Father

By Tony Burdick, Paul Coleman and Dan Ewart

Father is about the life stunting pain of living without a father's love, and it's about healing broken relationships between people who have given up on each other. The book explores the supernatural with a dogged commitment to sustaining the psychological realism of its characters. Miraculous events are described right alongside absurdly humorous situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996721103

Book preview

Monday

Chapter 1

Neumann, Connecticut

March 1999

Bob Shepherd crunched up the gravel drive of the Birch Woods Nursing Home, a sprawling one-story structure with three wings that jutted out like crows’ feet into the Connecticut countryside. Ordinarily, the circular driveway was clear of debris. But this past winter saw snowplows chewing up roads and scattering the remains on front lawns and driveways across the county. A stone the size of a baseball sat in front of him. He crouched down, knees crackling, picked up the rock and heaved it with a grunt down the side of a hill. With the stresses he had been under the past few weeks, the exertion felt good.

A few of the residents were lined up behind the large sunscreened windows by the entranceway. It was a favorite pastime—watching staff arrive in the morning. The windows were constantly fogged up this time of year, the result of warm, recirculated air colliding with the chilly mist each time the front door opened. The residents could barely see anyone approaching. Bob couldn’t understand why they bothered.

Morning, he said to the women in wheelchairs as he entered the building.

Two of them nodded cheerfully. Maggie stared out the window, expressionless. Bob was grateful for the lingering scent of his aftershave, which masked the smell of the place. Although Birch Woods was a fully modernized nursing home, with fresh-cut flowers in the greeting area, the sour odor of steamed meals and the smell of antiseptic floor detergent saturated the facility. Hospital air. Five years of working there and he still couldn’t get used to it.

Bob aimed straight for his office, no time to waste. Payroll had to be finished by noon. Then there was the afternoon meeting that had suddenly been called by the director of the nursing home, Dennis Bowman. Was this another performance review? Couldn’t be. He’d just had his quarterly three weeks ago. The overall evaluation was that Bob was barely meeting expectations.

What would life be like if he were fired? For his wife Sylvia, losing his job would be the final straw. Goodbye, Sylvia. Hello, divorce court.

He glanced back at Maggie and stopped. She was trembling and pale. It would throw off his morning schedule, but he couldn’t let her stay there like that. You’re shivering, he said. Here, let me move you away from the door.

Her white hair was thin, wispy, but neatly brushed. Maggie always dressed well, today in purple pants, a white-laced blouse with a center bow, and an embroidered rose cardigan. She spoke in a gurgle, her throat full of phlegm. Rudy, is that you?

No, Maggie. It’s Bob. He scanned nearby tabletops for a pitcher of ice water but couldn’t find one

Rudy, where’ve you been? Why did you leave?

I’m not going anywhere, Maggie. Don’t you remember me? I’m Bob.

She leaned forward for a closer look. Her eyes, blighted by glaucoma and letting in the barest of light, flared briefly.

He really didn’t have time for this. Bob steered the wheelchair away from the drafty doorway and along the bright yellow-tiled floor toward the sunroom. Then he noticed her foot moving. Her left slipper was gone, and her bare foot was now a perpetual motion machine, tapping the steel footrest, drawing back up six inches and reaching down again, as though she were testing bath water.

Bob found the slipper by the front windows. He bent down to put it on her while she mumbled something incomprehensible. Her foot was gray, swollen, icy to his touch. Thick toenails, the color of sweet corn, scratched his palms.

Maggie, no wonder you’re shivering, lady! How can you stand it? He massaged her foot with both hands until some color returned, put her slipper back on, and started to rise.

What about the other foot? she said.

He tried to hold back a smile. Maggie, if people here don’t get paid on time, I’m gonna blame it on you. Then he knelt back down and began to massage her right foot.

Bob remembered when he first met Maggie. She was sitting on the floor, unable to stand. He had been touring the facility on his first day of work and watched as she tried to hoist herself out of her wheelchair onto a couch in the sunroom. Her bad legs betrayed her and she fell.

One of the aides, whose double shift was far from over, rushed to her. Maggie! On the floor again?

