My dad brought a radio with him when we left for America. The thing is practically an artifact; though I suppose he does have an admiration for antiques. I remember when he found it wrapped in vines and becoming a part of the siding of our home. I believe his words were, "I forgot I left this here!" I recall asking him when exactly that was, but he couldn't remember. Since we arrived it hasn't worked as much as to even sound a blip of static. He's used every ounce of free time he's had to work on it. I'm quite honestly surprised it ever worked in the first place.
"Don't you have some sculptures to study or something?" I smile at him after he vigorously strains from dropping a piece of metal onto the table.
"I don't understand. What could it be? The range should be phenomenal out here! It's America!" he crosses his arms as if that could magically make his scraps read off a radio signal.
"I wouldn't put too much faith in a country that burns up their own oxygen," I smile as politely as possible knowing he'd disapprove of the joke. My father is a hospitable countryman and nothing will ever change that.
"I heard the fair is in town. You should leave me to my thoughts. Perhaps I might fix this forsaken thing," he politely shoves me off as best he can. I just don't feel like it.
"That's not where I'd like to be; I don't think."
"And where have you been? I haven't seen you nearly at all; hm?" He looks at me for a second and then buries a screwdriver back into the hardware of the radio. "Reconcile?"
"Reconcile?" I repeat back as if to misunderstand his meaning. I know what he's suggesting, but pretending as if I don't certainly makes it easier.
"With Oliver?"
"Ah," I say.
"Well?" He pushes me.
"I suppose."
"So, yes, then?" And pushes me.
"Well, tell me how lunch with him was."
"We didn't talk about you if that's what you mean," he lies. He always was bad at it.
"I suppose then, yes."
"Good."
"Good," I say halfheartedly. I hate this. Admitting to vulnerability in an instance where I shouldn't be. I shouldn't have ever let this happen. Oliver betrayed my being yet here he stands ready to aim at me once again. "Is it? Is it really," I feel the word in my mouth once again just to be sure it's right, "good?"
"I believe that depends on your definition of good," my father always knew what to say when I was growing up. Somehow, he still manages to make me feel like that same child running to him for help. "What you had was good. I've said that a time or two. What you have now is certainly new, and I have no way of giving you an answer I do not have. Time is sometimes unkind; but treat her well, and she'll do the same."
"I'm going to head out, I think," I sit up and start shuffling around like a drunk, looking for a shirt I haven't worn since I left home.
"Where to?" The question floats in my head for a few minutes, and up until I'm at the door to leave I say nothing. "I haven't asked him yet."
———
The hotel we were placed in is starting to feel like a never ending maze of hallways when it comes to finding Oliver. His room turned out to be vacant, so my hopes that he is still in this ancient building are starting to vanish with every turn and every moan from the floor boards. I try to distract myself from the fresh conversation with my father by studying the handcrafted moulding on the walls and ceiling. It sort of reminds me of France, but in the smallest details I know it's not the same. The craftsmanship is particular, just not original. It's heavily thought out, yet lacks vulnerability.
