Originally Publish on Astreriskz.com, September, 2017
Kathryn dreamt a reoccurring dream: she walked in a park (one of her own design) with windy, concrete walkways, broad fields of grass, and tall trees every fifty feet. Kids tossed a football while thirty somethings jogged their stresses away.
She stopped at a park bench and watched the branches sway in the trees. A feeling of warmth flowed through her and not just because of the seventy degree weather. She felt his presence as he approached the park bench. His hand touched her shoulder—familiar, gentle for working man’s hands.
She placed her hand on his and rubbed it. She saw his watch, the sleeve of his leather coat, its collar across his shoulders, but squiggly lines and blotches made up his face.
Like all dreams, they yielded to reality, but in time—maybe in a couple hours, maybe later that night, or in a few days—she’d replay that dream again.
* * *
Kathryn scrambled the eggs and scooped them on the plate, and as she looked at the juicy sausage links, silver dollar pancakes, and the golden eggs she knew she had done a good job, that her father would love it.
She entered the living room with the plate full of food and an accompanying cup or O.J. “Happy father’s day.”
Hal, her father, sat on the couch with the remote pointed at the TV. His eyes hadn’t moved from the screen, and Kathryn couldn’t tell what he watched; all she saw was the TV’s reflection off his lenses.
“Come on, Dad. I made you breakfast,” she said, taking out a dinner tray and unfolding it.
He scanned the channels as if she hadn’t spoken, so she placed the plate and cup on the tray and reached for the remote.
He pulled it out of her reach and shot her a venomous look, “I heard ya’ I heard ya.’”
“Well turn off the TV. I worked hard on this,” she said.
He took the fork and tossed the eggs around on the plate. “These eggs are runny. I don’t like my eggs runny, and I’ll need a hacksaw to cut these sausages.” He shoveled a piece of pancake into his mouth, took a few bites, and spit it out. “This tastes like rubber.” He turned on the television. “Take it back. I’m done.” Upon pushing the plate away, He knocked over the orange juice. As it soaked into the rug, he looked up at Kathryn. “Well, you gonna get that?”
Kathryn swiped the plate and headed for the kitchen. Just as she reached the doorway, she stopped, “You know I was just doing something nice. You could’ve humored me.”
He stared at the TV like she never spoke.
She stormed into the kitchen, placed the breakfast on the counter, and leaned on the sink. Tears built up in her eyes, and she thought, “You’re welcome.”
She wiped her eyes, and the first thing she noticed was the Clorox Bleach bottle. She then thought about pouring it into the pancake mix, but she dismissed it when she pictured her face on a mug shot.
She headed for the door, and as she snatched the keys from the end table, Hal said something about picking up a prescription, but the slamming door muffled his words.
* * *
Kathryn wiped the glistening mugs along the bar. She lined them up in single file like marines about to graduate. She had the mug handles turned at the five o’ clock position, and she gave the slightest nudge to any that looked out of line. With all the mugs lined up, she wiped the bar for the thousandth time, and she thought if she wiped the bar once more, the dark brown surface may transfer to the rag. She knew it was a good way to kill time and look busy on Sunday nights when another weekend closed and another week began.
She strolled up and down the bar, watching the Phillies game through a haze of hovering cigarette smoke with the three regulars who stared at the TV screens but probably didn’t know what the score was or who was playing.
She grabbed a broom and started sweeping when she saw the door open. She thought nothing of it. It was probably one of the regulars or worse: her father.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from the other side of the bar.
She looked up and saw a tall guy standing there. He had sandy blond hair, thick and wavy, with one strand that hung in the front in a curl. He had trimmed sideburns, thick eyebrows, and an ashy mustache, and he wore a navy blue dress shirt with pin stripes.
Kathryn stood there for a second, wondering if he was really talking to her. He was definitely not a regular and definitely the hottest guy in the place. He seemed clean cut, genuine, and more established than what meandered in, not that the regulars set the bar too high. He seemed like a listener, one who would understand a situation without being in it. He could make her feel better after a hard day, and he wouldn’t call her fat, a loser, or remind her of the fact that she failed out of architecture school. She figured he’d say something insightful like, “The reason we fail is for a second chance.”
“I’m lost, and I want to get to Doylestown,” he said.