Just meditating, she shot back. In those earlier, mostly sound-minded days, Maggie had little patience with being patronized. The aide shook her head and bent to help, but Maggie refused with the confident air of a paying customer unwilling to accept mediocre service. She pointed to Bob. I want him.

That’s not his job.

I want him anyway.

The aide harrumphed and lumbered up to Bob, lowering her voice. Sweet lady, but she’s got that stubborn streak. I’m tired of picking up her butt all day long. She’s all yours, honey pie.

Bob plowed through feeling awkward and grabbed Maggie under her arms, his new suit coat tightening up on him. He lifted her onto the couch.

Maggie closed her eyes, placed a hand on her heart, and breathed deeply. Eighty-six years old and a young man like you can still sweep me off my feet.

You sure you’re all right? Maybe I should get a nurse.

She patted his hand. I’m fine, dear, thanks to you. Awful case of arthritis in the knees is all. My name is Margaret Samson, but I prefer to be called Maggie. And you are?

Bob Shepherd. I’m the new manager of the accounting department.

Accountant? A time-honored profession. May I call you Bob?

Sure...Maggie.

Bob, I have a favor to ask, and don’t hesitate to say no if need be. I’ve come to Birch Woods for one reason only. I can’t walk too well anymore, and so I guess I’m too much trouble for my daughters. I’ve given up my freedom, but I will not give up my dignity. So, from time to time, if you happen to be walking by and you see I need some help getting in or out of my wheelchair, would you help me? I’d much rather be seen on the arm of a handsome young man than in the clutches of an old nurse. She winked.

He laughed. Maggie, you’ve got a deal. And they were friends.

Good morning, people.

Bob recognized Dennis’s drawl. He turned to see the director standing in the entranceway, scanning the room like a periscope in search of unusual activity in the sector. Bob always experienced the same unease with his boss that he did whenever he saw a police officer. He knew he was innocent but felt as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

Dennis spotted him, frowned, and strode over. Auditioning for a position as an aide, are we?

Maggie was shivering when I got here, Bob said. I don’t think her color is good.

Dennis jotted down notes on his clipboard. Have you notified Marsha?

Yeah. I mean, I was just about to—

Never mind, I’ll get her. It looks like you have your hands full.

Bob winced. Dennis had lost all faith in him. He jabbed his fingers into his right shoulder joint, which ached. What a dumb thing to do, hurling that rock.

The director disappeared around the corner. Bob wanted to head for his office but was unsure about whether or not Dennis expected him to wait for Marsha and report on Maggie’s symptoms. But if Marsha was busy with other things, she might not arrive for some time. And he had work to do.

See you later, Maggie. He leaned down close to her face, making sure she understood. I’m leaving now, Maggie. I’ll see you later, okay?

Rudy, don’t go!

Her words were garbled, bubbling through mucous and saliva. Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy— Maggie, I’m not—

Rudy, Rudy, Rudy... She pedaled her feet faster and faster.

He had seen her like this before. She’d be out of control for at least a few minutes. Time for the aides to come to the rescue. He hadn’t the stamina. Besides, he really had to get to work.

Bob turned and left Maggie by herself, signaled a nearby aide, and walked quickly toward his office. He felt the same rush of guilt that he felt when he and Sylvia would leave their young children with Mrs. Howland, back during the time they went out for dinner on Friday nights. Mrs. Howland always told them to just go and not look back. The kids would be fine. And so they were, or so it seemed.

Rudy, no! Don’t leave me! Please!

Maggie’s cry was shrill, the sound of someone losing her grip on an overhang. Bob looked back over his shoulder but didn’t slow down. Two aides peered out of doorways and then rushed to Maggie, who was swinging her arms wildly. One of the aides accidentally knocked a serving tray onto the floor, scattering spoons and plastic juice cups.

Bob shut the door to his office, but he could still hear the commotion. He tried to think of it as a television show playing in the background.

For Maggie, it was 1958 in Lafayette, Indiana. Rudy was latching the front gate of the farm for the final time, headed back to Boston and God knows what kind of life. So she flailed her arms, lashing out among those who would care for her but would never understand, because her Rudy had left her once again. She’d lost him forever, and it wasn’t her father’s fault anymore. It was her own.

