On Earth's Altar

Chapter 2

Peter searched the crowded hospital lobby for his father. Warm afternoon light streamed through the high windows, glinting off the polished marble floor, flashing through the constant eddy of people, the burble of their voices. It all reminded him of a train station in some far away land. Except no one wanted to be here, especially not Peter.

In the waiting area, three African women wearing hijab watched their children play on a patch of worn carpet. A frail old Asian man paced in front of an unmarked door, Bible clutched to his chest. At the information desk, a tattooed white kid in a wheelchair gabbed on the courtesy phone while he admired his propped-up leg, bristling with orthopedic hardware.

And there he was, sitting on a bench by the high window, reading a newspaper.

Peter made his way through the crowd and stood before his father, waiting for him to notice.

The man lowered the newspaper and looked up over the rims of his stylish reading glasses. "Well, hello there," he said in that smoker's baritone.

"Hi." It was all Peter could think to say. He decided his father looked younger than he had at the funeral, gray hair and beard neatly trimmed. And his skin, normally sallow, had taken on a new ruddiness.

The man folded his newspaper, set it aside and stood.

At seventy-one, Daniel Barchet remained a handsome figure, tall and lean. He wore the standard uniform of a university professor: penny loafers, khakis, pale-blue Oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket two elbow patches shy of cliché.

Smiling, he reached out with his left hand and gripped Peter's shoulder, their eyes nearly level. "It's so good to see you."

The odor of cigarettes and cologne wafted over, a weird and morbid combination. Peter glanced at the tobacco-stained fingers clutching his shoulder. Daniel Barchet still wore his wedding band, plain and gray. On his bony wrist hung and old Timex watch with a round, white face, black Roman numerals, and a red second-hand. Peter recognized it immediately. He had broken his piggy bank to buy it one Father's Day, eons ago.

Before Peter could see if the watch was still ticking, his father doubled over in a fit of coughing, one hand clenching his knee, the other balled up in a fist over his pursed lips. When the fit was over, he stood straight, smoothed down his jacket, and cleared his throat. "A man reaps what he sows."

They headed to the basement cafeteria, got some coffee, and found a quiet corner table. Between sips, Peter's father kept glancing across the cafeteria toward a side room where the hospital's monthly blood drive was getting underway.

Then he set down his cup.

Peter held his breath, steeling himself for whatever it was his father thought so important that he had to say it in person.

"Well, I've finally retired."

Peter frowned.

"Voluntarily," his father added.

Professor Daniel Barchet had been censured by the university for repeatedly engaging in unprofessional relationships with his female graduate students. Apparently, it had gone on for years. Peter had been clueless. His mother kept it from him until the very end, when she was dying from ovarian cancer. Such a Norwegian thing to do. That was seven months ago.

"Congratulations," said Peter, taking a sip of coffee. "Is that what you wanted to tell me?"

"No, no." He took in a preparatory breath and let it out. "I've been thinking a lot lately, travelling too. In fact, I just returned from a trip to Israel."

"Israel? What, like a pilgrimage?"

"No. I haven't gone to mass in years. You know that."

"Did you go alone?"

His father frowned. "Why do you ask?"

Anna had seen him with a woman, a much younger woman. "You said you had something important to tell me, so if it's not your retirement, what is it?"

Daniel Barchet's dark-brown eyes narrowed. "You think I've met someone new, don't you?"

"Well, have you?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

He rested his palms flat on the table and stared down into his coffee cup. He took two deep breaths. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry for everything I put your mother through." He looked up, his eyes suddenly flooded, face even ruddier than before. "God knows I said it to her a thousand times before she died."

Peter clenched his jaw and turned away.

His father reached out and took his hand. "I think about her every day."

Peter spoke to the wall. "Jesus, Dad. Stop."

He took Peter's other hand. "Do you remember those summer afternoons, back when you were little? She used to take you to the music library on campus. Then we'd meet up after I was done with lectures and you'd show me all the record albums you two had checked out."

Peter extracted his hands, wiped his eyes, and faced his father. "I remember." He found himself smiling at the memory. "She made me record them all onto cassette tapes."

He nodded. "You know, I found some of those tapes the other day. They're mostly classical recordings. Grieg was always her favorite."

"The rest are in her old car."

"Do you actually drive that thing?"

Peter nodded. It was a piece of junk, but it was still running.

"Remember when the three of us loaded it up and drove out to the middle of nowhere in eastern Oregon?"

Peter nodded again. "I remember visiting someone who lived up on a mountain, an old man."

"That's right."

"And that's when Mom taught me to fly fish."

"Norwegians and their damn fishing." He peered across the cafeteria to the line of people waiting to donate blood. "So, the real reason I asked to meet you here, on this particular day, is that I wanted us to do something together. Something for your mom, actually."

"Like what?"

"She needed a lot of transfusion, you know."

Peter would never forget those final days. The ovarian cancer had triggered something called hemolytic anemia. She needed blood transfusions around the clock. "Yeah, what about them?"

"Well, that blood came from somewhere, right? So, recently, I decided to become a blood donor. At first, I worried I wasn't healthy enough, but they said my red cell counts were fine, a little on the high side, actually."

"You know that's because you have emphysema, right? It's your body's response to lack of oxygen."

"I know that." He jutted his cropped beard toward the blood drive. "But they don't."

Their paperwork completed, father and son lay on adjacent cots. Daniel Barchet reclined with eyes closed as if he were sleeping, arm outstretched, palm up, the dull gray wedding band a little loose on his bony ring finger. Looming over him, the phlebotomist unsheathed a harpoon of a needle, and Peter looked away.

When his own turn came, he hardly felt a thing. But at the edge of his vision, he caught the claret vine curling from his arm, spurting into the collection bag. And for a moment, he wondered why God had granted such brilliant hue to something not meant for the light of day. Then he passed out.

_________________

Author's note:

Thanks for reading Chapter 2!

What do you think about Peter's father?  Is Peter's resentment justified?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Thank you for your support.

Photo: Harborview Medical Center, Seattle, WA, USA, formerly King County Hospital.

Photo credit: Jean Sherrard

https://pauldorpat.com/2011/01/22/seattle-now-then-harborview-from-smith-tower/