The Redemption

"No, sir, just reminiscing. Thinking about the good old days,” I said, trying to muffle the sarcasm. “Momma,” I further clarified so he knew where we stood.

"Well, come on in here and set a spell. We've got some things to talk over. I don't want you feeling obligated to come back out here again. I did feel it was only fair for you to get what you want from the house. There isn't much, mind you, but I left your room alone once you left. There may be some things in there and there’s the trunk in the attic with your momma’s keepsakes. You might want to give that a look-see for things you might like to keep.

“Why don't you sit and we'll have some coffee, boy? I need a cup this time a day."

After all those years I didn’t have anything to say. I ran my hands through my hair and looked at the table with the chrome legs and red and white speckled top. It was the same table as when I was a boy. There were fresh coffee-cup rings at the end closest to the door. I sat on the far side where I’d always sat. It was more out of habit than giving any thought to it. I felt awkward no matter what seat I took.

“Cream and sugar? Junior brings me cream twice a week. He tells me it’s good for me. The doctor says no, but I’ve begin to loose faith in him.”

“He’s got arthritis pretty bad, but you can’t slow Junior down none. He was in the Navy during WWII. He says being aboard ship all those years rusted up his joints a mite. Kaleb keeps him on his toes.”

He looked at me for a reaction as he dropped a cup in a saucer and filled it from the same huge orange coffee pot that sat on the stove every morning of my childhood. The cup and saucer came from the china cabinet, I remembered.

What do you say after twenty-five years? I forced my brain into action but the mouth I made my living with failed me.

I couldn’t tell if he was sick, but he was thinner and not as tall as I saw him in my mind. I had no fear of my father as a boy, but even then I did not know what to say to him. I didn’t know what he expected of me.

He stirred the cream into the coffee next to the stove, placing the spoon on the saucer, delivering it to me with the coffee still a swirl in the cup. He walked fine, but he had aged beyond what I expected.

“Damn, Dad, you could strip paint off with this stuff,” I said, getting up to put the small glass bottle of cream on the table.

“Your momma wouldn’t let you near a cup of coffee,” he said with half a smile.

“No, she wouldn’t, but I was only nine when she died. Grandma always let me have coffee. Of course it was half cream and sugar, but she treated me like I was grownup. Momma had none of those ideas.”

“Yeah, once I was old enough to spend time in the fields, she’d set me out a cup if Pa wasn’t expected back any time soon. She didn’t make it as strong as I do and back then it was more cream and sugar. Your grandmother was something. She tried to make her boys feel important.”

"This is one of the comforts I have left. I guess I started drinking it strong once I was grown. Old habits are hard to break. Doctor says I shouldn't drink it at all. Bad for the blood pressure. I told him without my coffee I’d have no blood pressure."

"I'm giving Uncle Junior the farm,” he jumped right in as if it was part of our coffee conversation. “It seems only right. He's been pushed up against my fences for two decades. He worked it when he was a boy and has a hell of a lot more interest than you ever had. His place can expand when I'm out of the picture. I think it's fair. Crosby’s been letting him graze on one of his fields for years. He’s never asked me for it but he’s the one that made certain the corn was planted proper and then took charge of the harvest when I was too sick to see to it."

“No, Junior wouldn’t let me. He knew I’d be working if there was corn in the field,” he said softly. “It’s about all I know, Son. Now…. Well, Junior will get the farm.”

“Your Uncle Ralph has more money than God. He doesn’t expect to be given anything. He’s from Omaha now and only comes by on my birthday and at Christmas.”

“They separated some years ago. The kids are mostly older than you. They’re scattered from Kansas City to Indianapolis. The point is, it’s fair in my mind. If you got an objection then Uncle Junior is more than a fair man. You know if you have a need, he’ll do what he can for you.”

“No, it’s fair. I was never cut out for farming and it’s good Junior needs it. I’d only sell it so I didn’t need to worry about it. It should stay in the family.”

