My father tells two stories every time we have company over. 

—I went to one of my son’s volleyball games last year, he begins, sometimes even before the food is on the table.  It took me a while to find the gym – it’s a confusing building, you know – but I just started saying to people, Hi, my name’s Jim and I’m looking for the gym; and sure enough…  

Laughter.  Empty coffee cups.  Yellowing teeth.  He should make a foray into politics: the socially grotesque, heavy on the make-up, fit right in.

—So when I finally found the gym, he continues, there was my son, warming up with all his team-mates.  But when the actual game started, he just sat on the bench while the other guys all got up and played. 

Cluck, cluck go the visiting mother hens: pity through sieves of laughter.  Jim, they say, go easy now.  True story, he says, and I watched him sit there for two whole quarters.  But after the second I couldn’t take it anymore.

Waiting, waiting, nibble—jerk!  Hooked: so what did you do, Jim?

—I’ll tell you what I did, he says, I had a man to man talk with his coach during the break, and what do you know?  There was my son, playing the last quarter!
Wow Jim, you’re so brave Jim, la dee da Jim.  More coffee?  Yes please, I’ve run dry.  The game?  I think they lost, I don’t remember.

Cold bench.  Warm-up sweat sticky now, uncomfortable.  Angry coach, bald-beet face, bellowing the ref.  You there, you’re on.  Take Maki off, he’s playing horribly.  Front middle.  Remember: arms together, knees bent.  Clammy fish-hands, wipe them quickly, black mesh shorts.  Sneaker-squeaks.  Waiting.  Bang!  Ball up, ball up, it’s me, oh shit it’s me.  Got it.  Weak touch, got it to him.  Blam!  Strong guy in the front drives down a point.  Arms tingling, red splotches spreading.  High-fives by the net.  Teamwork.

Small talk, knives squeaking: food is served.  He’s finished first, like always.  Vacuum cleaner.  Huge mouthfuls of whatever, down the hatch.  My wrestling instructor in high school was strong as an ox, he says.  Told me to get down on the matt in front of the class.  Wanted to demonstrate a new flip.  This is how you do it, he said, but I didn’t move.  Right, no, sorry, he said, I did it wrong, it’s done like this.  Once again, can’t flip me.  So there we are, grunting and sweating for fifteen minutes in front of the class, demonstrating a new move.  Alright Jim, he says finally, just lie still and let me show the class alright?

Laughter, chuckles and squawks.  That’s amazing Jim, you’re so strong Jim, tum diddly dee Jim.  One more cup before you go?  Sounds good, can’t say no to that.  Let’s move to the sofas, how ‘bout it?  They leave, grinning, cat-like and sedated, to the other room.  Kids, could you clean up?  No reply, staring sullenly at dirty plates.  Great, thanks.  Thanks for nothing is the theme. 

I do the dishes with my sister.  Then I climb the pink-carpeted stairs to lie on my bed.  High-pitched cackling bounces off the walls, following me.  Close the door, still hear them, turn on some music.  Dear Dad, I write, you don’t give a shit about me.  Paragraph after paragraph, mental dialogue: what he says, what he means, what I know.

—Oma and Opa didn’t raise me to have regular heart-to-hearts.
            (Parent’s fault.  Innocent by-product.)

Oh please.

—It’s really difficult to communicate when you’re away at school.

(Your fault: school too far, flights too expensive: you should have thought about the price of plane tickets before you chose to go so far away.)

Hey honey, why don’t we build a deck and buy a new barbecue?  Backyard waterfall, no problem.  Vacation: Florida perhaps?

—Why don’t you just send me pieces of your poetry?  You never share it with me.

(I’m showing interest in you, let me in: good father, horrible teenager.)

Before I left home: do you want a pat on the back, or my real opinion?  Son, good Christian boys don’t write about magic.  Nice poem, now could you go set the table?  There’s no money in poetry.  Have you considered math…? 

—When was the last time you came to visit me at the office?
            (See, look!  You don’t show interest in me either.)

Hard to show interest in something that’s a higher priority than me.

Finish the letter, leave it on his pillow: lovingly honest.  Truth hurts when you’re not used to it.  Come with my mom during work hours, take my stuff.  Filling empty boxes, heart pounding, black spots, strange panic.  Got to leave, got to get out.  The time has come.  My old room, baby blue, sucked dry in ten minutes: three boxes and a laundry hamper full.  Spit out the bones.  Leave them strewn about on the floor for them to find, bits and pieces of a younger me.

I answer the phone later that evening.  It’s him.

Hello Jim, I say. 

I listen, read between the lines, and hang up the phone while he’s still talking.