My father lived in a house on Shepherd Avenue. I had not spoken to him for a long time because I was working hard in all my classes. Then I began to do poorly. I wanted to stay with him for the weekend. Clara –my sister– agreed to pick me up at my apartment on the other side of town.

As we left McKinley Avenue in the early morning and drove along Highway 41, the fog started to roll away and it began to rain. It was February and the cold wind had torn off all the leaves from the trees along the side of the road, and as I sat in the passenger seat of Clara’s Buick Regal, I saw the wind drive the rain hard against the anonymous cars that passed us.

“For the last time,” I said as the cold wind rushed through the car. “Do you think you could close your window?”

She looked at me from her side of the car, her black hair blowing all over her pale face.

“Why?” She said looking back ahead at the road. “I like it with the window down.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Oh fine.”

She closed her window, still looking ahead of her as the rain beat hard against the windshield. She sat there, leaned forward, her head just over the steering wheel, her face scrunched up with focus.

“So how’s dad?” I said.

“He just mopes. He mopes around all the time. I’ve tried to get him to do things, but he just mopes around all the time.”

We were silent for awhile.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

For a while I neglected to answer. The rain beat steadily against the windshield.

“This morning,” I said. “How’s his back, anyway?”

“I don’t know. He’s started running again. I told him it’s not good to run.”

“He’s an idiot,” I said. “Just like he’s always been.”

“Oh Charlie, please don’t say things like that,” she said, clasping my arm from across the gear shift. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

“I don’t know,” I said removing her hand. “With his back the way it is, I just think it’s idiotic, but somehow it always seems to work for him. Discipline.”

She slumped further forward and fixed her eyes straight ahead. She always kept the inside of her car very clean so that my package of cigarettes on the dashboard made it all look rotten. I took a cigarette, lighted it and opened the window. The wind screamed through the car.

“What’s he been doing?” I said.

“What?”

“What’s he been doing to keep himself occupied?”

“Oh playing with Tyson. I don’t know. He’s always playing with Tyson. He’s in love with that dog I think. By the way, how are your classes?”

“I haven’t been doing as well as I could.”

Clara got off the highway, and the rain lightened to a soft drizzle. She went right and drove on toward Shepherd Avenue. At the street before Shepherd, the light turned red and Clara turned to me.

“Seriously,” She said taking my hand in earnest. “I’m so happy you’re staying for the weekend. I seriously think it’s going to be great– better than old times–but I hope you’re planning on connecting with him somehow other than just being in the same room with him.”

The light had turned green. The horn went off from the car behind us, and Clara jumped in her seat.
 

My father lives at the end of a cul de sac off Shepherd, and when Clara turned into his street, I could see my father sitting on the curb in front of his house, tossing a football up in the air. Tyson sat excitedly and obediently in front of him, watching the football rise in the air then land in my father’s large hands. When my father saw us coming down his street, he stood up slowly, wincing his eyes slightly and clutching the small of his back.

Clara pulled up into the driveway next to his old Ford police interceptor that had seen so many dark, wild neighborhoods, and held so many wild, out of control men. I got out of Clara’s car, stubbed my cigarette out on the concrete, and pulling up the collar of my coat against the wind. I walked down the driveway to greet my father.

“Hello Dad,” I said watching the vapor of my breath rise in the air.

“Hey, Charlie. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Oh. I do. Did you want one?”

“I quit a while ago. It was making me look like an old fart.”

“Aren’t you proud of him?” Clara said, coming down the driveway. “He’s done very well, and he’s had no help at all either.”

She went up next to him and put her arm around his waist.

“I’m very proud,” I said. “I’ve tried to quit but I can never do it.”

“Hey angel,” he said to her.

“So how’ve you been dad?” I said.

Keeping his back straight, he bent down on his knees to Tyson’s level. I could tell how much it hurt him when he bent down by the way he scrunched his face up, and by the way he tried to hide it. I knew every time he went for a run, or tried to lift weights, or tried to play racquetball with friends who did not know, it got worse. He rubbed Tyson’s head, and he kept saying his name over and over, and Tyson had his eyes closed with his big German shepherd head leaned into my father’s hand.

“Fine,” he said. “Retirement’s a bitch, but I’ve been running, and Tyson here’s kept me company.”

“How is the old K-9?” I said.

“Look at him,” Clara said, “he’s in heaven.”

“Isn’t he?” My father said looking up at Clara.

I bent down to rub Tyson under the chin, but when my hand came near him he growled and glared at me with his dark eyes. I stood up again.

“He’s just a little devil,” my father said. “Probably he doesn’t remember you.”

“Probably,” I said.

“Have you taken him for a walk?” Clara said.

I looked at her sharply, and glancing at me, she shrugged her shoulders.

“I took him for a quick run this morning,” my father said looking at Tyson. “But it was quick. I think this old dog is getting too old to run.”

He gave Tyson a hard rub under the chin. I saw the football by the curb and went over and picked it up.

“Hey,” I said. “Isn’t this my old football from high school?”

“Yeah,” my father said, “Tyson loves to fetch it. He can’t get enough of it.”

“You feel like throwing it around real quick? You and me?”

“Sure why not. Tyson go over there,” he said.

Tyson went over to the Ford, and Clara followed him. I watched my father get up, then I ran down to the middle of the street. The sun had started to come out, and when I turned around to look for my father, he had his arms folded, standing at the end of the driveway, and the sun shone in patches through the clouds behind him.

I watched my father. He clapped his large hands and thrust them out for me to throw the ball. I tossed the ball. It spiraled lightly through the air–it was a light, controlled throw. The ball landed in his arms, cradled against his chest, with a dull thud. He didn’t say anything, but he motioned for me to move back. It would be a long throw. I ran backward, keeping my eye on his throwing hand, and then he threw the ball, and it spiraled high and tight through the air. I got under it, and it landed in my chest, snug between my arms. It had been a hard throw–harder than mine, and my chest stung where the ball hit me, and my hands stung because of the cold.

“Nice.” I yelled and threw the ball lighter than before.

The sun shone bright now, and again he motioned for me to move back. I ran backward further down the street, and he threw the ball high, and it disappeared in the sun. The white light of the sun burned in my eyes. I searched frantically for the ball, and then I saw it six feet above me, about to hit me in the head. I ducked, and the ball slapped the gravel behind me.

“What was wrong with that?” My father yelled.

I felt my heart racing, and still looking at my father, I picked up the ball.

“I couldn’t see it in the sun,” I yelled.

“Whatever.” My father yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth, “Just throw it, you little girl.”

I threw the ball straight and level with the ground where I wanted it to go–to my father’s left. He saw where it was going, and started running for it–his steps were labored and heavy and I could tell it hurt him. The ball came at him quick, and he ran hard, and almost lined up with the ball. He almost got in front of it, but it came too quick. He thrust out his arms, his fingers spread wide, and he jumped straight out in a dive to catch the ball. Clara stood by the Ford with her hands over her mouth. He hit the ground–I heard him yell.

Clara ran over to him and knelt down by his side, and I heard him moaning. She looked at me with her dark eyes and her pale face, and I felt as if I was watching some anonymous neighbors from a balcony somewhere.