Dear John(21)

“What else what?”

“What else can you tell me about yourself?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me something no one else knows about you.”

I considered the question. “I can tell you how many ten-dollar Indians with a rolled edge were minted in 1907.”

“How many?”

“Forty-two. They were never intended for the public. Some men at the mint made them for themselves and some friends.”

“You like coins?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time.”

I hesitated while Savannah reached for her bag. “Hold on,” she said, rummaging through it. She pulled out a tube of Coppertone. “You can tell me after you put some lotion on my back. I feel like I’m getting burned.”

“Oh, I can, huh?”

She winked. “It’s part of the deal.”

I applied the lotion to her back and shoulders and probably went a bit overboard, but I convinced myself that she was turning pink and that having a sunburn of any sort would make her work the next day miserable. After that, I spent the next few minutes telling her about my grandfather and dad, about the coin shows and good old Eliasberg. What I didn’t do was specifically answer her question, for the simple reason that I wasn’t quite sure what the answer was. When I finished she turned to me.

“And your father still collects coins?”

“All the time. At least, I think so. We don’t talk about coins anymore.”

“Why not?”

I told her that story, too. Don’t ask me why. I knew I should have been putting my best foot forward and tossing out crap to impress her, but with Savannah that wasn’t possible. For whatever reason, she made me want to tell the truth, even though I barely knew her. When I finished she was wearing a curious expression.

“Yeah, I was a jerk,” I offered, knowing there were other, probably more accurate words to describe me back then, all of which were profane enough to offend her.

“It sounds like it,” she said, “but that’s not what I was thinking. I was trying to imagine you back then, because you seem nothing like that person now.”

What could I say that wouldn’t sound bogus, even if it was true? Unsure, I opted for Dad’s approach and said nothing.

“What’s your dad like?”

I gave her a quick recap. As I spoke, she scooped sand and let it trail through her fingers, as if concentrating on my choice of words. In the end, surprising myself again, I admitted that we were almost strangers.

“You are,” she said, using that nonjudgmental, matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve been gone for a couple of years, and even you admit that you’ve changed. How could he know you?”

I sat up. The beach was packed; it was the time of day when everyone who planned to come was already here, and no one was quite ready to leave. Randy and Brad were playing Frisbee by the water’s edge, running and shouting. A few others wandered over to join them.

“I know,” I said. “But it’s not just that. We’ve always been strangers. I mean, it’s just so hard to talk to him.”

As soon as I said it, I realized she was the first person I’d ever admitted it to. Strange. But then, most of what I was saying to her sounded strange.

“Most people our age say that about their parents.”

Maybe, I thought. But this was different. It wasn’t a generational difference, it was the fact that for my dad, normal chitchat was all but impossible, unless it dealt with coins. I said nothing more, however, and Savannah smoothed the sand in front of her. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “I’d like to meet him.”

I turned toward her. “Yeah?”

“He sounds interesting. I’ve always loved people who have this . . . passion for life.”

“It’s a passion for coins, not life,” I corrected her.

“It’s the same thing. Passion is passion. It’s the excitement between the tedious spaces, and it doesn’t matter where it’s directed.” She shuffled her feet in the sand. “Well, most of the time, anyway. I’m not talking vices here.”

“Like you and caffeine.”

She smiled, flashing the small gap between her two front teeth. “Exactly. It can be coins or sports or politics or horses or music or faith . . . the saddest people I’ve ever met in life are the ones who don’t care deeply about anything at all. Passion and satisfaction go hand in hand, and without them, any happiness is only temporary, because there’s nothing to make it last. I’d love to hear your dad talk about coins, because that’s when you see a person at his best, and I’ve found that someone else’s happiness is usually infectious.”