Hog (revised from Coffee, Light and Sweet)

Hog

That night, one of Dad’s colleagues calls me from Melville. Dad had volunteered there until the week before the car accident.

“We’re having trouble reaching your father,” he says.

“Dad’s in the hospital,” I explain.

“He’s not coming back to work, is he?”

“I don’t think so. Were you expecting him?”

“No, but we hoped... I wish I could talk with him.”

“He can’t use the phone right now.”

“Can we visit?”

“Of course — though it must be two or three hours from your office.”

“Oh... that’s true...”

“Can I suggest something you might do? If someone has a video camera — take it around the office and let him see everyone’s faces. He’d love that.”

“Okay,” Bill says. “Good idea.”

Later, I deliver the message to Dad. “They said to tell you: we’re thinking about you. We miss you. Please let us know how to keep in touch.”

“The people at work are my family now,” he says.

The people at work, who were “dad’s family now,” did not, even once, show up. They never called again, never sent a note — and did not send the video.

—

I hold the cell phone to Dad’s ear.

“You want me to come bust you out of there?” Lise asks. Her voice on the speaker echoes into the hospital room and I watch my father laugh — a real, full-throated belly laugh.

“Sure,” he says. “Bring the horse.”

Lise, the eldest daughter of one of my parents’ oldest friends, is a real horsewoman, working on a ranch.

“I’ll bring my hog.”

“Hog?” Dad asks.

“My bike.”

“No kidding!” Dad chuckles, shaking his head.

“I’ll strap you on the back and we’ll blow out of there before they know what hit them!”

I imagine Dad on the back of Lise’s motorcycle, holding on for dear life as she shoots down the hospital corridors.

“You still there?” Lise’s voice fills the room.

“We’re here,” I answer.

Dad leans back against the pillows, grinning. “I’m kinda tired,” he says. “But I’ll keep your offer in mind. Maybe another day.” His cheeks are flushed with life. His eyes are bright.

“Okay,” Lise says gently. “You have my number now. You just let me know.”

I take the phone out into the hallway. I want to make sure Lise knows how much her crazy call to freedom meant to him.

“I love that guy,” her voice breaks. “He believed in me when no one else did. You tell him that, okay?”

When I come back in, Dad’s gone misty. “I have trouble with relationships,” he says.

“Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.” I tell him what Lise just said about him.

“She had a rough patch back there. All I did was listen.”

—

We sit quietly for a while. Then I go down to the deli across the street and buy him a coffee, light and sweet. I come back and feed him chunks of chocolate chip cookie, which he sloshes around in his mouth with the coffee, sipped through a straw.

“Heaven,” he smiles.

—

This is a scene from The End of Men, a memoir I started years ago. The previous chapter, Chill, is here. If you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here. Want to support the work? Leave a comment. Share a chapter with a friend. To receive the chapters by email, subscribe here. To support the writer (me) and the project, become a paid subscriber. Paid subscribers also get SOSI: The School of (Words and) Images.

Photo by Gelmis Bartulis on Unsplash