Shadows Express
heart in particular, was giving out on him. Strangest of all, for me and for him, was the fact that he no longer had any energy to speak. His situation and the unbearable silence made me want to fill in for him. While he lay there dying, I thought about his general decency and his desire to contribute to society, long after most people thought he was able to or should care. He was undaunted. I remembered a secretary of his once told me that no one treated his employees with more respect than my father had. My mind returned to stories of his experiences in England during World War II. He oversaw the delivery of bombs to awaiting fighter-aircraft across the English countryside. Black soldiers were assigned to drive the trucks carrying the volatile cargo, and the dangers they faced—as well as the racism—went unnoticed by many, but stayed with my dad long after the war. This fueled his determination to battle segregation when the Civil Rights Movement took hold later on.
22
I considered his razor sharp critique of the United States’ current health care system, always coupled with recommendations and solutions, long before I landed in that very kind of job. He was, by his very nature, someone who always wanted to improve things. In his last two years, he thought about how to redesign the practices at the nursing home where he lived. He even tried to bend the ear of some staff. “Your father talks all the time,” a heavily accented aide told me once when I was visiting. “What about?” I asked. “Oh, history, the news, politics. Even this place. I don’t have time to listen, but he sure has a lot on his mind.” There’s no real ending to this story. My father loved to read biographies. I imagine he always wanted to be the subject of one, too. Sometimes I can hear him just getting warmed up to tell his story, and I find myself hanging on every word.