Demon

Ron

I park across the street from the scruffy little house, barely more than a shack, on the outskirts of Albuquerque. The yard is overgrown, but not so much so that the place actually looks abandoned.

I sit in my car, gazing at the front door, paralyzed by indecision. Do I really want to do this? The last time I talked to my Dad face to face, it did not go well. It was before we even moved from Albuquerque, so like eight or nine years ago. He was so mad at me for deciding to leave. He accused me of abandoning him, and not being helpful enough with my brother Ken.

Looking back on it, I understand it better. I think I have a broader perspective. Now that I’m a little older, and have gone through struggles of my own.

He was still grieving my Mom, who had died of cancer two or three years before that. I don’t think he could dig himself out of the hole of despair that he had been down since she died. He couldn’t think of anything but his grief, his struggle. He thought I was being entirely selfish in pursuing a job opportunity in San Diego. He said things to me that were utterly hateful.

I was very hurt. I made very little effort to stay in contact with him after that. Brenda had him on her annual Christmas letter list while we were still married, but presumably she stopped sending it to him after we got divorced. I honestly don’t know if he was even aware when Natalie was born.

The house looks sort of sad and lonely, sitting there on this isolated corner. It clearly hasn’t been painted in a long time. The roof looks like it could use some help. One of the window screens is broken and half hanging out of the window.

It seems like a reflection of my father, and of my relationship with him. I suddenly realize that I can’t just drive away. Brenda is right. I need to know that I have done everything I can. I fixed my relationship with her after it was thoroughly broken. Maybe there is hope for this one too.

I take a deep breath, and get out of the car. The wind bites at my face as I cross the street. I stand in front of the door for a moment before knocking.

There is no answer. I try knocking again. No answer.

The wind bumps against the broken window screen and bangs it against the wall.

I try one more time. If there’s no answer I will leave.

I hear someone moving inside. There’s the sound of door latches being lifted, then the door is opened just an inch or two. I see him standing inside, but can’t be sure it is really him, with the door barely opened.

“Hello?” I say.

“Who are you? What do you want?” It’s him. I recognize his voice, but it has changed. It is higher, wispier.

“Hi Dad. It’s me. Ron.”

The door opens further. He stares at me, shocked. He hasn’t shaved in a while. He seems shorter. Thinner. And older. Much older. Nearly a decade has passed, but he wears it like two.

“Ron.” He looks like he can’t believe what he is seeing.

“Yeah. I’m here in town with my family. I wanted to come and see how you are.”

He lapses into silence, and we stand awkwardly for another minute, he behind the door and me out in the wind on his porch. Finally, he moves back from the door and says, “Well, come on in.”

Wow. This is really happening. I enter, and am dismayed by the condition of the house. It smells terribly musty. There is so much clutter everywhere, we can barely move. He shuffles along in front of me, towards the kitchen. He shifts a pile of newspapers off of a chair in front of the table, and gestures for me to sit down. Then he kicks aside a pile of some kind of cloth, clothing maybe, to get to the one chair that isn’t covered in junk. After he sits down, he pushes aside the stacks of detritus on the table so we can see each other.

“Ron,” he says again.

“Yeah, it’s really me.”

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he says.

I nod. I don’t know what to say. Getting here and seeing him seemed like the biggest hurdle. Now I have to converse with him? How on earth am I supposed to do that?

’You still living in San Diego?”

“Yes, with Brenda and our kids.”

“Kids? Didn’t you just have one kid?”

“Yeah, but we have two now. Gabe is ten, and Natalie is seven.”

“What are you in town for?”

I am noticing more details. He is fussing with some of the papers on the table, and I see that he clearly has developed a significant tremor. He can barely clutch the magazine he is moving to the side of the stack on the table, his hand is trembling so hard.

I feel awkward as I explain to him what we are doing. I try to keep it as brief as possible. “Well, Brenda and I separated for a while, but we reconciled and are getting remarried. The wedding is here in town. Tomorrow.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Oh, I think I remember something about that?” He shifts more papers on the piles in front of him.

“Yeah, we sent you an invitation a couple of months ago. We didn’t hear back.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know where I put it. Probably here on the table.” He seems anxious, standing back up to access papers across the table.

“Dad, you don’t need to find it. If you want to come to the ceremony, I can just tell you the details.” I am realizing that he is even more of a wreck than the house. The entire dilapidated scene is depressing. How did it get this bad? Does Ken know about this?

“What? Oh, no, I couldn’t go. I don’t get out much.”

I try not to admit to myself that I’m relieved. I couldn’t imagine him showing up in Margaret’s church in this condition. But now that I’m here, I need to try to figure out what is going on. I realize that if I had stayed in contact with him, I might have been able to help prevent him from deteriorating so badly.

Great. Another thing for me to feel guilty about. This one might not be quite so directly my fault, but clearly I must share some responsibility for this situation.

“So, Dad, tell me how you’ve been. What’s been going on?”