“You’re in Frankford,” Kathryn said, and she saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, “You’re parallel to I-95, so you want to go north on I-95 ‘til you hit Street Road.”
“Thank you,” he said. His shoulders slumped making him appear more relaxed. “As soon as I get to Street Road, I’m fine. How do I get to I-95 from here?”
She gave him the directions, pulling out a sheet of paper and drawing a small map, stating how easy it was to miss the on-ramp.
“You want a drink on the house? You look like you could use a cold one,” she proposed.
“No thank you,” he declined, “I just went to a graduation party and had enough. That’s probably how I got lost in the first place.”
At first, a shock of disappointment went through her from his declination, but she mustered up a chuckle.
“Thank you so much,” he paused, waiting for her to give her name.
“Kathryn,” she said.
“Thank you, Kathryn. I’m Kevin, and I appreciate the help,” he smiled then took the map from the bar, “Take care.”
“Get home safe,” she said as he walked away.
He headed for the door, and the reflections of the different neon lights embedded themselves in his shirt.
She continued wiping the bar thinking, “I should’ve smiled. I should’ve flirted, maybe offered my number if he needed it.”
She thought maybe he was married or had a girlfriend—definitely one of the two—but as he exited the door, there was one truth: he was gone. She couldn’t help but feel that an opportunity slipped through her fingers, and she stared at the door hoping he’d come back.
The door opened a couple seconds later, and Hal entered.
* * *
Kathryn placed her hand on his and rubbed it. She looked up and saw Kevin smiling down at her. When he sat next to her, she noticed an empty leash dangling from his wrist.
“Where’s Dylan?” she asked.
He pointed to the field with his thumb. “Playing with his friends.”
She looked over her shoulder and saw their Mastiff, Dylan, frolicking with a Shih Tzu and a West Island Terrier. Dylan hopped as the two other dogs nipped at his paws. He rolled over in defeat, and the Terrier clung onto his neck. The Shih Tzu bounced around Dylan’s squirming body then jumped on the Terrier.
“I finished the seating arrangements and confirmed the caterers,” Kathryn said, “Have you heard anything from your cousins in Florida?”
“Do we have to talk about wedding plans, now?” Kevin put his arm around her and pulled her closer. “Can’t we just have a stress-free Sunday in the Park?”
She nestled into his shoulder. “Fine, but we have a busy week ahead.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go home.”
* * *
Kathryn filled mugs, popped bottle tops, and swiped cash as old 70s rock such as .38 Special and Foghat blared from the juke box. It was a typical Wednesday night with about twenty stragglers from a birthday party in the lounge. She didn’t care. “More people, more tips,” she always thought, and an abundance of tips was hard to come by lately.
She strolled down the bar, wiping the occasional puddle, and one of the regulars, Gus, got her attention. It was a look she knew by heart. It said, “When you get a moment, preferably this one, get me a drink.” She approached Gus with a bottle of scotch in her hand. She reached down and put a couple of shot glasses on the bar.
“How ya’ doin’ tonight, Gus?” she asked, filling the shot glasses.
He nodded and raised the glass to his lips. As the scotch drained, he picked up the other one. Kathryn took the money from the bar, and she felt Gus’s hand take her wrist. She looked over, and Gus made a whirling gesture with his arm, telling her to keep ‘em comin.’
“All right, Gus,” she said, pouring a drink, “Two more. Slow it down. It’s only 9:30.”
She looked up after pouring the drink and saw Kevin enter. Warmth flushed over her, for she didn’t think she’d see him again. For the past two days, she’d stare at the entrance on occasion, hoping he’d enter. After Tuesday, she gave up hope, but there he was, standing on the other side of the bar again. She couldn’t figure out why he was there. Was he lost again, or did he have an affinity for dive bars?
She walked to the end of the bar, removing empty beer bottles and mugs along the way, “Hey, so what brings you back to Slater’s? Don’t tell me you’re lost.”
“No, I’m not lost,” he replied, “I just wanted to come back in and tell you how much I appreciated your help.”
“No problem. I’ve been there myself, and it can be scary.”
He smiled, “Well try it with five dollars in your pocket and your tank on ‘E.’”
“Oh I’ll definitely try that. Can I get you anything?”