Chapter 2

It’ll take a miracle, the man said, easing the Formica countertop into position.

But the open house is this weekend. Sylvia Shepherd tried to keep her voice down. Can’t you do something?

Ma’am, the problem isn’t mine to fix. He pointed to the wall studs. By Friday I can have this room sheetrocked and painted, but hooking up the plumbing to the septic tank is a pretty darn critical element for a working bathroom. For that you need a backhoe to dig you a path all along the perimeter of this house to where the septic tank lies, and they’re running behind schedule. It’ll be next Monday at the earliest.

Sylvia squeezed her eyes shut to hold back a scream. Since taking over the Small Wonder Day Care Center three months ago, her life had been one headache after another. The Center had been in operation for just over a year when the former owner’s husband, a finance manager for a computer giant, was transferred to Houston. Sylvia assumed that the owner needed a quick sale and would offer the business for a very reasonable price. Not so. Negotiations snagged, and with a sale nowhere in sight and the owner preparing to leave the state, many who had registered their children became nervous about Small Wonder having to shut its doors. Parents jumped the sinking ship and scrambled to find another day care center. Other potential buyers appeared on the scene, but the owner refused their low offers. In the end, Sylvia purchased the Center for the original asking price, which was more than anyone else was willing to pay for a business with practically no on-board customers. She had to start from scratch to rebuild both its census and reputation.

It won’t be that bad, Ma’am, the workman said, speaking into a hole in the floor. I can have this bathroom looking nice and pretty for your open house. It’ll be up. It just won’t be running.

Sylvia began massaging her temples. There was nothing she could do. Monday it is, then.

At age thirty-five, there were some days when Sylvia felt twenty years older. The strands of gray hair were more pronounced in the mirror each morning, and small lines were forming at the edges of her mouth, so that even during the rare moments when she felt content, she appeared sad. Now that she was almost eight-months pregnant, her back, stomach, and breasts had minds of their own. This was her third child, and it had been a difficult pregnancy. Add the pressures of managing a new business and a marriage that was quite possibly nearing its end—no wonder she felt utterly out of control.

Any advice for an unhappy wife? she had asked Connie Martinez on the phone last week. Connie was a good listener, but Sylvia later regretted being so open because Connie worked with Bob at Birch Woods. She shouldn’t have put Connie in the middle like that. Besides, when she summed up the reasons for wanting to end the marriage, she wasn’t sure she had enough justification. Bob was a decent person and a faithful husband. But emotionally he was absent. He just wasn’t there, and hadn’t been—for years. Was unhappiness adequate grounds for divorce?

Whoa, nice accouterments, Sylvie, said the voice in a phony French accent. It was Linda, Sylvia’s right-hand woman. Linda had practically managed Small Wonder for the previous owner.

Sylvia smiled and twirled in a circle to show off the full effect of her outfit. She had spent an hour on Saturday afternoon searching for just the right combination. The canary yellow slacks she had picked, unusually flashy for her, matched the oversized blouse with the floral print as if the two garments had been sold as a set.

Thanks, Linda, she said, but I’m getting tired of wearing small tents to work. I want my old slacks back, not these ‘snap-to-fit’ pants. I feel so frumpy. Oh, and there’s bad news on the staff bathroom. It won’t be ready in time for the open house. You’ll have to make do with the kids’ bathrooms for another week.

While the other two bathrooms—one with Kermit the Frog thumbtacked to the door, the other with Miss Piggy—served the children’s needs, the staff complained about having to use facilities that were rarely private, littered with potty chairs, and dripping wet from young boys with wayward aim. It was hard enough to find responsible staff willing to work for little more than minimum wage. A staff-only bathroom was needed for morale, not just for comfort.

Would you mind rubbing my lower back, Linda? I’m going to have to find a new chair to sit in over the next six weeks or else hire a full-time chiropractor.

