The Father In Law

By   Cassidy Forest

 

He pushed his glasses up on his nose, that nose that pushed forward, and back into his dry eyes, which peered back to the book that he had not put down during the length of this conversation. He studied the book, and I studied him in anticipation.

“No.” he said firmly, and went back to his studying of the pages.

I calculated his word for a moment, waiting for some sign, a twitch or sigh that he might elaborate on his reasoning.

“Your daughter…”

“My daughter…” he cut me off. “ . . . needs a man who can take care of her.”

I paused, and thought for a moment before I spoke; these would be the determining words.

“I work for…” I began.

“I’m hungry,” he said abruptly, interrupting me mid-sentence. “May I please have a sandwich?”

I didn’t think this important and honorable try at courtship should be delayed by a sandwich, but decided that perhaps a meal would buy me a few more moments to explain myself while he ate. I headed into the kitchen, and pulled from the fridge a loaf of white bread, a package of turkey slices, mayo, mustard, and a slab of pre-sliced American cheese.  I pushed the ingredients together, and cut the sandwich diagonally, which I had noticed was a common practice in sandwich making here in the Midwest.

I placed the sandwich before him. He eyed it from behind his glass frames before turning his gaze to me. He held his eyes on my face, and I smiled. The gaze continued to be held until my smile drifted off, and I realized he was waiting for an addition to the standard turkey and cheese lunch. I thought: a napkin had been placed below the plate, and having seen him eat a sandwich before, I didn’t recall that he preferred the crusts cut off. So I stared back into his eyes, which didn’t move, while he waited for me to realize the error in my sandwich making.

“Oh yes, my apologies” I said as if I knew.

I rose, and headed back to the kitchen where I began searching for some insight into what would complete his meal. I opened the fridge, and my mistake became clear. With relief I poured a tall glass of milk and carried it back into the living room, where he continued to sit, and where the sandwich sat whole. I placed the milk down.

“Thank you.” he said, and sipped from the glass.

He lifted the plate to his face and looked into the sandwich.  He then stood up, placing the plate in my lap. I looked at the white bread, and then up into his stomach, which now was just a few inches from my face. He put his hand onto the longest part of his gut, and squeezed.

            “What does this look like to you?”

            “A man who enjoys a good meal?” I joked desperately.  I turned my head upwards, and smiled at a face that frowned down on me.

            “No.” he said.

            My smile turned back to questioning blankness as before; I would not joke again.

            “Your stomach?” I said.

            “DING DING!” He yelled. “We have a winner!”

            Ashamed and confused, I turned my face back to the comforting sandwich.

            “And what can you tell me about this stomach?”

            I hesitated, saying nothing.  

            “I can make you a new sandwich, what kind would you like?” I whispered.

            “I don’t want a new sandwich!” he yelled, turning his head away, his glasses nearly falling from his face.

            “Does this…” he grabbed his gut again, “Look like it needs this much mayo?”

            I grab the plate, and as I headed back into the kitchen, my phone started to ring.

            As I scraped off the mayo from the sides of the bread, I moved the phone with one hand to my ear. The extra mayo was on my fingers, and I felt it stick to the side of my ear as I opened the small device.

            “Hello?” I said.

            “Hey man!” It was Mike from back home. “How’s the home life treating you?” He chuckled, assuming the worst.

            “I can’t talk right now,” I whispered.

            “JESUS CHRIST…” I heard from the other room.

            I turned to try and see what had happened, but then turned just as quickly back to the sandwich in my hands, and attempted to get off the phone.

            “I can’t talk right now, I’m in the middle of something.”

            “Is her old man giving you the run-down?”

            “No, he’s just in a mood, it doesn’t happen very often, I…”

            The phone was grabbed from my ear by a wrinkly hand from behind me.  As I turned to see the old man start yelling into the phone, the sandwich almost slipped off the plate.

            “HE CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW, HE’S BUSY!”

            I heard Mike go silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he started yelling:  “You can’t treat him like that! I’m gonna…”

            The phone was snapped shut.  I stood in silence for a moment, the re-prepared sandwich in my hands; I didn’t take my eyes from it. I could hear him breathing.

            “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you…and you’re talking to your friends!”

            “I’m sorry.” I said. “He was just…”

            “I’ll bet you were telling them about how awful I am, right? About how hard it is to be living with somebody like me?”

            “No!” I said, “He was just seeing how…”

            “I don’t want to hear it,” he said as he turned away and headed out of the room.

            Again I stood in silence. I pondered the situation, and the events that had just transpired, and how I could ever possibly call this man my father-in-law. It occurred to me though, that it was me that had come to him for a conversation about his daughter, and I had agreed to make him a sandwich. So despite his harsh outburst and cruelty toward my friend, I might have led him on a bit, and failed to show enthusiasm about my intentions. Failed to show my readiness to be a potential husband. I also hadn’t shown my willingness to be a part of this family: I had failed to make him a proper sandwich, a simple task I should have gone into full-heartedly.

            “God damn it…” I said out loud. This is my fault. I’m trying to make this family work, and all I’ve done is mess it up so far.

            I returned to the living room and got his half-drunk glass of milk, then headed back to the kitchen and re-filled it. I readjusted the sandwich so it looked proper and good, and headed toward the bedroom where I had heard his footsteps trail off, followed by the slam of the door.

            I knocked two times before I tried the door; it was unlocked and opened when I pushed.  He was lying on the bed with his back to me, his face and body towards the wall in a still and un-approachable position. 

            “Hi.” I said quietly.

            He said nothing.

            “Look: I just want to say I’m sorry, you and the family mean a lot more to me than my friends, and I shouldn’t have put them first when I’m trying to talk with you.”

            I sat down on the bed next to him, but he didn’t move.