“Well I actually came in to see if—”
“Get me a White Russian,” Hal slurred, pushing his way through Kevin and the guy next to him.
His presence was like a thunderclap during a spring day picnic.
Kevin looked down at him, amazed that someone actually behaved that way, “Didn’t you see the girl was having a conversation?”
Hal looked over and swayed from the abundance of alcohol in his system, “‘The girl’ is a bartender, and whenever I say get me a drink, she has to.”
“Look, pal. There are other people here, and you’re not the center of attention.”
Kathryn splashed Kahlua and milk into the glass and figured the quicker she made the drink, the faster her father left. Then the pushing started.
Hal stumbled back, and he wore the expression of a snarling Rottweiler.
Kevin stepped back and raised his hands. It could’ve been interpreted that he surrendered, but Kathryn knew he was taking a defensive stance.
She ran around the bar since everyone else stopped their conversations and watched as if the scuffle was the main attraction. She knew her father was the crowd favorite and that everyone would jump in if Kevin had the advantage.
Hal took a swing, but he didn’t consider the distance, his short arms, and his high blood alcohol level. He stumbled forward, and Kathryn caught him, trying to calm him down.
She looked at Kevin and apologized, but Hal screamed and pushed despite Kathryn being the barricade between them.
“I oughta kick your ass! Comin’ in my bar—”
“Dad! Dad!” Kathryn screamed, but he kept shooting obscenities.
She felt less resistance from Hal, and he backed off and went to the nearest table. She turned around to Kevin, but he had a look of disdain on his face, like he found out some dark secret about her.
“I’ll give you a drink on the house,” she offered.
“Ah, no,” he said, averting his eyes, “I’m just gonna get going”
She reached out to stop him, but she pulled back her hand. The damage was done, and it couldn’t be fixed. She watched him walk toward the door, and as he exited, she felt it would be the last time she would see him, or anyone as good as him, in her life again.
* * *
Kathryn called for Dylan, and his head perked up. His K-9 rivals tumbled off of him as he got to his feet. He galloped from the field, his tongue dangling from the side of his mouth and his ears flopping in the wind.
Gloom overshadowed the park, erasing the sunlight, and a running Dylan became transparent. Kathryn looked to Kevin to see if he saw the same thing. The blotchy faced man with blurry features stood before her instead.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Kevin? Kevin?”
He stood there like a mannequin.
She heard a rumble of thunder and the oncoming tapping of rain. Dylan, pulsing between his solid, charcoal coat and transparent, sat next to her, looking up with inquisitive eyes. As rain dropped on his face, his nose and his eyes trailed off like they were painted on. She looked around, and the jungle green leaves, the brown bark, and the stony road also trailed off. She looked over at Kevin only to find a pile of clothes in the spot he once stood.
* * *
Her house held the darkness and silences that only 3 a.m. could provide. She really didn’t pay attention to the time since the situation with Kevin and her father occupied her mind for the past five hours. She kept replaying that look on his face, that spark of recognition in his eyes when he realized her relation to Hal. She actually saw him put all the pieces together in that instant. She kept thinking of how he walked away, how he turned his back to her like they never held a bond. He left like he was just another patron and she was the bartender to serve him.
The jingle of keys and the creaking of the floor echoed back in the dark as she made her way into the house—the residue of Jack Daniel’s in her veins—and a slither of light shined on the floor like a beacon. She followed the trail of light to the den and wasn’t surprised to see her father sprawled out on the lazy boy. She stood over him and fixated on the tranquility on his face, critiquing his profile: the big nose, his eyelashes, and his mouth with a stream of drool coming out. She focused on his head with the scraggly, white rim of hair and constellation of liver spots on the top. Inside his head, random thoughts and memories erased the previous day’s events while she still carried them like they were rocks in a back pack. She felt a simmer of anger inside her. He had the luxury of discarding the value of what was important, forgetting it and tossing it aside like it was trash. Her, her mom—all just objects, pawns.
She noticed the pillow on the floor, flopped and folded like a deflated balloon. She looked at Hal’s face—oblivious, vulnerable. She reached down and grabbed the pillow. She gripped its sides and hovered it over his face. It was a scene she had witnessed in many movies. She thought about Kevin, her job, her father’s reaction to her breakfast, and the countless other things he had criticized her for, and the more she thought, the tougher her grip on the pillow became.