“I am your father and you needed to hear it from me. That and the things you might want from the house are the reasons I wanted you to come home. It is nice to see what a handsome man you became.”

“I’ve talked to Uncle Ralph. He never told me about Aunt Lula leaving him. He’s quiet like you.”

“Never did divorce. They live fairly close. Ralph still does things for her but they don’t live together. Ralph was always busy at his stores. He hated being here after the war, you know. I never knew why. We hardly talked for years after the war. Then, just before your grandfather passed, Ralph came home to visit and until your grandmother died, he stayed in touch with her and she’d go stay with him from time to time.”

My father’s mind seemed to wander in-between his sentences. Then he’d pick up and finish what he’d started to tell me. I didn’t recall us ever exchanging so many words. When I was a boy he did all the talking and as a man I listened respectfully, not wishing to rush the man, but I did have an evening plane to catch. How long would it take me to go through a trunk and my room?

“He was the farmer, Robert. That boy could get things to grow on the side of a fence post. He had a love for the soil I only saw in my Pa. Junior always liked the livestock. I can remember him as a boy chasing the chickens around the yard. He was a pistol that boy," my father thought back. “Junior took care of the cows from a failed farm. Before long he was selling cream to neighbors and in town. He got momma to give him her jellies and the things she put up out of her garden. He brought in a few dollars a week when there was no money coming in. He was the businessman, but he came back from the war to raise dairy cows and Ralph came back to be a businessman. I guess you never know.”

“Wasn’t much taking involved. I was here. Your grandfather was crippled up. The corn had to get grown.”

“Momma told me,” I said, not really remembering any of those details but wanting to move things along.

“I took over because I was the oldest son. I would have sold it if not for your grandparents. Now, Junior can keep what he wants and sell the rest. Might fetch a handsome price.”

"That's a shock, Dad. You don't care if they sell it? Why the hell did you stay out here all this time? It never made sense you stayed out here alone all these years,” I blurted without wanting to get into the details of my father’s life.

“That’s a long story and I’m sure you have a plane to catch sometime later today.”

“You stayed on this godforsaken place all these years and now you say, ‘it doesn't matter to you.’ I don't know, Dad. I knew I didn't know you, but that about tops everything I’ve heard."

The raw emotion was there just below the surface. I didn’t know my father as a boy and I knew even less now. I reminded myself it was only for a couple of hours and getting upset with him wasn’t going to expedite things. I sipped some coffee and tried not to blurt out anything else.

"Son, there are probably a couple of things you don't know about me. I didn't understand my Pa at all. I lived my entire life with the man, and I only knew him two ways. He was the boss of the world and he was a cripple who couldn’t leave this farm.

“We haven’t seen each other in years, so don’t try to put some meaning anything your sick old man says. The truth is, it don’t mean nothing. We’re here, healthy, alive, doing what we’re doing one day and the next day we’re dirt.

“You tell me what it means. I did what I knew how to do at times when it was too hard to do anything else. Doing is the only antidote for hurting, Son. Take it from an old pro. You were too young to understand then, and there doesn’t seem to be much point now.”

My father as philosopher was a surprise. I never saw his pain when my mother died, but I hardly saw him at all, except when I stood at the fence to watch. It was like he might be trying to work himself to death, or maybe work so hard he could forget my mother. He was right. I didn’t understand and it was too late to dredge it all up in a few hours.

I needed him to be my father and include me in doing what needed to be done. He never once tried to keep me from leaving the farm, but he obviously knew I was leaving. It was like he wanted me to go. The more I knew the less I understood. I was not a fan of confusion.

Seeing my inability to process the information I’d just been given, he adopted a conciliatory tone.

“I was angry after your momma died. I was angry with God. I was angry with myself for keeping her here. I was angry about being left alone. My life has mostly been about being alone. If I’d done anything different, it would have been wrong, son. Your grandmother knew best. She’d raised a passel of us. You were a lot better off with your grandma and I knew that.

