—Just tell me your story, my dear—
—Arrive, won’t arrive, my dear. I was around the age you were, my dear. My father was buying hay. It was raining when we started out, but then the sun appeared, and we stopped at all the churches we passed. My father did that, when he went on the road. He could not pass a church without going into it and kneeling for a while, and so going anywhere with him took time, because there were many churches. But we were on the road for a while, when we came to an abbey. It was Glenstal Abbey, which I didn’t know then. There is a castle next to it and a boarding school for boys. There were trees, stone walls, and trimmed hedges. I had never seen anything so lovely. My father drove in and parked. Flowers—roses, definitely, big bushes of them—but also copper beech trees, crocuses, lilacs, and hedges of rhododendrons, and we walked through a garden where cucumbers and rosemary and parsley were growing, and more flowers. My father knew this place, I think now that he did, but I only think it because I’m telling you. He ordered me not to touch anything in the garden. I obeyed him. I always did. And he reached into his coat pocket and brought out his beads and started praying, mumbling, like in ecstasy, or like a lunatic, dependingon your thinking.
—If you think they were, then they were, my dear—
—Dad married my stepmom less than two years later, my dear. And my stepmom mails gifts on my birthday, the Fourth of July, Christmas, Hanukkah, my birthday, of course. And I write my stepmom a card every time she sends a gift. I tell her how the gift was exactly what I wanted, but I’ve never liked one gift she mailed. In fact, my dear, I’ve hated every one of them. You will think me very ungrateful, my dear—
—I’m more interested in the cabin and the motorbike, my dear.
—The cabin was sold. Luke and I call it the first victim. The motorcycle was the second. I laugh now, but not then.
—I believe you there, my dear, I said.
—But I looked forward so much to visiting the cabin, my dear. The beautiful house I grew up in was dull compared to it. And I’m sure the new people have torn it down and sold the property. They bought it for that reason, I imagine. I was driving close to there last summer, and wanted to go see it, but I was afraid. I loved the big front room. I read so many books at that window, while my parents ate out in the evening with friends who lived in other summer homes. The light was beautiful in that room. The sky turned this shade of pink over the water every evening. I called it the pink hour. The small boats bobbed on the horizon. But I apologize for going on, James. I just wanted to tell about the car ride. But you must tell me about a journey you went on with your dad.
—Is this one of the games you played in the car—
—It’s just something on my mind—
—It sounds to me like a game—
—It’s not a game, my dear. We are waiting for your new friend. You begged me to come along. A fun day in the country, you said. And we have not seen each other in a while—
—We haven’t, but I think this is something I got myself into—
—A short trip. Stop fretting, my dear—
—I’m not fretting—
—You are, my dear.
—You were mad with your father, I said.
—Back then. But I love Dad. Dad is very kind. Dad is Dad.
Dad is Dad, Zoë repeated—almost sang it, when she stepped off the futon. The fridge door opened. Water poured into a glass. The fridge hummed. A cloud shifted. Sunlight filled the yard. I lit a cigarette. I kept on staring at the corner.
—Sorry, I should have put on some music, Zoë, I turned and said.
—Don’t apologize, James. And you don’t have to tell me anything—
—I’m beginning to think he’s not going to arrive.
Zoë touched my shoulder. She placed the glass on the sill.
—He’ll show up, my dear. He wants to see this aunt—
—Who would think the homeless would be so impolite—
—Just tell me your story, my dear—
—Arrive, won’t arrive, my dear. I was around the age you were, my dear. My father was buying hay. It was raining when we started out, but then the sun appeared, and we stopped at all the churches we passed. My father did that, when he went on the road. He could not pass a church without going into it and kneeling for a while, and so going anywhere with him took time, because there were many churches. But we were on the road for a while, when we came to an abbey. It was Glenstal Abbey, which I didn’t know then. There is a castle next to it and a boarding school for boys. There were trees, stone walls, and trimmed hedges. I had never seen anything so lovely. My father drove in and parked. Flowers—roses, definitely, big bushes of them—but also copper beech trees, crocuses, lilacs, and hedges of rhododendrons, and we walked through a garden where cucumbers and rosemary and parsley were growing, and more flowers. My father knew this place, I think now that he did, but I only think it because I’m telling you. He ordered me not to touch anything in the garden. I obeyed him. I always did. And he reached into his coat pocket and brought out his beads and started praying, mumbling, like in ecstasy, or like a lunatic, dependingon your thinking.
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