She leaned in with the pillow, and she stopped when the image of her face on a tabloid magazine appeared. She straightened up and thought of how disposing one problem led to another. She imagined crying faces at her father’s funeral and how he’d be “Saint Hal” and she the devil who took him from the world. She loosened her grip on the pillow and tucked it under his head.
She darted out of the room and upstairs into her bedroom, the means of getting there a blur. She rummaged through her closet for that battered suitcase she had. When she found it, she threw it on the bed and tossed her clothes into it. Her heart pounded in her chest, and tears tickled her cheeks.
She exited her bedroom and made her way to her car; again, the journey was a blur. She popped open the trunk, and the patches of the “Have a nice day” happy face and the peace sign stared back at her. She leaned on the bumper and realized the step she took. Her heartbeat slowed down along with her breathing.
She shut the trunk and went to bed.
* * *
As Kathryn walked down the stairs, her father’s echoing voice was a kick to her temples. “So this guy comes up to me and punches me, so I take a swing. Luckily for him, my daughter stopped the fight.” He cradled the phone in his hand and leaned back in the chair. “I hope he comes back. I’ll kick his ass.”
She walked into the kitchen, reminded of the burden she tried to drown hours ago.
He hung up the phone and entered the kitchen. “I was just talking about that jerk-off at the bar last night. Who does he think he is telling me who to talk to and how?”
She placed her hand on the nearest frying pan and tightened her grip, breathing to maintain her self control. All it took was one swing across his head, and he’d hopefully drop to the floor. She knew it wouldn’t happen that way. She’d miss, or her hit would only stun him.
“Oh I get it. You were sweet on this guy,” he taunted, “I saw how you looked at him. What? Did you think he’d love you?” He let out a little laugh. “I’m the closest to love you’ll ever get.”
She let go of the frying pan. “This has to stop. You hold your money and your false promises over me just so you could control every aspect of my life. Yeah, I liked him. Yeah, he was a nice guy, but unlike me, he’s too smart to put up with you.”
Her eyes stung from the tears she held back, and her lips quivered. She wasn’t going to cry; she wasn’t going to break down in front of him. “Mom, your brother, your friends. They were all smart enough to keep away after your heart attack, but then suddenly I was worth a damn. You knew I was going into foreclosure, so you saw that as your angle. And you don’t care. You stand there, and you don’t care about me or anyone else. Then there’s me. Desperate for help, striving to make ends meet. Part of me hoped you would help me, that you would care. I should’ve known better.”
“I need you to pick up a prescription for me.” He held out a crumpled piece of paper. “And swing by the beer distributor on your way back.”
She snatched the paper and stormed out of the house.
Kathryn sat in her running car with crossed arms over the steering wheel. She rested her head, and tears poured from her eyes. She looked up through the waterfall-like film, and the dashboard and the parking lot exit became clear but only for a few seconds. Her eyes filled up again, and when she wiped them clear, she saw the prescription. It taunted her, signified defeat. She crumpled it up, threw it out the window, and exited the parking lot.
She looked in the side mirror and saw the paper blow away in the wind.
* * *
Kathryn sat on a park bench—the basis of her dream. She found many discrepancies between her fantasy world and the reality before her. For starters, crumpled newspapers and McDonald’s wrappers replaced the scattered leaves, and instead of joggers and couples with their kids, emptiness resided before her. Even the park bench, itself, differed from her dream world with its chipped paint, rusty bolts, and graffiti scratched on the weathered finish. The steady breeze blowing through her hair was the only consistency.
She thought about what her father said. What if he was right? What if he was the closest to companionship or care that she’d ever get? She clinched the bench’s arm at the mere thought.
Like all troublesome thoughts, as soon as one passed, another followed. She wondered how she’d live off a bartender’s salary and crappy tips. She wondered if she should ever go back to Slater’s because she’d cross paths with her father. She couldn’t quit, so that was inevitable. She started smiling in that she didn’t think her whole plan through, and one by one, in flashes, more thoughts went through her head. Her stuff—furniture, pictures, electronics—she couldn’t just leave them. Her mail—what about her bills and her subscriptions?
