Dust In The Wind

As the frigid mist blowing in from Massachusetts Bay stings my face, I think about Jim. My dad. He goes with me everywhere. His photo is in my wallet and I show it to everyone. They don’t ask, maybe because of my anger issues, so I don’t need to explain that he’s dead, or what happened. Most people in Boston know already. It’s not often someone drives their car off the Longfellow Bridge.

The looming presence of his funeral this afternoon transports my thoughts to the old days, back when mom was around; before he changed. Before the darkness of depression took over.

When I was seven, Dad built me a Japanese village. A little town made out of wood, painted in intricate detail: a farmer growing rice, a samurai castle, around it tiny houses with shopkeepers and swordsmiths; an entire ecosystem in miniature. 

Boston is like that: food comes in from one place, gets served in another, and everyone has their own part to play. Everyone except for Dad. After his back injury–he told people it was a motorcycle accident, but it was a slip on our icy drive which he never shoveled–he could never hold a stable job. He would get a spot in security somewhere, and after a few months, his days off would add up, and last chances would become last last chances, and soon he’d be back home spending all day on the sofa again. 

Today is his funeral, and it’s raining buckets again. People in Middle America dream about living near the ocean, but the people who grew up here see things differently. All we get out of the ocean is wind and rain. A backyard too cold to sit in. A grill that doesn’t start up when Dad promises to cook dinner.

But the seafood! We have great seafood. The best in the country.

At Ursula’s Pierside yesterday, I ordered the Baked Scrod and Clam Chowder. My date had the same. Honestly, I’d prefer to eat at sushi places, but regretfully their owners don’t understand the review system. I cover restaurants for the Boston Standard. Our server said drinks are on the house if we ever want to come back. That’s worth a 4 ½ star review. With the smell of old fish in the air, Ursula’s isn’t a 5-star restaurant by any stretch of the imagination.

Still burping up the taste of bad fish, I stand on a grassy hill on the south side of Boston–The Cedar Grove Cemetery–as we lay Dad’s coffin into the ground. The Atlantic chill is pushing in despite it being midsummer. Most of our extended family is here. Gram and gramps had 7 children. I have at least 20 cousins. It’s a big crowd, and in the cold air we stand quietly as the priest does his thing.

Afterward at the reception inside, Cousin Matt corners me at the appetizer table.

“If there’s anything you need…” He blinks. Faker.

“I need my apartment’s hot water fixed,” I ask ironically.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Matt chuckles. “So, do you miss your dad?” 

“What do you think?”

He smiles sympathetically. “It must have been hard, growing up with a dad who…”

He doesn’t say the words. He knows I must have heard those two words countless times. Meanwhile, I see his dad, Uncle Phil, standing across the room in his banker clothes, holding a glass of wine he never touches.

“He was a good dad. A great dad. And your dad probably played with your wiener when you were little, and you didn’t tell anyone about it.”

His face turns red with anger. A rich kid like him won’t have the balls to start a fight at a funeral. “What’s wrong with you?” he mumbles and then walks off in a huff.

Faulty windshield wipers, the police said about the accident. A wicked nor’easter was blowing in that night. Trouble all over the city. Another car accident was just background noise. Knowing Dad, he was drunk when he swerved off the bridge. 

I wipe my eyes with a tissue.

“I can’t,” was what I said, with tears in my eyes at the church, when the priest asked me to do a eulogy. It was the easy way out.

“Alex.” I hear my name. “Alex would like to say a few words,” the priest says. Out of instinct, or driven by divine guidance, my legs carry me to the front of the room. Dad always knew the right things to say to people, mostly when he was talking himself out of a mess. I will channel his spirit.

I look at my aunts and uncles standing solemnly, and the motley group of cousins, and begin to speak.

“To many of you, my dad, Jim Williams, was not a good man. But to me, he was the best father a child could have.”

I take a breath and let that sink in.

“People whisper the words. Convicted felon. In the 43 years of his life, who are you to judge him on his worst 30 seconds?

“He worked tirelessly to provide for our family, always putting our needs above his own. His laughter filled our home, his guidance shaped my character, and his love knew no bounds.

“Today, as we say our goodbyes, let us remember my dad not for his mistakes, but for the love he shared, the lessons he imparted, and the memories we have of him. He may have been a convicted felon in the eyes of the law, but in my heart, he will always be my hero, my mentor, and my beloved father. Rest in peace, dad.”

I look out at everyone. This was easier than I thought. Honestly, I got most of my eulogy from ChatGPT, but I receive applause and more than one tear from my relatives who never cared to help Dad when he couldn’t pay the rent. Maybe they’re happy to be rid of the brother who ran someone over in a fit of road rage when he was nineteen. 

I nod to the funeral parlor assistant, and he plays all 3 minutes 20 seconds of Dust in the Wind. It’s the song dad always said he wanted to be played at his funeral, especially after Mom passed away.

Afterward, