I knew I’d never know, and I had no intention of delving further. But with a leaping imagination in a quiet house, I could envision a quiet man who struck up a conversation about his rare coin collection with a poor young waitress at a diner, a woman who spent her evenings lying in bed and dreaming of a better life. Maybe she flirted, or maybe she didn’t, but he was attracted to her and continued to show up at the diner. Over time, she might have sensed the kindness and patience in him that he would later use in raising me. It was possible that she interpreted his quiet nature accurately as well and knew he would be slow to anger and never violent. Even without love, it might have been enough, so she agreed to marry him, thinking they would sell the coins and live, if not happily ever after, at least comfortably ever after. She got pregnant, and later, when she learned that he couldn’t even fathom the idea of selling the coins, she realized that she’d be stuck with a husband who showed little interest in anything she did. Maybe her loneliness got the better of her, or maybe she was just selfish, but either way she wanted out, and after the baby was born, she took the first opportunity to leave.
Or, I thought, maybe not.
I doubted whether I would ever learn the truth, but I really didn’t care. I did, however, care about my father, and if he was afflicted with a bit of faulty wiring in his brain, I suddenly understood that he’d somehow formed a set of rules for life, rules that helped him fit into the world. Maybe they weren’t quite normal, but he’d nonetheless found a way to help me become the man I was. And to me, that was more than enough.
He was my father, and he’d done his best. I knew that now. And when at last I closed the book and set it aside, I found myself staring out the window, thinking how proud I was of him while trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
When he returned from work, my dad changed his clothes and went to the kitchen to start the spaghetti. I studied him as he went through the motions, knowing I was doing exactly the same thing that I’d grown angry at Savannah for doing. It’s strange how knowledge changes perception.
I noted the precision of his moves—the way he neatly opened the box of spaghetti before setting it aside and the way he worked the spatula in careful right angles as he browned the meat. I knew he would add salt and pepper, and a moment later he did. I knew he would open the can of tomato sauce right after that, and again, I wasn’t proved wrong. As usual, he didn’t ask about my day, preferring to work in silence. Yesterday I’d attributed it to the fact that we were strangers; today I understood that there was a possibility we always would be. But for the first time in my life, it didn’t bother me.
Over dinner I didn’t ask about his day, knowing he wouldn’t answer. Instead, I told him about Savannah and what our time together had been like. Afterward, I helped him with the dishes, continuing our one-sided conversation. Once they were done, he reached for the rag again. He wiped the counter a second time, then rotated the salt and pepper shakers until they were in exactly the same position they’d been in when he arrived home. I had the feeling that he wanted to add to the conversation and didn’t know how, but I suppose I was trying to make myself feel better. It didn’t matter. I knew he was ready to retreat to the den.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. “How about you show me some of the coins you’ve bought lately? I want to hear all about them.”
He stared at me as if uncertain he’d heard me right, then glanced at the floor. He touched his thinning hair, and I saw the growing bald spot on the top of his head. When he looked up at me again, he looked almost scared.
“Okay,” he finally said.
We walked to the den together, and when I felt him place a gentle hand on my back, all I could think was that I hadn’t felt this close to him in years.
Eleven
The following evening, as I stood on the pier admiring the silver play of moonlight on the ocean, I wondered whether Savannah would show. The night before, after spending hours examining coins with my father and enjoying the excitement in his voice as he described them, I drove to the beach. On the seat beside me was the note I’d written to Savannah, asking her to meet me here. I’d left the note in an envelope I’d placed on Tim’s car. I knew that he would pass along the envelope unopened, no matter how much he might not want to. In the short time I’d known him, I’d come to believe that Tim, like my father, was a far better person than I would ever be.
It was the only thing I could think to do. Because of the altercation, I knew I was no longer welcome at the beach house; I also didn’t want to see Randy or Susan or any of the others, which made it impossible to contact Savannah. She didn’t have a cell phone, nor did I know the phone number at the beach house, which left the note as my only option.