“No, I wasn’t much of a father, but I knew it and that meant I’d never stand in your way of doing what it was you decided to do with your life. You haven’t done too bad and I’m still the same man you left back then. Don’t waste your time trying to figure it out now. Have a good life. Be happy, Son. I’ve always wanted that for you. Be satisfied with that and I’ll be at peace once I’m dead.”

This left me with questions that went unasked. He wanted to drop it and I hadn’t intended to go there. It was past. I had put it behind me. I’d done what I wanted to do with my life and I was happy, but facing my father created a void where my mother and father belonged. It was a void only he could fill but what purpose would it serve? There simply wasn’t enough time and neither of us wanted to explore our mutual past.

"Okay, but I'm not sick. What do the doctors say? What's the prognosis? What can they do for you? Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?"

"What do the doctors say? I should have been dead last year is what they said last year. They’re hoping I’ll be considerate enough to die by next year so they can reclaim their credibility. I’m working on it.”

“They just aren't too dang sure when I might die. They gave up predicting it once I proved them wrong the first few times. They don’t like it much when you prove them wrong and are still drinking the coffee they told you would kill you. Hell, that’s why I drink it.”

"Yeah, well, I know all that. I just hope there isn't too damn much life left. I've seen my share and I'd just as soon be departing now, thank you very much. I’m anxious to see what comes next.”

"You want some more coffee? You're getting a little low there," I said, getting the pot off the stove.

"And you didn't want to come out here to chat," he said, watching me fill his cup. “We both know we don’t know the other and it’s a bit little to be getting acquainted.

"No one had to tell me that you were your father’s son. I use to stand on the porch and listen to you read through the screen. Moby Dick was one of my favorites too. I wanted to get off this place when I was seventeen," he said in an abrupt change of direction that caught me off guard. “Your grandmother could see it in you and I wasn’t going to obligate you to the life I’d been obligated to live. I knew you a damn sight better than you ever knew, Son. I vowed, no matter how tough it got, you’d never get stuck with this farm.”

"You could have said something to me about it. I was your son," I said as I sat back down at the table.

“No, I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say or how to talk to you. I knew what I wasn’t going to do and I did the best I could to stand out of your way. Anything else might have made you feel obligated to stay even if I held the door open for you and bid you farewell.

"No, you didn't know about it. I asked your grandma not to speak about my dreams, Son. Oh, there were dreams. Some times dreams come true, but mostly they get eat up by something or other. Mine got ete up, you might say. I wasn’t meant to leave, but you were. You’d find out what was out beyond Davenport and what came west of Omaha.”

“I never thought of you as a dreamer, Dad,” I said, looking for something I might have missed in his tired face. “You never got east of Davenport or west of Omaha?”

“No. This was my world. I dreamed of what might be outside the world I knew but life simply didn’t go according to my dreams.

“I've seen you on the television a couple of times. That plane crash you covered. Your Uncle Junior called me on the phone all excited. Hell, I thought someone had died the way his voice sounded. ‘Bobby’s on the television’ he said. Your Uncle Ralph had me hooked up to that cable thing and Uncle Junior told me the channel.

“Hah! There you were big as you please, looking all official telling the story of the plane crash. That was something I don’t mind telling you. I was proud as a peacock that you made it. I surely was.

“You’d finished growing up. Hardly recognized you at first but they had Bob Sorenson printed at the bottom of the screen each time you came on the air. I guess I've seen you a few times. It was a bit of a surprise that first time. Never saw anyone I knew on the TV before.

"I do both, Dad. The paper is part-time and news casting is my regular job. I mostly stay local for television. I was traveling back from another story when that plane crashed right in front of us. Speaking of being handed a story.

“I had taken a film crew with me and I didn’t need to tell them what to shoot. We were the first news team on the scene and it became my story. It was my big break. All the networks used our footage and my commentary. After that they all knew who I was and that led to other stories.”

