My Fat er s Star

In memory of my father, Adam Rogers

We found him lying outside the Chinese Buffet, reeking of unfamiliarity and surrounded by men I’d never seen before. He was almost unrecognizable from the dewy car window through which I observed the world. We parked, and I jumped from the lap of my grandmother to embrace his stale clothes. A race to the man I revered who now lay in a puddle on the ground. *** When I was seven, Granny cooked steak and green beans and told me how she got the recipe from a friend in Tennessee. Her eyes held the promise of a supper she knew we would love. I finished my plate, the only praise I knew how to give.

“Granny, am I in the ‘clean plate club’ now?” “You sure are, sweetie.” Eyes wide and bright like the barren plate before me, I smiled. Granny lifted the dish from my hands and kissed the top of my head. My dad looked at me with sweet sincerity and stood. He gave up his plate like a secret and said, “I’m meeting some friends. I’ll be back in a little while.” Papaw shook his head in disdain and kept eating his steak. Granny’s eyes begged for the truth, but no words left her mouth. So my father left the dinner table without another sound.

After Dad left, Uncle Jason was left to entertain me. He said absurd things, and my little belly ached with the strain of constant laughter. We composed songs with made-up words. We created stories about people who didn’t exist and gave them names and histories. I wrote down all their tales, and they became friends I felt I couldn’t live without. I hoped to dream of them when I went to bed, so I could share their stories in the morning. I fell asleep on my father’s bed, waiting for his figure to cast a shadow through the doorway. The sound of the television pacified my rambunctious brain that begged to think without end.

The static woke me in the middle of the night, and I looked to my side in disappointment. He wasn’t there. I rose from the pile of blankets and trudged through the hallways, seeking out the comfort of my grandparents’ bed. In the stagnant morning light, Granny rushed me out of her bed. Not her usual singing me to consciousness, not the washcloth on my face and “Good morning, sweetheart!” The almost silent panic she carried was unleashed in full force. Stoic Papaw could not settle the storm that clouded her sweet face. Uneasiness filled my brain as I stumbled through the scene that crept upon us, unwarranted. My hope sank to my feet.

A man my uncle called Kermit picked the four of us up in a blue truck. The man inhaled loudly to say, “Ready to find your daddy, sweetheart?” I looked at him, dumbfounded. “Well, that’s alright. Tricks are for kids, now you remember that.”

Papaw, Jason, and Kermit’s voices mingled in the stifling air that filled the truck. Each word seemed to collide and fall, resulting in a collective noise I heard but could not begin to understand.

“When did he call you?” “About a half hour ago.” “Well, how the hell did he end up over there?” “I don’t know for sure, Mr. Rogers.” I was half-asleep, in and out of a dream about the ice cream I ate the night before. Granny held my tired face in her hands and spoke honeyed words over me. She covered me in them, and the warmth from her palms nestled my cold ears. I shut my eyes.

The car door slammed shut, and I watched Papaw storm towards my father, who lay propped against the side of an orange building. A bright red and green sign blinked the words “China Buffet.”

Granny said to me, “Honey, I want you to stay here for now.” She opened the car door and moved to get out. I nodded at her command. She looked back with a makeshift smile and left the door open to let the hot breeze blow

23 Creative Essay

24 Creative Essay through. I dangled my bare feet out and leaned my head against the leather seat of Kermit’s truck. I watched them confront my dad. He stayed propped there, moved his mouth only slightly. From where I was, I could not hear what they said, but I knew I wanted them to stop saying it. I jumped out of the truck and ran towards the scene. My bare feet scraped against the parking lot concrete, and the wind blew on the portion of my stomach not covered by my shirt. I ran as fast as I could, as if the scene would disappear if I did not get there in time, as if I could stop it all from happening, as if I could save him from their reprimands.

I pulled my Papaw away from them and collapsed into my father’s exhausted figure. He let out a burdened breath and held me tight. The talking stopped, and I shut my eyes. *** That same night my dad took me on a bike ride. He’d taught me how to ride just a month before. Granny and Papaw tried to convince him to take me in the morning, but he insisted that I’d be fine. He would take care of me. So I grabbed my fuchsia bike with purple tassels and rolled it down the driveway. He helped me get on, and then got on his own bicycle. He told me to start riding down the road, and I hesitantly complied.

“Don’t look back, just turn when I say so.” We rode in silence, and I listened to my own breathing and the frogs that chirped in the wet lawns. I never looked back, but I knew he was there by the sudden turning commands he called out.

“Ok, we can stop now.” We stopped near a small pond on the outskirts of the neighborhood. We placed our bikes on the gravel and let out a breath of positive exhaustion. He drew one long breath and exhaled loudly. His tall, dark figure bent over to pick up a smooth pebble. I copied him because that was all I could think to do. He took it and skipped it across the surface of the pond. It leaped once, twice, three times, four times. I repeated his motion, resulting in a successful two leaps. He chuckled, “Nice. Not too bad for the first try.” My gap teeth glistened a smile in the reflection of the pond. My dad laughed again and grabbed another pebble. He dropped it into my open palm. Then his strong arm guided my small one to create a successful three skips. The ricochets from the pebble entranced me, and my father smiled at my awe. “That’s how you see if there’s fish in the water, too. By looking for those little ripples. Their fish lips will come to the surface and…” he made a kissing noise with his lips. “Or sometimes their swimming will be so strong, if they’re in a group, it will disrupt the surface and make tiny waves like that.”

I nodded my head and said, “Cool,” in an attempt to impress him with my nonchalant understanding. I was tired from the bike ride. He must have sensed that because he picked me up. I leaned my head on his shoulder, and he swayed gently as if to say sorry for all that he put us through that day. I watched the bright moon shine on the surface of the water, and I thought about how my dad was like a character in a book. I thought about how that day was like a story I wanted to understand but couldn’t.

I looked up and the vast sky enveloped my vision. He looked up, too, and let out a sigh.

In a moment of curiosity, I blurted, “Do you know anything about the stars?”

“Not really. Just there’s a lot of them.” I leaned my head back on his shoulder. “But, I’ll tell you what. One day, I’m gonna be a pilot, and I’ll fly all the way to those stars and grab one for you. It will be all yours. And you can give it any name you want.” I held onto that promise for the exhausting months that came after, letting the idea of it sail around in my brain. I repeated the words until they jumbled together and became nothing. I prayed about it at night, stared blankly at the ceiling and tried to understand what would become of such a promise. I wished it would outshine the darkness that came when they told me he was gone. I found myself left with haunting dreams of him standing silently in the hallway. Sometimes his arms would fall off, or his body would grow too tall to fit in the door frame.

It was time to give a star a name.