In The Mind's Eye

"Step Light On Old Toes"

 

     “You look tired, son,” said his father.  And then he coughed.

    Cam stared at the summer streets this fall and tried to smile.  The resort island in November seemed sympathetic with his father.  Frank’s life, a numb steadfastness since his mother’s death.  Cam’s monthly visits, then, an obligation to that poise.

    “How was the traffic, son?  You made good time.”

    Frank moved toward the kitchen, so “good time” faded with him around the thinly paneled wall

    “Always the same, Pop.  You know.  Fifteen minutes, more or less.”

    “Why do you look so tired, Cam?”  Frank screwed his right cheek and bit the inside.  He had said it again.  Should have waited until later.  During dinner, maybe.  He slammed the cupboard and rattled some flatware.  “What?  I didn’t hear you,” he said.

    “Nothing, Pop.  I didn’t say anything.”

    But Cam should have.  And he wanted to this time.  Instead, he looked at the graveled yard.  Simple.  Clean.  Easily maintained.  Gravel on sand.  No grass.  Since Cam was five, Frank insisted a resort should have no grass.  He scoffed, snorted and shrugged at the island’s lawnskeepers.  You fertilized, grew and cut grass at your regular house.  Not on the island.  Not on vacations.  And especially not in retirement.  Cam had always wanted to challenge Frank on these declamations.  But he remained stilled and always changed the subject.  He looked around.  The windows had been recently cleaned, and their sills were bright.  His father had settled for domestic certainties.

    “You have a preference?”  Frank’s head crooked around the doorframe.

    “What?”

    “For dinner. I’m cooking.  Your choice.  Steak on the grill, lasagna in the microwave, or omelets on the skillet.  And my salad.”  Frank grinned, then frowned.  “To be honest, the omelets are an outside chance.”

    Cam remembered.  Sunday mornings, father in the kitchen, mother sleeping late, overcooked eggs.

    Frank smiled again, this time allowing a glimpse at his worn, chipped and yellowed dentures.

   “But the salad’ll be terrific.  My way.  Chopped fine.  Easier to digest,” he said, then returned behind the thin wall.

    Cam squelched a surge of irritation.  “I’d like to go out.  Don’t cook this weekend.  Let’s go out.”

    He still couldn’t feel easy in the house with his mother gone.  Important things had disappeared.  He newspaper wasn’t opened to the crossword puzzle.  And the table next to the Lincoln rocker held a pen and pencil set instead of the emery board.

    “No, really, Cam.  I like eating together, here, when you visit.  Makes it home again.  You know.”  Franks’ voice began thin and crisp, but finished a soft baritoned insistence.

    Cam’s pursed silence meant this was not the real issue, and he would not play at this negotiation.  But he also knew Frank was confused by his displeasure.

    “So, what’ll it be?”  His father inflected some cheer onto the last syllable.

    Cam sighed heavily, enough to be heard in the kitchen.  “Steak on the grill,” he said.  “That’ll be fine.  Just the steak,” he continued but thought again.  “Oh, and your salad.  Of course.  Yeah, and chopped fine.”  Maybe that would relax everybody, get the poise back.