He’d said that mine were.
“And your food situation?” I asked, recalling the inventory of canned goods I’d found in his apartment.
“You don’t ever forget what it’s like to be hungry. Even SPAM, which used to make me want to barf just opening the can. Seriously, it tastes like fucking dog food. But if I had the choice between being hungry or eating it, I’d hold my nose and do it.”
I’d never known anyone to trust me with their secrets so easily or present their authentic self without the airs and conceits I’d experienced with my friends and exes. He wasn’t trying to impress me, and yet, I was impressed.
On our hike we stumbled upon a forest canopy where a few species of wildflowers were in bloom. I plucked a Carolina Springbeauty and tucked it in his hair. Arden laughed like a sprite, his golden-brown waves teased by the cool breeze. I wanted to kiss him, bed him on the forest floor. I wanted to recite fucking poetry to him. But whenever I made any romantic overtures, he stiffened and pulled away, so I figured it best to amble on.
When we returned from our hike, Arden was subdued. His mood lasted throughout dinner. When we’d settled down to work again, I glanced up to find him staring at me with a peculiar expression. He still had the flower in his hair, though it was wilted now.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked. I thought he might be stuck on his writing.
“I need to show you something.” I nodded and waited for it. Arden continued, “It’s not something I can explain. You have to see it for yourself.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Are you cultivating a mystique right now?” I’d meant for it to be a joke, but his face remained grave.
“You don’t know who I am,” he said. “Or what I do.”
“I know enough. You’ve been very candid with me.”
“You don’t, though. My looks and manners are misleading you.”
“I don’t think that’s completely true.” It sounded like he was calling me shallow.
“You put a flower in my hair.” His tone was imploring, almost on the verge of begging.
“It suits you.” He was handsome without the adornment, but feminine touches looked good on him too.
“You think I’m someone worthy of romancing.”
He was so negative in his self-assessment. I went over to the couch and laid a hand on his knee. It was meant to be a comfort, but Arden shifted away.
“Is there a bar nearby?” he asked. “A pool hall, maybe?”
“There’s one off State Route 30. It’s a bit of a dive.”
“That should work. Let’s go there.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to show you who I really am.”
Part I.
The first time the boy laid eyes on his father, he thought the man was homeless. His graying, unkempt beard reminded him of a shorebird’s haphazard nest. His clothes were faded and well-worn, and his eyes were bloodshot—whether it was from bereavement or alcohol or the biting sea air, the boy didn’t know.
The man stood on the periphery of the funeral ceremonies, an unwelcome interloper, and the boy thought he’d come to their huddle to beg for spare change. The boy reached into his pocket to see if he had any coins, but no, these were new pants, bought especially for this occasion, so there was none of the detritus of boyhood he normally carried around with him. Only the soft, satin lining of pants that were not comfortable, that he did not want, that he had, in fact, fought viciously with his aunt just that morning when she’d insisted he wear them, before she brought him to this place and the service before it to gaze upon the empty shell of his mother and confront the fact that she was dead.
His mother was dead, and there was no one else to love him, only an aunt who barely tolerated him and a father so despised that no one ever spoke of him.
It was only afterward, when the homeless man approached the grieving family with his watery gaze set on the boy, that he realized this man may have known his mother, that he’d come here with a purpose.
“I’m your father,” the man said, speaking only to the boy. He avoided, very pointedly, the knife-like glare that the boy’s aunt was giving him. “What’d your mother end up naming you?”
