These old men at Panera talk about politics a lot. As I sit at the next table, where the electrical outlet for my laptop is situated, I overhear snippets of conversation about George Bush, NAFTA, and Israel. They talk about travels, peppering their conversation with references to places they’ve been: “Mystic is a charming town...” “When I was in Haifa...” “Well, in Turkey,” one man says, “what can you expect.”
I try not to eavesdrop, but I am fascinated and can’t help myself. Their cadence and pattern of speaking sounds exactly like Meyer, Milt, and Marty — and Dad.
“You know they make a different kind of clam chowder in Rhode Island,” says the man in the blue zip-neck sweatshirt. The one with the neatly trimmed silver hair, gold watch, and glasses. “There’s Manhattan, the red one. There’s New England, that’s the creamy one. But in Rhode Island, the broth is clear... as clear as sea water.”
Yesterday, a thirty-year-old woman joined their table, flirtingly engaging them in a lively discussion of what sounded to me like mountain climbing in Nepal. After comparing notes about altitude sickness, hiking shoes, and restaurants, she sighed, suddenly quiet. “My father died last year,” she said, eyes sparkling with memories and tears.
In these beautiful, kind men, she has found a glimmer of someone she loved very much. I watch as the man with the glasses reaches tenderly for her hand, just as she’s withdrawn it to brush her bangs behind her ears. Awkwardly, she returns her hand to the table, and he reaches for it again, patting her wrist.
This is what reminds me of my father. This worldly manliness, translated into a simple gesture of tenderness so minutely calibrated that, for a moment, we are all connected in this father-daughter dance. With tears in my own eyes, I return my attention to my own table, my own thoughts, having intruded long enough — a silent participant, borrowing a father in a sunny restaurant in New Jersey.
I am borrowing fathers a lot lately, as I have been doing for some time. My own father hasn’t ever been completely available to me. These days, he seems to be time traveling — misty-eyed and vague, he talks of the past with a clarity and a memory for detail that’s astonishing. Other times, like this week, there are glimmers of another kind of father.
As I told him about my awful Mother’s Day and my difficult marriage, he listened, focusing his attention on my story. He offered wise counsel, without taking sides.
Later, when I realized I’d monopolized our time together with my sad story — the very thing I’d promised myself on the way over I would not do — I apologized, saying, “I didn’t mean to unload all of this on you.”
“It’s not a burden to me. It’s a gift,” he said. “And anyway, that’s what fathers are for.”
This comment unleashed a new wave of tears, but they are good, rich tears. We have connected again across so many rivers — time, illness, and uncomfortable absence from one another’s lives. We are, for the moment, for the time we have left, a father and daughter again.
I cry all the way home. I cry as I write this down. These tears are good and healthy: salt water, scourging a wound.
This is a scene from The End of Men, a book about my Dad and me. Until today, I’ve been posting scenes on my other Substack. So, if you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here.
Right now, I’m filling in scenes from earlier in the book. I’m remembering more. Finding more journal entries. This week, I sent out: Judge and Spine and Yes, your mother is crazy and Salamander and Little Pieces and Canoe. I have also been doing some soul-searching, rethinking what this book is really about - and where I want it to go next. That’s in Cartwheels.
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