In the medley of thoughts, her father crept back into the mix. He couldn’t care for himself without her around. He never remembered where he put his cell phone or his car keys, yet he remembered where he lived.
She chuckled. Not for the last thought but for how, even in her time of independence, she thought about her father’s well being. She knew she’d end up sleeping in her own bed. She knew because it was the most viable option and because there was no other one. She was in a bad spot, but she wasn’t stuck. She knew she had it in her to make her life better.
As soon as she realized all of that, her muscles loosened. She stretched her arms across the bench’s back and sank into it. She sat there. She didn’t know for how long nor did she care. She’d get up and go home when she was ready.
* * *
Kathryn walked toward her house wondering what was on the other side. The living room light was on, and she saw lights flickering from the TV screen. When she walked through the door, it could go two ways: he’d yell at her instantly, or he’d ignore her. She shut the door slow enough that the latch wouldn’t click.
She critiqued her dad fully reclined in the chair. His face pointed in the opposite direction, and she only saw his scruffy, white hair. His right arm dangled from the chair, and the remote lay on the floor, inches from his fingertips.
He watched an old John Wayne Movie—El Dorado—at high volume. She only glimpsed at the television and knew which movie it was. Her father watched that and other John Wayne movies on holiday marathons all throughout her childhood. One time, he made popcorn, and she sat on the couch next to him, taking the occasional handful without keeping her eyes off the screen.
She picked up the remote, his remote, he always referred to it. “Where’s my remote?” “Gimme my remote,” he’d always say. It didn’t matter whose TV it was. The volume bar displayed on the screen, and she knew turning it down woke him up, a risk she avoided, but she’d never sleep with galloping horses and gunfire coming from downstairs.
She stared at him and wondered what the hell happened to make him who he was. She recalled a Christmas where he tore down the tree, and many nights, he came home from work criticizing her homework even though it was correct. What pains did he endure? What vision did he see?
Her and her mom treated him like a king, so who damaged his spirit? Even better, what compelled him to pass it along? She sighed and walked up the stairs knowing they were questions that she’d continue to ask but never get the answers to.
* * *
She woke up, and the clock said 10:36 a.m. The sun shone through her room as it usually did, reflecting off the mirror, making it twice as bright. She recapped the last night and realized she hadn’t woken up once to go to the bathroom, get a drink, or because her body needed to wake up for a few minutes. She had a night of sleep like that once a year and she thought about what she had to do to get more.
She stretched and mentally listed her goals of the day. She worked at 5, so that gave her under six hours to job hunt, run errands, and if possible, relax. She expected to hear something from downstairs—the sizzling of bacon grease in a hot pan or the scraping of the spatula—but all she heard was the echo of the TV.
She descended the stairs, and her father lay sprawled out in the chair in the same position she last saw him. Where she stood, she saw his hairy nostrils and open mouth. She guessed he had just as good a night of sleep as she did.
She approached him, knowing that waking him up destroyed the five minute’s peace she enjoyed, but if she let him sleep into the afternoon, she’d never hear the end of it.
She nudged his shoulder. “Dad, it’s almost 11.”
His shoulder felt like a bean bag which she found strange. She nudged him again, and not a flicker of response came from him. She stepped back, and a chill ran through her. He didn’t move. Not so much as a twitch. She noticed his chest didn’t move up and down, and in the moment she stood over him, there wasn’t one snort or heavy exhale.
She nudged him again. “Dad, wake up, it’s almost 11. Dad?”
The hair on her arms and neck stood up.
She stepped back and clasped her hand over her mouth. “There’s a dead body in my living room,” she thought, “That only happened in horror movies, not real life.”
She stared at him and knew she should be calling the authorities. The stress of funeral arrangements, carrying out his will, and calling relatives railroaded her.
“No, he’s there,” she thought, “I have to try harder; that’s all.”
She gave him another nudge, this one harder, and he just moved an inch and back again. “Come on, Dad! Get up! You need to get moving and take your medicine! I’ll cook you breakfast!”
She repeated that statement about three more times, each time louder than the last. She knew no matter how loud she yelled he wouldn’t listen. He never listened.
* * *
The funeral was a blur, a series of snapshots from someone else’s life. She found it hard to nod in agreement when person after person shook her hand or hugged her saying, “He was a great man.” Suffice it is to say, she detached herself pretty early.