“I got to watch you all that week as I recall. Hadn’t seen you since your graduation.”

“You wanted to leave the farm? Where would you have gone? Why didn't you ever leave?"

“Yeah, I had my bag packed after graduation. I was waiting for my chance to leave. I dreamed of the day I could walk out that lane.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked, starting a second cup of coffee and opening a new line of questioning.

“Pa thought my place as the eldest son was to take over the farm from him. He didn’t think much of my plans to leave.”

“It was hard times, Son. It was the last of the Depression. I wasn’t going to leave until the farm was out of hock. Your grandpa got crippled up when a tractor fell on him. Ralph wasn’t mature enough to run it and Junior was only sixteen. No, it was up to me. My life and dreams were of no importance if it meant losing the farm. There was no way I could have left after the accident. It was up to me to grow the corn.

“I suppose it wasn’t meant to be. There was the farm to save, you needed to get born, and before I knew it the farm was all I had or knew. There was nowhere left to go and now I’m going to die here just like I was born here.”

“It sounds so final,” I said.

“As final as life gets, son. I’m a mite tired. Your things are in your room and your momma’s trunk is in the attic. Time’s a wasting. We’ll have another cup of coffee before you go.”

“Yep, hasn’t been used much in a spell. You might want to be careful. Turn on the light in the hall across from the stairs. If you see something you can’t take on the plane, let me know and I’ll see it’s shipped to you. Don’t be bashful; anything you leave will probably end up at Goodwill or the church.”

I didn’t know what to expect when I was on my way to the farm, but this wasn’t it. My father hadn’t been in my thoughts in years. Hearing he was sick did not stir any emotion inside of me, but sitting across from him, I couldn’t connect to the anger I once felt for him. Maybe time does heal all wounds.

I’d go through the things and probably take something of my mother’s and maybe there was something in my room I might want to have.

“You might want to keep your eye open for the history of the farm. I used to write a bit. I wrote in those old composition books like the ones you wrote in. I sat with your granddaddy before he died and he wanted me to record the history of all our ancestors who came here before your great granddaddy Sorenson, him being the first one born on the farm. You being a journalist it might interest you.”

“I haven’t seen them since a little after you were born. Your momma liked reading over the history she’d married into. Could be in the trunk. I never looked in it after she died. It was in our bedroom at the foot of the bed. I moved it to the attic a ways back. Just thought it might interest you to know your history.”

I didn’t know if he was lonely or simply giving me information as it came to him. It turned out I didn’t know as much about my father as I believed I did. The idea of him writing something down to perpetuate our family’s history intrigued me. Learning more about my family’s past appealed to me. I’d never seen my father write anything down. My mother kept the books in which he used to keep track of what we owed to whom. My grandmother did it once she came to raise me.

I lifted the lid on the unlocked trunk. There was a colorful sweater at the very top. I held it to my nose and smelled my mother for the first time since I was a boy. My grandmother had brought me something the year my mother died, and she would say, “Smell this and tell me what you smell.”

“My mother,” I would answer and as I placed the sweater to one side, I uncovered the secret of the smell that so reminded me of my mother. Essence of Lavender was marked on an oddly shaped bottle. When I unscrewed the cap the smell was the same. The bottle still had an inch of liquid in the bottom of it.

I could see my mother smiling at me out of a photograph with my father in a suit beside her as they stood in front of the old church. Momma was holding a bouquet of flowers. I thought this was their wedding picture. I wiped the tears from my cheek.

I wasn’t sad nor was I crying, but my eyes watered in an unexplained way. Thinking about my mother no longer stung. At one time it was the source of most of my anguish. I guess times do change. There was little time left for anything to change. He seemed fine and I had to get back to work.

I gave up my memories of home while I was still in my twenties. Life required my full time and attention if I was going to follow my dreams. I stopped thinking about home. I wasn’t going to regret it now. I laid the picture down and put the sweater on top.

