|
|
|
PHILIP'S POEM By Michael Lee Smith
Winner of the 1994 Tulsa Library Short Fiction Award
Ed was up far too early. She watched him covertly, his stooped shoulders silhouetted against the window. He was trying not to wake her, rising slowly from the bed, but the springs gave him away. He shuffled to the chair and eased into it. His head went down and he studied the floor for a moment. Looking for his slippers. "They're in the closet," she said after letting him look another moment. He grumbled something she didn't hear. "What?" He said, "I know that." Got up, walked into the bathroom and closed the door. He'd been forgetting things lately. Lately? About the last year or so. Maybe that was what had happened with Philip. Maybe he'd forgotten why he'd disowned their youngest son almost twenty years ago. That might explain the surprise phone call he placed last Wednesday night. She had walked into the den, and there he'd been, sitting in the recliner, talking on the phone. After a moment he looked up and said: "Philip wants to talk to you." Had he said, "God wants to talk to you," she couldn't have been anymore shocked. Her knees went wobbly as she stepped forward and took the phone. She looked into Ed's eyes but he looked away. Philip was crying, of course. "He asked me to come home," Philip said between sobs. It was a wet conversation, from both ends of the line. But not Ed. He got up from the chair and ambled out of the room as if the phone call was nothing special, as if he talked to Philip on a regular basis. As if twenty years had never happened. Philip's flight from San Francisco was coming in this afternoon. Since Wednesday night she'd been in a flurry of subdued preparation. Everything she'd done had been with repressed elation, fearing that any demonstration of excitement might cause Ed to change his mind. Remember. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed. Ed came out of the bathroom and went into the closet. After a moment of fumbling he emerged with his slippers in his hand. He stood in front of her in his pajamas with his rumpled hair. "I knew where they were," he said. "Yes, dear." She'd give him anything if it meant that today would culminate in completeness. If he would let her have today. In the kitchen she poured their coffee. He sat at the table looking out the window. When she set his in front of him and he looked up at her, she sensed something unusual in his eyes. In their silver-blue depths she thought she detected something she hadn't seen in a long time. Excitement? Anticipation? Went to the cabinet and got his heart medicine. Then she made him some toast. Last night she had been brave. Brave enough to get the old family photographs down from the closet shelf. Brave enough to take them into the den where she set them on the coffee table and began going through them. Ed was watching TV. He got up and went to the bathroom, and when he came back, he stood for a moment in front of her. She handed him a picture of the two of them, taken years ago on a vacation to The Grand Canyon. Their honeymoon. "Movie stars," he said, brightening. "But I can't recall their names." He was teasing. She had been holding her breath. She exhaled. "No. Just two kids in love." Then he sat down beside her. She had been hoping, and preparing; the handful of photographs were in a particular order, an order devised to warm him up to the ones including Philip. "Look," she said, "Mary, on her first day of school." Mary was their oldest child. Ed nodded. "Patrick, at Boy Scout camp." "Wasn't that when he thought he got snakebite?" "Yes, but remember, it was just two chigger bites, close together." Ed smiled. She stopped. His memory. It seemed very complete tonight. Perhaps she was making a mistake. She took a breath, then continued. Five photographs later was one with Philip. She passed it to him, then quickly passed him another. But he held it. She was frightened to look at him. "What does he look like now?" Ed asked. She swallowed and glanced sideways at him. "He's got a bald spot like you do." She knew Ed was aware that she had continued to see Philip. Years ago they had begun taking separate vacations, and she had always used hers to visit their youngest son. They had never spoken of it. "He liked that bike," Ed said, holding the picture. Yes, that's what Ed would like to think. That Philip loved mechanical things, when in reality, it was the artistry, "the movement and grace," as Philip had said. "Anything with wheels," Ed added. "Anything that rolled." Philip owned a small bicycle factory now. And he designed the bicycles. That was his love. She became bolder, reaching into the box for more pictures, then she found it—a folded sheet of notebook paper. She knew what was written on it, a poem. A poem Philip had written to Ed when he was thirteen. A poem Philip had left for his father one Sunday afternoon on the kitchen table. She could never forget the look on Ed's face when he read it; he had stood up, embarrassed, or so it seemed, then averting his gaze from her—a look of such discomfort that it had resembled anger. He went outside and stayed until long after dark. She had read it. It was a poem about love. A son's love for his father. She never mentioned the poem again; although she didn't fully understand the full scope then, or Ed's reaction, she knew it had had a strong & negative impact on him. And she'd let it lie. Now, as she held it, she realized she was holding it and had been for a moment or two. She felt Ed's gaze on the side of her face. He was staring at her with a look she couldn't decipher. "My gentle son," he said, then stood up and walked from the room. She thought she had ruined it. The re-appearance of the poem had brought back his memory. But that was last night. And it hadn't been ruined, she realized as the toast popped up. Ed was still going to allow Philip to come home. Somehow she knew. She sensed it this morning. And beyond, she sensed anticipation in Ed. As hard as it was to believe—he had finally accepted Philip and his lefestyle. She handed Ed the plate and said, "Here, take your medicine." She was expecting the usual grumble, but he said: "I'm going to give him the Buick." It took her a long moment to form words on her lips. "Your car, Ed?" His most prized possession, A '56 Roadmaster. "Hell, I never drive the old thing anyway." He looked down into the plate. "He always loved it. Remember how he used to wax it every Saturday to get his allowance? Clean those goddamned wide white-wall tires." "He'll be so thrilled," she said. Not about getting the car, though, about getting his father back. "He'll be so thrilled, Ed." After breakfast, Ed pulled the Buick out of the garage and washed it. She watched from the living room window. Then she began preparing Philip's favorite meal, meatloaf, of all things. Later, when she looked out again, Ed was sitting on the front porch. He only did that when he was expecting someone, anticipating their arrival. Otherwise, he'd be out in the garden, or in the garage piddling around. A leaf fell from the Oak tree beside the driveway and floated onto the hood of the Buick. Ed got up, shuffled slowly to it, and with care, brushed the leaf off. She smiled. It was a new smile, one that felt so different. It seemed as if she'd been drugged these last twenty years—and now she was coming out of it. She went back into the kitchen and began making the pumpkin pie. Philip should be here in about thirty minutes. Would Ed really accept him? Or would Philip's physical presence, something he might say or do, somehow overwhelm Ed's ability to accept him? She thought about that as she finished the pie and put it in the oven. Then she went back out to the front porch. Ed was sitting in the rocker, his head lolled to the side. She stood looking at him for a moment, then she realized. "Oh, no." He was too pale. She just knew. She grabbed his arm! His skin was cold. "No, Ed." She gazed at him, touched his forehead softly, then looked out into the yard, and to the street. Philip would be here any minute. The tears came then, and through them she rushed into the house, into the bedroom and into the closet where she kept the photographs. She threw the box on the bed and tore through it. She found it. Philip's poem. Outside, on the porch, she opened Ed's hand, placed the poem in it, moved it to his chest where Philip would see it, find it. Gently she squeezed Ed's fingers closed. Ed would have had the poem. If he knew what was going to happen to him, he would have had it in his hands when Philip came. So it was only right. She knew. She went into the living room where she could see them through the picture window. There she waited. Waited for Philip. And waited for Philip to see his father again.
| ||
Contact Us! with questions or comments about this web site. |
