All these years, he’d imagined that his father had thought him too short, slow, studious, undisciplined, soft, not man enough.
Now here the old fellow was.
To patch things up.
In his fashion.
Oh, Pa, Dad, Daddy, he thought.
His father dropped to the floor with that beautiful natural grace he’d always had and began running his hand through the long grass there as if combing it.
You afraid? his father said.
Yes, said my charge.
Of? his father said.
There within the orb of my charge’s thoughts, I felt the presence of a powerful wall that he felt must be continually maintained between himself and certain complicating admissions.
Admissions easily misunderstood by someone not in the know.
A hick, a yokel, a fellow confined all his miserable life to the merely local.
I did a lot of things, my charge said defensively. Important things. That needed doing.
I know it, said his father.
My charge cast a furtive glance at his father to see what all he knew. Some of it, Father wouldn’t like.
Father’s polestar being honesty.
An absolute, cornpone honesty. That brooked none of the complexity real accomplishment required.
Hence the failures.
The repeated failures.
Who’s this gal? his father said.
Nobody, said my charge. I don’t know.
What do you think, lady? his father said to me. Of this here fella?
(I was hesitant to say.
For my loyalty must reside with my charge, always.)
He has done well, I said. Traveled widely. Accomplished much.
What happened at Aarhus? his father said.
I don’t know that, said my charge.
But he did. He did know.
I could feel it.
Aarhus, his father said. Explain.
