Dan Crawley
I enter the tall doors of Grace Lutheran Church on 3rd, spotting my young parents (him, cocky at 19, and her, a demure 20 year-old) standing at the altar, getting married. I take a seat in the back pew. In attendance is a small crowd. I see the backs of my granddaddy and my mamo in the front pew, my grandpa and my grandma. Aunt Iva and Uncle Tom. Everyone I know is so young. It is 1956, after all.
I notice how shiny my parents’ faces are as they walk back down the aisle. My dad in his white sport coat and pink carnation (like the song) and my mom in her modest wedding dress. They don’t look at me as they pass. I’m used to this, par for the course for a middle kid like me. They only have time to smile straight onward, toward their long lives together.
The reception is held in an auditorium in the back of the church. I move with friends and family around the outside of the building to meet up with the bride and groom for punch and cake. No one speaks to me. But my Uncle Tom does lift his crooked eyebrow my way. Like, “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Or it could be the sweat pants and t-shirt I wear that is out of place. I don’t get out much.
I watch my dad set up glasses surrounding a punch bowl on a long cafeteria table. Then he starts placing banquet chairs around the perimeter of the large auditorium. I want to approach him when he’s alone. Get right in his face. Maybe shout, maybe not. This is my mom’s special day, after all, and I would never hear the end of it if I made a scene.
I retrieve a chair in each hand from a small closet and follow my dad. I move close to him.
“You don’t know me, but I’m your son.” I try to speak slowly as my mind races. “I want you to know that I take care of you in the future, when you’re 88, 89.” Dad turns and walks away to get more chairs. I’m on his heels, like an eight year-old. “You can’t get out of bed, so I empty your catheter bag. I change your diapers. I clean you up, your messes.” Now I talk fast like I might run out of time. “So treat me good when I do show up in about ten years. And don’t ridicule me as I grow up. Don’t tell me I’m a bother, belittle me, threaten to kick me out of the house at different times. Don’t use your thin black belt on me like a whip when I’m so small. Just show me a bit of love more than you ever think you can.” I haven’t taken a breath.
My dad stops by the punch bowl again, rearranges some glasses.
“And please don’t ignore me.” This makes me more angry: begging like a toddler. “Like you’re doing now.”
He rises up, standing straight to face me. He’s just a boy with a crew cut, slicked back hair and not a whisker in sight. But even his baby face gives me a look I’ve seen a million times throughout my life. Be intimidated, the look says.
“I feed you, take good care of you,” I say. “I love on you, tell you you’re not going anywhere else. Dad, I clean the shit off your balls. Come on. Really? I’m certainly not scared of you now.”
He doesn’t speak, but instead raises his right hand to the side of his head and circles his index finger around his ear. Crazy. That’s me.
I stare at my parents’ wedding picture on one of the walls of my dad’s home. My teeth are clenched again, and I wonder how much pressure enamel can take before pulverizing. I go back into his bedroom and lift him to a sitting position in his hospital bed. Now he has wispy hair and a long grey beard, shrunken frame, and a powerless expression. I sit beside the bed and spoon feed him a tiny amount of oatmeal. He’s more lucid in the morning, so that’s when I try to talk with him the most.
“Sometimes I’d like to take a time machine back to your wedding day,” I tell him as he chews. “Say to you, ‘Hey, I’m your kid. I’m going to take care of you big time when you’re old. Be nice to me as I grow up.’”
Dad swallows with some effort. He looks at me, focus goes away, looks at me.
“I’m your son,” I say. “Showing up at your wedding.” I smile. “What do you think about that?”
He nods, quick up and down. His eyes remain unfocused.
“You know my name today?” I know I shouldn’t be asking questions with his weary thoughts. “You named me after that character in the bible. He went through a lot.” I can’t help myself; I go on. “What’s my name, Dad?” He stares at a corner in the room. “And do you remember where they put him? Dad? Dad?”
I feed him a few more bites. Help him get his sip cup into his hand. Check his diapers, get his covers settled over him, and turn on his favorite show to stream. About trains traveling throughout different parts of the world, places he will never visit.
I ask if he needs anything else. He starts to speak, hesitates, focuses on the corner, then he stares at me. His eyes are full of wonder.
“In the lion’s den,” he whispers.
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Dan Crawley’s writing appears in 100 Word Story, Lost Balloon, JMWW, Best Small Fictions 2023 & 2024, Variant Literature, Atticus Review, and elsewhere. His recent collection is Blur (Cowboy Jamboree Press).