The loud ring of the telephone cut their conversation short. Linda started rubbing while Sylvia reached to answer the phone. It was a father, a prospective client, requesting a tour and an interview. Was later this morning possible? It wasn’t convenient, but Sylvia needed the business, so she set up the appointment. Besides, she remembered speaking to him last week. It was at moments like this when she was pleased she didn’t follow Bob’s advice to wear sweat suits to work. Yes, they were comfortable, but she wanted to present a professional image to parents. Bob was probably right, though, that parents also wanted the director to look like someone who would get down on the floor with the kids or change diapers if need be. Attractive but casual—and stretchable—was just right.

Sylvia hung up the phone. Linda, if you ever quit as my assistant, you’re hired as my masseuse. Would you take over for a few minutes? I need to step outside for some fresh air.

She put on her spring coat and walked into the backyard play area of the Center, startling a morning dove, which pitter-pattered noisily in a nearby evergreen. No children outside yet. It was early and still cold. She sat on the swing that hung from an oak tree and rocked slowly, easily, one finger etching a cursive line over her belly—sign language to her restless baby. The child’s answer came quickly, a little foot or a hand pushing up against her, making a lump that moved like a burrowing animal in the sand.

She and Bob referred to the baby as Little One; they hadn’t yet chosen a name. Sylvia wanted one of character and timeless beauty, not like the current celebrity-type names that were hung on children like decorations. She had read through the baby books and always came back to names that held a clear meaning for her. Like Peter, which meant rock, or Ann, which meant grace. Or perhaps John, or Elizabeth.

Funny, all those names had some Biblical connection. Maybe she was finding her religion. In truth, she had never lost it. It was simply stored in some attic along with her volleyball, tape deck, high school yearbook, and other artifacts from the past. Little One rolled over, one of those total-body, take-all-the-blankets kind of rollovers for which she herself was notorious. She and the baby had something in common, it seemed. Maybe Little One was a girl after all. Sylvia studied the morning sky, grim and overcast.

If you are like me, Sylvia said softly, you won’t be that pretty when you grow up. I’m sorry for that. You won’t be musical or athletic, either. And you’ll somehow have to face a world that I can’t explain to you because I don’t understand it myself. People are killed here, Little One. People go hungry. And in a world of six billion souls, people go to bed at night lonely. Believe me, I know.

She put both hands on her belly, gently hugging the child inside her. I have to tell you something. I didn’t want you at first, but I do want you now. I didn’t want to bring another baby into this…unhappy situation, and I...resented you. But not anymore, and I’m not sure why. After you’re born, I won’t speak of this, so that’s why I’m telling you now. Please forgive me. She patted her stomach before standing and then strolled across the yard, her coat up to her ears.

Soon after she’d bought the Center, Connie had told her that the yard was sacred ground. When you work with the very very old, as Bob and I do, Connie had said, or with little children, you can sense the depth of their innocence. And the ground where they walk is sacred.

What a beautiful thought.

Sylvia reached into her pocket and took out a rolled-up package of grass seed, nearly empty, left there from the day before. Patches of dirt dotted the yard where grass once grew, so she cast the seed where it was needed, pressing it in with the soles of her shoes. Rain started to fall, so she ran to the back door and the shelter of the building.

The paramedics secured the patient to the bed inside the ambulance and continued monitoring her vital signs while the driver sped to Dickinson Hospital, cautiously, as the roads were slick.

The medic spoke into the telephone to the emergency room nurse. Female, age ninety, BP is two-thirty over one-forty, pulse one-thirty-five, respiration forty-four. The man turned to his co-worker. Can you believe this is the second one in two days from that place?

It always comes in waves, she said and glanced down at the passenger. This one doesn’t look so good.

The man nodded and adjusted the Velcro restraints in an attempt to lessen the patient’s discomfort.

The siren screamed while Maggie Samson breathed under an oxygen mask.

Chapter 3

Bob pecked briskly at his keyboard, vaguely aware that the microwave oven had just beeped. His coffee, in the same mug he’d poured two hours earlier and had reheated twice, would grow cold again if he didn’t drink it soon. Staff could always tell how overloaded Bob was by looking at his coffeepot. If it was practically full by lunchtime, he was too swamped to take more than a sip. Which was just as well, since on those hectic days he was wired enough as it was.

