Homecoming

By Marti Parker

Dad relaxed once we were in the car. He’d always liked driving, and now riding. He lost his license two years ago after close encounters with a telephone pole, a stop sign, and the back of a school bus. All in one afternoon. Losing his license was the final castration after a series of losses: retirement, widowhood, arthritis, and the slow, painful decline in memory. Last year, after a bout of dehydration and then a fire in the kitchen, he wasn’t able to protest too vehemently when I made arrangements for him to move into a home.  

I drove into town, past spacious yards on streets lined with stately oaks and colorful maples. The trees were turning now. Living in the city, I’d hardly even noticed the arrival of autumn. Roger and I were proud owners of a townhouse with a stamp-sized backyard. But I still fantasized about which house, and which yard, I would like to have if I could ever move back to my hometown. Maybe a house with a bedroom on the ground floor for Dad. Or maybe not. I didn’t have the patience. Or whatever it would take to face his pain, his loss, day after day. 

“Where are we going?” Dad broke into my thoughts. 

“We’re going to the St. Regis College chapel.”  

“Am I going to play?” 

“No.” The chapel boasted both an organ and a grand piano and was renowned for its excellent acoustics. My father and his students had put on innumerable concerts there. I knew he missed playing a grand. The home only had room for an upright. “We can ask Chaplain Porter if you can play afterwards. After the memorial service.”

“Memorial service?”

“That’s right.”

“Who died?”

I had already explained on the phone last week, again last night, and at least twice this morning. “Doug Hollister.” The name caught in my throat.

“Who?” His voiced boomed in the confined space of my compact car.

“Doug Hollister, the art professor.”

“Oh. Him.” He snorted and stared straight ahead, down the road.

Still simmering, after all these years. He probably hadn’t seen Doug since the last emeritus luncheon he attended several years ago. Even there they would have avoided each other, never an overt confrontation, never a conflict, just two male dogs, circling, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.