Who is that Strange Man?

Have you ever felt like someone you don’t know is watching you? I know that sounds a little paranoid, and I would probably assume that a person asking me that question was leaning that way mentally. But to rearrange slightly an old saying, ‘You’re not paranoid if someone you don’t know is actually watching you.’

The first time I noticed this was when I was in a doughnut shop, blue Covid mask on and shouting what I wanted in a bagel. You might think that asiago is easy to say and be understood, but the server thought I said, ‘As you go’, the first time I ordered, and replied with “huh”. After I said clearly and quite loudly ass-ee-ah-go, and received an “oh right” response, I caught a glimpse of a man in a black mask staring right at me. I thought at the time that he was just reacting to my loud voice. I’m not usually that loud. I am a very shy person generally, so I thought that I was to blame for the stare.

The second time engaged my paranoia much more. I was in my local grocery store, at the checkout counter when I saw him again. He turned his head when he caught me looking his way. I recognized him. I wish that I had possessed the nerve to approach him and ask him what he is doing. But I could not muster up the courage. My mother had taught me as a child never to talk to strangers if I could help it. I have carried that lesson with me all me life. I am in my early twenties now, and I still follow that rule. And I still live at home, even though I have a fairly decent job as a computer programmer.

As soon as I paid my bill, I scrambled out the door, not even thinking of looking back a the man wearing the black mask. 

My mother raised me on her own, not something that she ever complained about, at least within range of my hearing. She was then and remains to this day a strong woman. When I noticed as a child that other kids had fathers, I asked her what happened to mine. She simply said, “He just wilted away.” At the time I imagined him getting smaller and more shrivelled like plants in the fall. I had seen people intimidated by her, grocery clerks, my teachers and even our dentist, so as I grew older I came to understand the metaphor.

The plant analogy she used for me was that I was a “shrinking violet.” I accepted it as an apt term, even though I never actually have seen a violet shrink, any more than any other flower.

I have wondered about my father, but mother has no idea what happened to him, and has stated, more than once, “And I don’t really care.” Mom never married again. And she had offers.

The third time was not a charm, at least at first. I was coming out of Dairy Queen, my heart aglow with anticipation of messy consumption of my large choco-brownie extreme blizzard. As soon as I opened the door, I saw him standing there, his black mask hugely symbolic of the darkness of the moment. His question threw me. 

“Do you know who your father is?”

Although severely rattled, I was able to answer him quickly, “No, my surname was changed to that of my mother when I was two years old. That was after my father left is. I have no idea what his name is”

“Well, your father’s last name is Bailey.”

“Are you my father?”

“No, I am not your father. I am his older brother. I am your uncle Frank.”

We did not shake hands, but we touched elbows, which seems to be the fashion in these covid days.

“How did you find me?

“My brother, your father, gave me your home address. I saw you come out of the house, and you looked like the right age, so I figured you were my nephew.”

That felt creepy. But before I let that feeling overwhelm me into silence, I asked a question of my newly-declared uncle. “So why did he send you, and not seek me out himself?”

“Your father is very shy. He has never been good at meeting new people. In your case that extends to being reacquainted with someone he once knew.”

“Neither am I, never any good at all.”

“I can see that the two of you are quite alike. This is going to make your meeting kind of a difficult matter.”

“So we are going to meet then?”

“Yes, he wants to meet you in the abandoned orchard at the end of Pearl Street. He didn’t want you get together to be in a place where there would be other people, other strangers. The place was my idea, as I knew that it had a special meaning for him, one that I hope he tells you about.”

“When is that to be?’

“He had some difficulty deciding, so I told him that this Saturday, at eleven thirty would be a good time. I knew that he would probably agree to that.”

“Okay, I guess. I will meet him there and then.”

“Don’t you want to know his first name?”

“Yes, of course, I forgot to ask.”

“You have your father’s lack of social gifts, for sure. His name is William.”

“Are you going to be there too?”

“He asked me the same question. He wanted me to be there, but I told him, as I am telling you now, that I don’t believe that would be a good idea.”

“Okay.”

The Meeting

It is the morning of my meeting my father. I didn’t sleep much last night. I kept thinking that he would be disappointed in me. I am still living at home with my mother, and I don’t have a wife, or any prospects in sight.

The old orchard is just a short walk down the road from where I live. I used to play in the orchard by myself on Saturday mornings, pretending I was a rock star. I used to sing to the trees, pretend that they were my appreciative audience. I don’t know if I want to tell him that. It sounds so loser.

The orchard is in sight now. So is he. He does look a bit familiar. He is not too different physically from his brother, my uncle Frank. He is not too different looking from me. I approach him, being sure to keep an appropriate distance apart. We both put on our Covid masks.

           Neither of us speaks at first. What do you say in this kind of situation? The question weighs heavily on my mind as it had done all night. Lacking words, I stick my elbow out. He recognizes the gesture, and we touch elbows. Then he speaks.

           “I felt that you wouldn’t come. After all, I abandoned you as well as your mother. It is good to see you, Leo.”

           “It is good to see you too,…….father.”

           “Call me ‘dad’.”

           “Okay,…dad.”

           There is more silence now, but it does not seem to worry me much now. “Dad, Uncle Frank says that this place is special to you. It is to me too.”

           “Yes,…son, it is special to me." 

           I wait, not feeling I should ask him why, as if I were him, I wouldn’t want that question asked.”

           “Well, you see, son, I noticed you playing here one Saturday morning. Hoping to see you again, I came here several times on Saturday mornings, listening to you sing. You had a good voice. I hope you still sing.”

           I have never wanted to hug someone before. I always hated it when we visited mother’s sisters, and they would squeeze the breath right out of me. But now I wanted to hug my father, even though I knew that it would be contrary to the government lockdown. Instead, it was elbows again.

           Then he handed me a piece of paper with his e-mail address written on it on it. I wished that I had been that prepared, that confident.

           “Dad, I will e-mail you straightaway when I get back home. We can talk that way. Get to know each other.”

           “And when the lockdown is over, we can go have dinner together in a restaurant somewhere, even have you come over to visit me. I know your mother would not want me visiting you at home.”

“That’s for sure.” Then we both laughed.

Just before we turned to walk home, he mouthed, but did not speak the words, “I’m sorry son.”