I reached for my wrist and remembered my watch was still on the nightstand next to my bed. I’d check the time when I went downstairs. I worked my way into the middle of the trunk and came up with a tracing of my head. I’d written Bobby Sorenson on the bottom of the page. They’d shined a big light on my face and someone traced the shadow onto black crape paper. Later I’d cut out the tracing and pasted it on a light colored sheet of paper.

I gave it to my mother that day after school. I was maybe in the third grade. She’d hung it on the front of the china closet and that’s where it had been the last time I saw it, but here it was. I remembered that day, the light, cutting out the tracing after it was handed to me. I’d never given it a thought since. I was eight years old. It was the year before my mother’s death.

I sat on the floor and thought about nothing. My mind wandered from one thing to the next without my taking time to gather my thoughts up or give them any serious consideration.

I stood and took off my jacket, laying it across the open trunk lid. I was sweating and the air was stuffy. I looked at the half empty trunk and the small pile I’d set aside to take with me. I didn’t even know why I wanted things I hadn’t seen in so many years, but I didn’t have enough time to ponder my decisions further.

I moved back down the steps, feeling hot and hungry. I’d had a bagel and a cup of coffee for breakfast. I had another cup and then some with my father. I walked into the kitchen and turned the heat on the coffee pot, after remembering how the knobs worked on the stove.

“Don’t do that, son,” he said, moving to the stove. “That’ll be so strong you’ll need to chisel it out of the pot. I’ll make a new pot.”

“Don’t bother with that, Dad. I can drink strong coffee. I’ve had my share over the years. You sleep in the parlor? Your bed would be way more comfortable.”

“There’s no where’s comfortable. The davenport fits the bend in my body. I just let the old bones come to rest the first place I get to. I didn’t put anything in for you to eat. Why don’t we drive down to the café and get a bite, and their coffee is tolerable. Let me get my sweater and you can drive us.”

I guess we were going out to eat. My stomach was kicking up a bit of a fuss. It wouldn’t take long. He took five minutes to come back with his sweater on. I opened the car door for him and helped into the seat.

“Just go into town and turn up the road that goes to your school. They’ll be open ‘til dark I suspect. Did you find them journals?”

“No, I got sidetracked with some of the stuff. I’m only half way through it.”

“Well, if you want, may as well send the whole kit and caboodle out to you, son. They don’t make trunks like that any more. I know your mother used to take the journals out every once in a while. I haven’t seen them since she passed. I never looked, though. Maybe Ralph or Junior decided to hold on to them.

“It tells about your family as far back as it goes. It'll answer questions I can no longer remember the answers to. Your grandfather got the pneumonia just before he died. He asked me to sit with him and to bring the journals he’d seen me write in. Next thing I know for an hour or two at a time, he recalls it all as it was told to him. It’s all in there. A man should know about his roots.”

“I'm going to be cremated, Robert. I've decided I don't want to be in the ground. I've told your uncles. I've been half buried in the ground all my life. I don't want to spend eternity there."

"You aren't going to be buried with Momma. I thought you'd want to be with Momma? You've got a lot beside hers!"

“I just told you I’m going to be cremated. They can spread me out in the meadows. It’s how I want it. I don’t need you or Uncle Ralph arguing about how I need to be planted somewhere. That’s what I decided.”

“I didn’t say anything, Dad. We’ll do as you want. I won’t argue,” I said, recognizing the stiffened resolve that got you nothing if you argued with him.

"I ruined your momma's life. She wasn't a farm girl. This place killed her for sure. She had the consumption from early on, you know. She wasn't supposed to have children. She wanted to give me a son, she said. All this dirt and dust didn't do her any good. After all these years there isn't no need for me to be in there with her. It's not what I want, son. I couldn't have what I wanted in life and by God I'm going to have it my way when I die and that's that," he fussed at himself.

