HENRY AND DAISY

      It turned out not to be a normal Saturday. From upstairs we heard Dad call down to us, “Boys, we’re going on a drive today. Put on something decent. There’s a couple of people I want you to meet.” That was it, no discussion. He had used his Marine Sergeant voice, and when he did, which was not often, you complied. My brother, Bill, sixteen, and two years older than me, shot me a look that asked, “what’s going on?” With a shrug, I replied, “I don’t know.” Going on a family drive wasn’t in our playbook. Something must be up. We got dressed, and a few minutes later we were in the car heading to some unknown destination. Dad rolled his window down and lit a cigarette, resting his elbow on the sill, flicking the ash out the window from time to time. Several minutes went by, still without conversation or explanation. From the backseat, I could see dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked serious but gave no clue as to what this mystery journey was all about. Finally, my curiosity bursting at the seams, I leaned forward from the backseat and asked,
       “Dad, where are we going?” Crushing his cigarette butt in the ashtray, he said, 
       “You’ll know soon enough. Just hold your horses.”
        I looked over at Bill, sitting shotgun in the front seat, staring out his window. I could tell he was listening. Then dad went on,
       “Let’s get out of Portland first and across the bridge.” 
       “What bridge, the Sellwood Bridge, the Morrison?” I asked.
       “No. Just sit back and be quiet for a little while. Okay?” 
       “But, why…”
       “Can you do that?”
       “Okay.”
       It was a cloudless late summer morning in Northwest Oregon. Leaving Lake Oswego, we skirted through Portland, following the Willamette River north to the old bridge that connected Portland to Vancouver, Washington. I had always thought of Washington the way you’d think of a foreign country, distant and far away. But in fact, it was only across the river from Portland. Crossing the bridge, I was struck by how massive the Columbia River was. It seemed to take forever to get to the other side. Once in Washington, we stayed on the highway that shot us past Vancouver, and within a few minutes, we were out on the open road. The landscape was dry from the hot August summer but framed by Douglas Firs in the distance. Scattered farms with lonely mailboxes punctuated the countryside, lingering in solitary distance from the road on which we were traveling.
       There was hardly any traffic to speak of, just the occasional old pick-up truck rumbling from the other direction, or a slow-moving tractor creeping along the side of the road, but otherwise, the land outside felt forgotten. Dad lit another cigarette and rolled down his window again. We were on a long straightaway when he finally broke the silence.
       “Boys, I’m taking you to meet my parents.” There was a stunned second of silence, then Bill shifted around, looked at dad, and said,
       “What?”
       “I’m taking you to meet my parents.” 
       Pulling myself forward from the backseat again, I said, “Parents?”
        And dad said, “Yes, parents.” A few more seconds passed, then Bill asked,
       “They’re alive?
       “Yes, they’re alive,” dad said.  
        “How come we never knew that?” Bill asked again.
       “We always thought they were dead a long time ago,” I said.
       “Well, they’re not,” dad said. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window and slowed the car down to the speed limit. We were still on a long two-lane highway that looked like it would go on forever. Every now and then little miniature dust haboobs dotted the brown fields off in the distance, spinning briefly until they disappeared. 
       “How come we never met them?” Bill asked.
       “Because I ran away from home when I was seventeen, and never went back.” 
       “You ran away from home? I asked. “Why?”
        “Because when I was twelve years old I found out I was adopted, and I found out in a hard way.” 
       “You were adopted?” Bill asked. We both looked at Dad and then at each other in disbelief.
       “Yes.”
       “What happened to your real parents?” I asked, trying to comprehend what Dad was saying.
       “They couldn’t keep me. For their own reasons. And my mom and dad wanted a child, but couldn’t  have one of their own, so they adopted me when I was a baby.”
       “What was the hard way you found out?” Bill rarely asked any questions, but family history was uncharted territory for us.
        Dad took a moment before answering, then said, “We lived on a farm, a small farm. It’s where I’m taking you now. We should be there soon. We were poor, but all in all, a content family. One day I was playing in the backyard. It had rained a bit earlier, and for some reason, I can’t remember why, I came rushing into the kitchen from the back door, excited to tell my mother something. Maybe I’d caught a bullfrog, It doesn’t matter. But I had completely forgotten that I had muddy boots on, and before I could reverse myself, I slid to a stop in front of her, leaving two wet streaks of mud behind me. Standing there with mop in hand, mom looked at what I had just done to her floor and screamed, 
       “God dammit! Get out! Get out! You stupid boy! Look what you’ve done! You’re a stupid, stupid boy. You’re not even my real son! Now, get out!”
