Dear John(33)

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, as if suddenly remembering he was supposed to play host.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “John tells me that you’re quite the coin collector.”

He turned to me, as if wondering whether he should answer. “I try,” he finally said.

“Is that what we so rudely interrupted?” she asked, using the same teasing tone she used with me. To my surprise, I heard my dad give a nervous laugh. Not loud, but a laugh nonetheless. Amazing.

“No, you didn’t interrupt. I was just examining a new coin I got today.”

As he spoke, I could sense him trying to gauge how I’d react. Savannah either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Really?” she asked. “What kind?”

My dad shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then, to my astonishment, he looked up and asked her, “Would you like to see it?”




We spent forty minutes in the den.

For the most part, I sat in the den and listened to my dad tell stories I knew by heart. Like most serious collectors, he kept only a few coins at home, and I didn’t have any idea where the rest of them were stored. He would rotate part of the collection every couple of weeks, new coins appearing as if by magic. Usually there were never more than a dozen in his office at any one time and never anything valuable, but I got the impression that he could have been showing Savannah a common Lincoln penny and she would have been entranced. She asked dozens of questions, questions either I or any book on coin collecting could have answered, but as the minutes passed, her questions became more subtle. Instead of asking why a coin might be particularly valuable, she asked when and where he’d found it, and she was treated to tales of boring weekends of my youth spent in places like Atlanta and Charleston and Raleigh and Charlotte.

My dad talked a lot about those trips. Well, for him, anyway. He still had a tendency to retreat into himself for long stretches, but he probably said more in those forty minutes to her than he’d said to me since I’d arrived home. From my vantage point, I saw the passion she had referred to, but it was a passion I’d seen a thousand times before, and it didn’t alter my opinion that he used coins as a way to avoid life instead of embracing it. I’d stopped talking to him about coins because I wanted to talk about something else; my father stopped talking because he knew how I felt and could discuss nothing else.

And yet . . .

My dad was happy, and I knew it. I could see the way his eyes gleamed as he gestured to a coin, pointing out the mint mark or how crisp the stamp had been or how the value of a coin might differ because it had arrows or wreaths. He showed Savannah proof coins, coins minted at West Point, one of his favorite type to collect. He pulled out a magnifying glass to show her flaws, and when Savannah held the magnifying glass, I could see the animation on my father’s face. Despite my feelings about coins, I couldn’t help smiling, simply to see my father so happy.

But he was still my dad, and there was no miracle. Once he’d shown her the coins and told her everything about them and how they’d been collected, his comments grew further and further apart. He began to repeat himself and realized it, causing him to retreat and grow even quieter. In time, Savannah must have sensed his growing discomfort, for she gestured to the coins atop the desk.

“Thank you, Mr. Tyree. I feel like I’ve really learned something.”

My dad smiled, obviously drained, and I took it as my cue to stand.

“Yeah, that was great. But we should probably be going,” I said.

“Oh . . . okay.”

“It was wonderful meeting you.”

When my dad nodded again, Savannah leaned in and gave him a hug.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” she whispered, and though my dad hugged her back, it reminded me of the lifeless hugs I’d received as a child. I wondered if she felt as awkward as he obviously did.




In the car, Savannah seemed lost in thought. I would have asked about her impressions of my father but wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. I know my dad and I didn’t have the best relationship, but she was right when she’d said he was the only family I had and had raised me. I could complain about him, but the last thing I wanted to hear was someone else doing it, too.

Still, I didn’t think she would say anything negative, simply because it wasn’t in her nature, and when she turned to me, she was smiling.

“Thanks for bringing me by to meet him,” she said. “He’s got such a . . . warm heart.”

I’d never heard anyone describe him that way, but I liked it.

“I’m glad you liked him.”