She cried about two weeks after the funeral, not because the sadness or the reality hit, but because she should’ve been grieving, thinking about him all the time, about good times and special occasions, but there were very few.
* * *
As Kathryn waited for Julie, the SPCA volunteer, to return with paperwork, she recalled a few days ago when she spotted her future dog. She walked down the line of cages, and although the faces were different—some dogs with pressed noses and others with long snouts while others had faces full of peach fuzz—their eyes all held the same expression: “Pick me! Take me home!”
Amongst the audience of canines, Kathryn saw a charcoal Mastiff in the corner gnawing on a rawhide bone. His gigantic mitts covered the ends while he clamped the stem with his incisors. With his droopy eyes and flabby chops covering parts of the bone, he wore a melancholy facial expression like he once had the gusto of the other pups, but weeks of being passed over drained all hope from him.
She saw Dylan in the next room, and Julie came out with a clipboard full of papers. Kathryn signed them, eager to introduce Dylan to his new surroundings. She bought chew toys, rawhide bones, dog food, and yes, a giant dog bed.
“Did you think of a name for him yet?” Julie asked.
Kathryn signed the last page. “Yes, Dylan.”
“Oh, after Bob Dylan?”
Kathryn paused. She never thought of that connection. “No, I just like the name Dylan.”
“That’s nice,” Julie said, “We’re going to miss him, here.”
She handed Kathryn the leash, and she knelt down and ran her fingers through his folds. His mouth opened, and his tongue fell out of his mouth as his head swayed back and forth, enjoying the attention.
They stepped out onto the sidewalk, and Kathryn realized the park was just a block away. She figured why not take him for a walk? He led her down the sidewalk like he knew where the park was. All of her attention was on Dylan, none of the passers-by.
“Kathryn? Kathryn Palmer?”
She looked over and saw an older woman with blond hair, freshly done up. She knew she saw her at Slater’s before but couldn’t quite place if she was one of the regulars’ wives.
“Yes, hi,” she said, pretending she knew who the woman was.
She felt Dylan pull the leash, but she reeled him in like a fisherman catching a whale.
She extended her hand. “I’m Barbara Schmidt. My husband, Jack, came into Slater’s all the time. I heard about your father. I’m sorry. He was a good man. So funny.”
She nodded and smiled, but her mind went on autopilot.
“He told us this one story where he…” the words trailed off, and while Barbara gestured and gabbed away about her memory of Hal, Kathryn envisioned him throwing her Cabbage Patch dolls across the room.
“That’s nice, Barbara,” she interrupted, “but I really have to get going.” She extended her hand. “Thank you for your condolences.”
“You’re welcome, Kathryn. Again, sorry to hear about your father.” She shook Kathryn’s hand and walked away.
Kathryn walked with Dylan and erased the conversation with each step closer to the park. A few steps in, Dylan sat like he walked for miles. She looked down at him, and he looked up at her with content eyes and a dangling tongue. She scratched behind his ears and patted him on the head.
A little girl on a purple Hello Kitty bike rang the bell as she zipped by them. That chime unlocked something buried deep in the layers of her forgotten memories.
She was five years old, riding a Strawberry Shortcake bike when one of the training wheels loosened and fell off. She skidded on the ground, scraping her right calf. Her shoelace caught in the spinning wheel, and to her young mind, the bike was a beam that needed a crane to lift.
Her father with a head full of dark hair, broad shoulders, and thin arms, knelt down and lifted the bike.
The present day Kathryn couldn’t believe how vivid the memory was, and she questioned where it had been all these years.
Feeling the sting of her fresh scrape, young Kathryn vowed to never ride the bike again. Her father picked her up in his arms, and through the film of tears, she saw the door then the kitchen.
He sat her in the chair, ran some water, and dabbed her leg.
“See baby. Just a little cut. Nothing to cry over. Did I tell you I used to clean cuts in the Army?”
Grown up Kathryn looked over her shoulder and watched the little girl ride her bike and ring the bell. Warm tears soaked her cheeks, and Dylan’s paw scratched her leg.
“Okay, pal. Let’s go,” she said as she wiped her eyes.
She pondered on the memory, and if it was real, where did it come from? More importantly, were there any more?
THE END
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