"Yeah, that's the fancy name for it. Your grandma called it consumption. It took lots of folks when I was young. Anyway, I don't want to be in the ground. My ashes can go where they damn well please. There are some old friends I wouldn't mind meeting up with out there somewhere. I'll have a lot better chance if I'm out there in the wind."

There was one waitress and a cook; three old men sat in the last booth in the back of the restaurant. My father nodded and the men nodded back without talking to him. The waitress was on us with a smile and her pad, yanking the yellow pencil out from under her waitress hat.

“Howdy, Mr. S. Where you been hiding yourself, sweetheart? You brung your insurance man with you. We don’t get many folks gussied up in a tie and all,” she said, dwelling on my outfit.

“My son, Hilda. This is Hilda, son. I’ll have the meatloaf special if Horace ain’t ete it all yet.”

“Oh, no, Mr. S. I keep an eye on him so he leaves some for the customers. How about you?” she asked, turning her attention to me.

“We want coffee,” my father ordered, “and if you’re still working out of the first pot you made this morning, you can brew us some fresh coffee.”

It was a strange banter from people that knew each other well enough to know where the lines were drawn. There was no inquiry about health or crops or any of the other things I’d expect on a lazy afternoon in a quiet farm town a month before anyone was thinking about harvest.

The food was surprisingly good. The coffee was about half the strength of what my father brewed up. My stomach had quieted and it would be enough to sustain me until I got to the airport, where I’d buy a couple of candy bars to hold me until I was back home.

My father was quiet on the way back to the house. I didn’t know if he was just tired or if he might be in pain. He sat with his door open as I walked in front of the car.

“How about helping me get up. Once I get down I can’t always get back up,” he explained.

I excused myself to go back to the trunk in the attic, leaving my father sitting on the sofa in the parlor. Once back in the attic, I found the chain on the exhaust fan and was delighted by the fact it hummed to life without hesitation.

This cooled it off enough to make a further investigation of the trunk possible. I might like to have it, but I hadn’t made up my mind yet. I was once again lost in a life I hadn’t visited for years. I hadn’t been so completely possessed by anything before, but I realized being suddenly thrust into my previous life was having a greater impact on me than I could have predicted.

“Shit!” I said, finding a place to set the papers and envelopes. I stood and went toward the light in the floor coming from the light in the hallway below. I stepped tentatively down on each step to check it for sturdiness and went downstairs to retrieve another light bulb.

“Hey, Dad,” I said from the hall. I stood in front of the doors that were slid almost completely closed, leaving only a small crack through which I could see him lying down.

“Oh, no, I might need to look for one. You’re going to need to help me up. My body doesn’t work so good these days. Come on in.”

I moved into the parlor and offered him my hand. He got to his feet with considerable effort on his part. I took his arm and helped him to get his balance. I could feel the bone through his sweater.

There were bottles of pills on the table in front of him and a bottle of whiskey with no more than a shot missing. He’d set a pillow down for comfort and covered himself with one of my grandmother’s Afghans.

“I can remember back to what I did as a kid and what I liked to eat; little details like that just spring into my head, but ask me where the hell I left my shoes, and I’ve got to search the house. Can’t remember a damn thing. The light bulbs? My best recollection is the pantry. We can look there first. I might remember where they are once I get there.”

We went into the pantry and he searched the counters and the cabinets. He cussed and moved stuff to one side and back and moved it again a minute later. I stood back and made no effort to calm him.

“No, but over the sink. I recollect the light went out over the sink and I might have tossed the other bulbs in the closet above the window.

He held the drapes back with two fingers like he was seeing someone in the driveway, but there was no one there. We stood with him blocking my way to the cabinet in question.

“Yep, here they are. Let me help you back to the parlor. I shouldn’t be much longer. I’m getting down toward the bottom,” I said.

“No, once I’m up I don’t want to go back down. I’ll fix some coffee. You’ll need to be on your toes to catch your plane on time.”

“Yeah, I’ll only be a few more minutes,” I said, planning on taking a glance over the papers and letters so I could see if I wanted to take them or not.