       It was quiet for a moment, except for the wind whipping through Dad’s open window. Then Bill asked, “What happened after that?”
        Dad said, “I stood there, looking at the rage on my mother’s face, not believing what I had just heard. I loved her so much and I couldn’t understand what she had just said. But she screamed again, even louder, “Get out!” jabbing at me with her mop. I ran out of the house as fast as I could and raced into the barn, hiding in the back where no one could find me. And I cried all the rest of the day. I kept hearing her words, “you’re not my real son,” over and over again.” By the time the sun was going down, I was all cried out. But I had made two decisions. First, I promised myself that I would never cry again. And second, that as soon as I could, I would leave the farm and never look back.”
       “How old were you when you ran away?” Bill asked.
       “Seventeen. I set off to the nearest recruiting station and joined the Marines. I lied about my age but they didn’t seem to care. I knew there was a war coming with the Japanese because I had a subscription to Time magazine, which I read front to back every week. Anybody with half a brain knew that it wouldn’t be long before the fireworks began. It was August 1941, and I knew that if I joined then, by the time the first shots were fired, I’d have some rank. At least above a private. When war was declared December seventh, I was already a buck sergeant. And eight months later, the following summer, the first contingent of Marines were shipped to the south pacific to begin the fight with the Japanese. And I was with them.”
       “You fought the Japanese?” I asked.
       “Yes, I did.”
       “Did you…”
       But dad cut me off. “I’ll tell you those stories some other day.”
       Another long silence, then Bill asked,
       “How come we’re meeting your parents now?”
       “Because it was dumb of me to have stayed away all these years. And I want them to meet you before it’s too late.”
       Another silence, and then dad said, “There it is.”
       Looking up ahead, there was off in the distance from the main road, a single house. It was old and grey, standing alone, shaded by a dull green stand of trees. Situated on a flat field of dry dirt, it looked as if it was waiting to inhale its last breath before crumbling back into the earth.
       As we pulled into their driveway, Dad said. “Their names are Henry and Daisy.” I sat back in my seat. “My middle name is Henry,” I said quietly.
And as we got closer to their house, we saw them step out onto the porch and gently wave to us. Dad brought the car to a stop, and we all got out, and we all said hello. They were both very soft-spoken, and their movements were slow and careful. Henry invited us in and Daisy asked if we would like some lemonade. Bill and I said yes, and then Henry invited us to take a seat in the living room. 
       After bringing us our lemonade, Daisy returned to the kitchen, which was just feet away, where Henry and dad were in conversation. It was hard to make out what they were saying, talking softly as they were. But it was easy to see that dad was leading their conversation. He seemed to be trying to make sure that Henry and Daisy were okay. Bill and I sat quietly on an old couch, sipping our drinks, just listening as best we could, taking in the old furniture and faded landscape prints on the walls. From where I was sitting, I could see in dad’s face a gentleness in his expression. And I could hear a kindness in the tone of his voice. He was taking care of them. After many years away, nearly two and a half decades, he had come back home. He never explained why. Never explained what happened to make him decide to return. It was doubtful Daisy had ever tried to make it up to Dad for breaking his heart that painful day when he was twelve years old. Something had changed in Dad. His long-ago hurt was no longer important. I always loved him, but that day I was seeing a side I’d never seen before. Though I couldn’t have put words to it then, what I felt was pride. I saw what it means to be a good man.
       Two months later Henry died, and Dad moved Daisy into our suburban house. Within a month, she had declined rapidly into severe dementia. One day I came home from school, and Pat, my stepmother, said she didn’t know where Daisy was, would I please help find her? I went outside and looked up and down the street, but she wasn’t to be seen in either direction. Then, I thought I heard her voice. It was coming from the house across the street. There was a double garage with the double doors open. I walked up the driveway and the closer I got, the more distinct became Daisy’s voice. It sounded like she was talking to someone. Entering the garage, there she was, in the far corner, pressed up against the wall, her face just an inch away from the sheetrock siding. She was trying to walk through the wall, her little feet tapping against the wall with each step. I walked over to her and said, 
       “Grandma, what are you doing?” And she said, in soft desperation, 
       “I’m going home.”