Payroll was one of his least favorite tasks. Work hours had to be retabulated for accuracy, new hires had to be put into the system, and the deadline was absolute. It was bad enough when Dennis came down hard on him for some accounting mishap, but the forty-seven employees were merciless whenever their paychecks were late.

Marsha, the head nurse, knocked on his half-open door and walked in. Bob ignored her until she peered over his shoulder to look at the program on the monitor.

I prefer Space Invaders, she said.

Bob held up one finger and kept on entering data. There, that should do it. Now I just point and click and all the paychecks get printed. Even yours. He pressed the mouse button and the laser printer chugged to life. But don’t start licking your chops. The check’s no good until it gets stamped with Dennis’s signature.

Bob, I wanted to give you a status report on Maggie Samson.

Oh? What’s wrong?

You haven’t heard? She was just admitted to Dickinson. Frankly, I don’t think she’s going to make it.

Hold it, I’m confused. I was with her for a few minutes when I got here this morning, and she wasn’t all that bad. What the hell happened?

"But you were the…now I’m confused. Dennis came by my office and told me you told him that Maggie wasn’t looking well. He also said it was a good thing he spoke to you because he didn’t think you’d have notified anyone. Time was of the essence in her case."

Wait a second, Marsha, that’s not quite what happened. In fact, I got one of the aides to help her out just as I was leaving. And since when have I been promoted to doctor? Isn’t your staff supposed to be looking out for the residents?

Marsha stiffened. Hey, I didn’t have to come here and give you an update. I did it because I know you care about her.

Bob looked at the computer screen and then back at Marsha. Okay, I get your point. Would you please tell me what’s going on?

Please? Did you say please? That’s a polite word, Bob. Are you sure you meant it?

He tried to smile but failed. Maggie dying? That had to be a mistake.

Marsha sat down across from him. After you left her, Maggie calmed down a bit, but she had a rising fever. I suspected a bronchial infection from the gurgle in her voice, but I just got off the phone with the hospital. She has pulmonary edema.

Huh?

Fluid in the lungs. She’s drowning.

God, can’t they do something?

She’s pumped full of diuretics right now, plus they’ve put her on medications to lower her blood pressure and heart rate. Both were way up. Pneumonia’s also set in, which is why her temp was up, so they put her on broad-spectrum antibiotics until they can isolate the specific bug. She’s one sick lady, Bob.

Bob lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hand.

The microwave beeped. Marsha reached for his coffee mug and placed it on the desk in front of him. Drink.

Bob shook his head.

She crashed. It happens. Look, there’s always hope, but at her age...I’m sorry, Bob. I’ve asked Connie to contact Maggie’s family. She has two daughters, and I think there’s a son.

His name’s Rudy, but he’s dead. Bob remembered Maggie chanting the name incessantly.

Marsha turned to leave.

Keep me posted, Marsh. It would mean a lot.

She reached into the pocket of her white lab coat and pulled out what was left of a roll of Life Savers. She tore off a thin strip of silver paper and offered him the next one.

Bob waved her off.

Here, take the pack. Marsha set it next to his coffee mug. It’ll make you feel better. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the day around here. She left the room, closing the door part way behind her.

Bob stared out the window at the mist, the grayness, and the trees beyond. Rain pattered on the glass. A cluster of birches, partially obscured by the haze, rose up from the earth like an apparition. Why Maggie? And why now? He didn’t need this. His life was already ripping apart at the seams.

Knock, knock. Anybody home?

Bob turned around slowly. It was Jerry from the kitchen.

I heard about Maggie, Jerry said. How you doing, Bob?

Just fine, Jerry.

Jerry winked and left as quickly as he came. Jerry wasn’t much of a talker. Come to think of it, he wasn’t much of a cook, either.

Bob blew on the steaming mug of coffee when once again the door pushed open. This time Connie Martinez stuck her head around the corner and stepped in when she saw him. Hair that was mostly dark with hints of red, despite her nearly fifty years, fell just above her shoulders. Her eyes, a liquid bronze, spoke kindly to people without her saying a word. To Bob, she was the big sister he never had.

He stood up and walked to his door, inspecting the side of it that faced the hallway.

What are you doing? Connie said.

