geography lesson

This post comes directly from last night's dream. It proved haunting and powerful enough that I remembered it upon waking, and I figure, anything with that kind of staying power could stand a bigger audience.

"You are not going out there."

"He has to remember. I'll talk something out of him."

"And what do you think I've been doing this whole time? I'm helpless here. You don't know. You've been away."

"Ten minutes. He'll catch on."

"I give you less than five, and that's not my choosing." Sis is on the kitchen stool, hands pressed into the pockets of her jeans. "The neighbors called the cops, after it happened. Called right from this phone and I let 'em. Like to see you try different. On and on, no fucking release."

"Yeah, great story," I say, turning. "Sing it." And I push my way to the door, open the latch, out onto the step. The screen door bangs behind me, and I am pounding, pounding my way down the driveway, thinking ahead. Fifteen feet away I stop and finally look up.

He's so small here in front of me. All my life I've had a giant for a father, not this, this is hard to understand. It's not the wheelchair, it's not how he strains his frame out of it, leaning. It's not even his face; his face was always somewhat indecipherable, hiding from me and surprising me at whim, a certainty masked by eyes and creases that never changed. Now, as I study him closely for the first time in many years, I consider that it must be the newness of it all. We have been here before, the two of us. Only then he not only wanted to stand, but walk, and shuffle, and I learned to keep my distance because I knew he was in a good place, a sense of time and movement he held sacred. And now, now it all had gotten out of hand for us, and it no longer mattered where he was or whether he wanted to stand, and I'm here useless at the other end of fifteen feet.

"Hey Dad." I move my hand up as if to wave, but don't.

He hasn't moved. One eye might be on me. I can't tell.

"Hey." I wave this time. He lolls his head over in my direction, stares, and lifts his left hand, middle finger raised at me. I had heard he's been doing this. And yet I am too stunned to know what to do next.

I finally say "Hey" again, as if to emphasize a point, then: "Well it looks like this is working out for you here. Sis says you're none too talkative lately but sometimes that's the way of it. Things change and it's hard to keep track until it's time. I mean six years ago I could barely even...well, you remember how it was." I realize that I'm talking to him like I used to talk to my nieces, before they could talk. "Sorry. I was just assuming."

This isn't going well. His hand has gone down but that may be because he's tired. He looks at me like I'm a bug.

"So good news. I'm done with school. A few weeks ago actually. Near the end there I was all up in my head, you know, brain just so filled up with stuff that sometimes has flashes of brilliance and sometimes I'm thinking what the fuck who am I to think I can capture all this, and during the defense I noticed I was drawing a blank while I was speaking. Terrifying, you know. But I guess I've always had a talent for sounding like I know more than I do. Well. I'm a Doctor now. Of Geography." I wait half a second for laughter; none is forthcoming from either of us. "You know. Geography, study of everything on the earth's surface. Way to narrow down my interests right? We talked a lot about that. You got into that excited conversation and I loved watching you then. There were just so many places you could go with it."

"No." His first word nearly knocks me over. There is no change in his expression, his stature, the word seems to have escaped from him by accident.

I soldier on. "It was beautiful, you said. Drawing all this meaning out of the littlest things in life. Like when you first moved here. Do you remember when you first moved here?"

"We were stupid," he says, mouth snapping open and shut with careful deliberation. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." He looks down at my shoes, then up again. "Goddamn hellhole."

"Okay, but do you remember the neighborhood? You remember what it looked like then?"

"No."

"It looked a lot like it does now."

"No."

I'm thinking back to my research. "When you first walked outside of the house on that first day, what did you see? Was it raining, was it sunny? Did you see other people, did you see cars or bikes? Could you see the lake, the TV towers?"

"Saw a dog."

This answer surprises me. We've talked many times, many years ago, about that first day, and he's never mentioned a dog.

"Okay. A dog. What kind of--"

"Saw a dog. Dog just came round. Came round all the time."

"Was it a--"

"Came round. All the time."

I think of The Little Prince. There's a geographer in there, but he's an inadvertent bad guy. Your flower is ephemeral, he says. What's ephemeral? the Little Prince asks. And he learns that it's everything we don't care about. Like how I already don't care about this dog. I am waiting for some context but there's nothing. I finally think up a good question. "Was the dog on a leash? Was it unleashed? Was it a stray?"

He looks at me and doesn't answer. I realize that is probably too many questions at once. "Was the dog on a leash?"

"Don't matter."

Actually it does matter, I think, we could talk here about the geography of city ordinances, of social norms, we could talk about the geography of capital and ideas of property and ownership, we we could dredge up all this history and social changes and pinpoint exactly where you were in it, where you are in it, now. But I refuse to keep launching the conversation. I want him to tell me. "Was the dog on a leash?"

"Don't matter."

"Dad, you must know whether the dog was on a leash or not."

"Don't matter," and at this point he turns his head away sharply. He seems to be hearing something.

"Dad. Please."

He visibly gulps. "It don't. Matter." And now I hear it too. There are cars turning onto our street. Recognizable.

"Dad. Just listen. You know this, I know you know. Just tell me, was the dog on a leash. Tell me, was the dog on a fucking leash, that's all I want to know."

He swerves his head back at me, mouth open. "I..." And suddenly there's water in his eyes.

"Dad. Dad. I'm sorry. It's okay. Just...just stop saying...if you don't want to answer the question, then just say it. Just say, I don't want to answer the question. Okay?"

But the water is coming down now, faster and faster, and his elbows start beating against the shell of his wheelchair, and his hands slam up and down on his knees, and he wheezes, and he gulps, and there's water building up in his mouth now too.

And the cars are pulling up. And the men are getting out. And he doesn't see them at all, he is all water coming out of everything.

"Dad. Dad. We love you. We love you."

But he's shaking now, and as the hands come on him, around him, he shakes and shakes and both of his fists stick straight out with extended middle fingers, at me, at them, and then there is pounding all around me, noises at my ears and eyes and throat, there are yells and movements, and in a surprising moment I find myself down near the ground, I find my arms wrapped around my stomach, and the only words in my head keep blinking, on and off, on and off, it don't matter, it don't matter, it don't matter.