            “Look, I brought you some milk and a sandwich: light mayo, just like you like it.”

            He turned over and took the plate from me. His eyes were red, and I could see the sadness in his face. He was far away when he spoke.

            “Remember when you first came to dinner that one time?” he slowly said.

            “Of course.” I said, watching him take a bit of the sandwich.

            “I never told you this, but I really liked that suit you wore.”

            “It’s a good one.” I said, “One of my favorites.”

            “Why don’t you wear that anymore?”

            “I don’t know” I said, “I only wear it on special occasions; that was the first time I met you and…”

            “That’s what I’m trying to say,” he said as his eyes drifted.  “What happened to those special occasions? Used to be every time I saw you, you were dressed as if you were trying to impress me, but now it seems like you don’t care, like you’re just going through the motions.”

            “No, it’s not like that. I just think we have gotten comfortable together, I don’t need to try as hard.” I said.

            “…or try at all.” He interrupted. “I think maybe you’ve just gotten distant.”

            “No.” I said.  “It’s not like that at all. I just live far away, and don’t always have time to be here or contact you. I want to, but I can’t. I’m really trying to make a good impression, I want to show you I’m worthy.”

            He sits up.

            “Don’t tell me,” he said, “actions speak louder than words.”

            I’m silent. He got up, and left the room.

            He was right. My priorities were a mess, and I sometimes couldn’t shake the feeling of being alone in this attempt, and perhaps my feeling projected distance on those that I cared about.   There had been time when I looked at him and felt nothing but hope for my future. Nothing but delight that my world would be better being a part of this family.   But at some point my position as a possible provider for my future family had gotten the better of me, and all my focus was lost in thinking that I needed to work harder, strive for excellence faster and that I would do this alone.

            I heard a dish break in the kitchen downstairs.

            I skipped steps as I moved fast into the kitchen. The sun had set, and the yellow glow of the old bulbs in the antique chandelier lit the mayonnaise that clumped in bunches around the kitchen floor in the midst of broken glass.

            He stood above the sink, back to me,  his hands rigorously scrubbing a knife and the cutting board I had prepared the sandwich on. I looked at the glass and the white mayo that covered the dull tile. He continued to scrub.

            “Let me take care of…”

            “No…” he interrupted. “I’ve got it.”

            In my haste to better the situation, I had forgotten all about the dishes.

            “I really don’t mind,” I said.  I moved toward him, and he suddenly stopped moving, which in turn caused me to pause.

            “I’ve got it,” he said, more heated this time.

            There was silence again for a moment.

“This is you boiled down.” he said.

“What is?”

He held up the dirty cutting board.

 “Uncaring, only thinking of yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I was just distracted by our conversation.”

“Remember the first time we met?” he said. “You wore that suit, and afterwards you insisted on doing all the dishes, that showed me what kind of man you were.”

“I know,” I said, “but this is…”

“Different?” he asked.

            I was quiet.

“Different how?” he asked. “Different that you don’t care anymore? Different that you’re not willing to make an effort anymore? Different that you have grown so distant that you don’t even think of the little things to show you care? That you give a shit?”

            “They are just dishes…” I said.

            “They are just dishes.” He repeated back my words exaggerating and mocking each syllable.  “But they are just one of a hundred other things that show how much you consider, how much you think about.”

            He dropped the cutting board in the sink.

            “What I need is somebody who will be there, somebody who I don’t have to question their thoughts, and is considerate. Somebody I don’t have to wonder about. Somebody who will show, and not just say words.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said.

            “I’m done with your sorrys, they just don’t do it anymore.”

            He left the room, and I washed the dishes.

            I felt horrible and lost and undeserving. This man had done nothing but gave his complete trust to me, done nothing but gave me a chance to establish myself as a worthy life partner for his daughter, and I, unintentionally, or maybe intentionally, had blown my one chance at love. Maybe it was my upbringing, maybe it was just situational, but I’d failed my unrecognized test. I realized now that this was me.

            My tears joined the soapy water, and I scrubbed them into the cutting board.

            After I joined him in the living room, he sat at his record player with his eyes closed, and his large headphones wrapped around his head. I sat down beside him, but he didn’t open his eyes.

            “I know I’ve said this a hundred times,” I said, “but I’m sorry.  I’m sorry that I’m like this, and I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to the person you believed me to be. I tried, but I can see my effort isn’t good enough, and from that I can see that I’m not worthy or deserving. I can’t ask you for a second chance, just believe me when I say that you’ve shown me my faults, and I will do everything I can to change the way I am, to become a better person.  Even if I’m not allowed in, I will make it my goal to be better in life. If I could go back to after that first night we met, I would do everything different. I would come see you every weekend, and when I absolutely couldn’t make it, I would call a hundred times and write letters that lasted until my hand broke from my arm. Believe me when I say this, and believe me I now know regret.”

            I stood up, and turned from his closed eyes. As I walked away, a hand grabbed mine.  I turned, and his eyes were open.  There was silence for a moment, but this silence bore a warmth not found in the silences before.

            “I forgive you,” he said.

            We embraced.

            “I’m sorry,” I said.  tears streaming down my face.

            “I know.” He said.  “You can marry my daughter.”

            We cried together.

            The front door opened, and a voice called out into the house. The two women are home, and they both entered and gave us kisses on our cheeks. The old man and his wife left to unpack the groceries, and my fiancee and I headed upstairs to put away the newly bought clothes.  

            She hugged me, and looked into my eyes.

            “How was the day with my father?”

            “Wonderful” I said. “But is there anything I can do for you?”

            She thought for a moment before answering.

            “I’m starving,” she said. “Would you make me a sandwich?”

           

Cassidy Forrest Copyright 2009