GOODBYE, DAD

       The air was cool and sharp and unusually dry for Houston, Texas. The sun was just up on that Saturday morning in June and the humidity wouldn’t be long in coming. I wanted to get as far west as I could before it set in. Fastening two backpacks to the rear of my motorcycle with crisscrossing straps, I pulled them tight, double-checking to make sure they were securely fastened. Then I started the engine, giving it a couple of minutes to warm up before beginning the two thousand-mile journey back to Oregon.
        Swinging my leg up and over, I straddled the seat, listening to the low steady purr of the motor. It sounded good. After putting on goggles, I was reaching for my helmet hanging on the handlebar, when the back door of the house opened and Dad emerged. He crossed through the carport and stopped a few feet from me with his subtle smile that always seemed to project confidence in the possible. But this time I noticed a shade of sadness in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a credit card, handing it to me he said, “Just in case.” A brief moment passed between us and I noticed there was a folded fifty-dollar bill clipped to the card. 
       “Dad. I saved enough working at the Mobil station.”  
       “I know,’ he said, “but you never know. Treat yourself to a motel or two. You’re going to want to take a shower along the way. Trust me. And go ahead and buy a decent meal from time to time.”
        I looked at him, and we shared another quiet moment.  
       “Okay,” I said, “but I’ll only use it if I have to. And I’ll pay you back.” Taking his card and the fifty, I shoved them into my jeans, then lifted up my helmet and strapped it on. We shook hands, and Dad stepped back a little. 
      Not taking his eyes off of me, he watched as I downshifted into gear. Above the increased growl of the engine, I heard him say, “You be careful.”  I nodded and shouted back, “Goodbye, Dad.” Releasing the clutch, I left the last home I would ever share with him.    

  Dad had landed a high-paying job in Houston the previous summer, so we left Oregon and moved to that sweltering city.  That was ten months earlier and I had just completed my junior year at Westchester High.  On my first day at this respectable school, I was accused of being a shit-kicker.  It was the lunch hour and I sat alone, leaning against a tree when two friendly-looking girls walked up to me.  Grateful for the possibility of making new friends, I said hello. They looked me over for a few seconds, then one of them, staring at my boots, asked, “Are you a shit-kicker?”  There was so much contempt in her voice I felt stunned.  Never having heard that word before I asked, “What’s a shit-kicker?” They turned away laughing and the other one said, “He even sounds stupid.” The rest of the year didn’t get any better. I made a few fast friends, but I never stopped missing Oregon.

  A few short weeks after arriving in Houston, I began receiving letters from Gloria. They weren’t long, but enough was said to soften the loneliness I felt. I wrote her back late at night, careful not to say too much. 
      We carried on this correspondence for a couple of months, until one day, coming home from Westchester High, Dad confronted me in the living room. He was furious. Stepping to me, stabbing his finger toward my face, he exploded,
       “No more! Do you hear me? No more!” Dad fixed his eyes on mine fiercely. “It stops now! Right now!”
       Nothing else was said in that shattering moment. After a beat, he turned and went upstairs. 
        The intensity of his anger still ringing in my ears, I stood motionless until I heard Dad slam his bedroom door. Only then did I move carefully upstairs to my room, and there on the bed was the small bundle of letters from Gloria. I had hidden them under the mattress, assuming they were safely tucked away from any other eyes. But someone had obviously searched my room, and I knew it wasn’t Dad. That left Pat, my stepmother.  Confronting her for violating my privacy would be out of the question given the secret that had been revealed. Laying low was my only option. Sitting at my small desk, I thumbed through the letters and then bundled them back up with the large rubber band.      

        Two years earlier, back in Oregon, Gloria and I were lying in bed, when she turned to me.
       “I probably shouldn’t tell you this …” She stopped and looked up at the ceiling. 
       “What?” 
       “Your father tried to date me.” 
       “What?” I asked in confusion.
       “It was a few years ago, before I married David when I was still Miss Hendrickson. I was teaching English at the junior high, your brother was having trouble, so your Dad came to a parent/teacher night. We met and discussed the situation. A few days later I received a note from your Dad asking me out. I didn’t respond. Several days went by and he sent a second note asking me out, again. The notes were polite and respectful, but I didn’t think I should date a parent of one of my students.”
        Struggling to digest what I’d just heard, I said nothing. 
       “What happened after that?” I asked Gloria.
       “Nothing,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “ That was the end of it. I just thought you should know.”

  I stopped at the far end of the carport and turned to look back. Dad was still standing there. He waved, and I waved back.