Just checking. I never get this much attention around here. I figure someone must have hung a sign on my door that says ‘Tickets to Paradise.’

You want me to leave?

Don’t bother. I can’t concentrate on work now, anyway.

Connie folded her arms. Hey, kiddo, you sure know how to make someone feel right at—

Wait, Connie, that’s not what I meant.

Usually, I’d give you the benefit of the doubt, but these days I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about you.

He leaned back in his chair. You here about Maggie?

Partly. I was able to contact her daughters. They’ll get to Dickinson later today. But I also came by for a rain check on our lunch in the park. The weather isn’t cooperating. She pointed to the dark sky outside the window. You’re welcome to join me in the dining room, though.

I’d rather be alone, Con. Eat at my desk. Besides, I still have to get ready for my meeting with Dennis.

Suit yourself. If you change your mind, you know where to find me, she said as she walked into the hallway.

Bob forced his attention back to the stack of newly printed paychecks. Then he reached for the stamping machine. Within seven minutes he managed to get all the checks stamped, stuffed into envelopes, and delivered to employee mailboxes. He had beaten the noon deadline by thirty seconds. But instead of feeling his usual sense of satisfaction at having completed another task, he felt deflated, drained.

He looked through the window. The rain had slowed, and despite what he’d told Connie, he needed out. Not optional. Bob took his coat from the back closet and slipped through a side entrance to the parking lot and his car. There was no question in his mind where he needed to be.

Chapter 4

Ten minutes later, Bob parked across from St. Catherine’s Church and stepped right into Mills Park. Though the grass was still patchy and wintry brown, the ground was saturated and yielding after the spring rains. Mud stuck to his wingtips. He spotted the bench where he usually sat. The standard grayish-green color, it was planted on top of the hill above the pond. The bench was wet when he arrived, but that didn’t matter. Sitting down on it felt good.

The park was desolate, not even a sign of the caretaker. Bob was looking for the comfort and rejuvenation that being there often gave him. Instead, he felt a gnawing tightness in his shoulders and back. The abandoned park seemed eerily different.

Since last fall, the park had become a haven for him. He had been there before with his kids now and again. But he’d always had an eye on his watch and was relieved to get out of there. So it surprised him that driving home from work one afternoon in late September, he decided to pull off the main road and stop by the park. He could still picture what he saw that day—the trees with all of their yellows and reds and greens. Children played, and their parents called to them as he sat on this same bench, watching leaves fall on the pond. Then, quiet as a hawk riding the undercurrents, the caretaker came up from behind him.

Bob had seen the caretaker before, of course. The man carried his old age like a mountain climber carried a loaded backpack—hunched over from the weight of it, but never allowing the weight to interfere with the journey. He wore his hair shoulder-length and shaggy. His clothes were loose-fitting, and his face belonged in an oompah-pah band with its open-mouthed grin, puffy cheeks, and one eye that winked shut like Popeye’s. But Bob had never spoken to the man. The caretaker seemed the quiet sort, waving to passers-by, rarely lacking a smile, answering any questions put to him, but never engaging in small talk.

So Bob was caught off guard when the man shoved a bunch of wildflowers in his direction.

For your wife? The old man smiled broadly, his left eye clamping shut. Make her happy?

Excuse me? How did the guy know he was married? And what made him figure that Sylvia was short on happiness?

For your girlfriend? Your mother? The caretaker shook the flowers like a pair of maracas.

Ah, thanks. For my wife. You were right the first time.

Eyes sparkling, the man nodded his head. Then, just as he turned to leave, he said, Lucky guess. Make her happy? The question sounded more like a statement.

This noon-hour the caretaker was nowhere to be seen. Bob’s eyes rested on the pond. It was the color of ashes, reflecting a coal-gray sky. A V-shape spread out across the surface in the wake of a solitary duck. Bob imagined the orange webbed feet pushing back gallons of water in a one-two rhythm. Then his mind filled with the vision of a giant paddleboat. He saw himself on Norwich Lake, eight years old, furiously pumping the pedals. It was ninety-five degrees outside, but he had to prove to his father that he could cross the lake without help. His leg muscles burned,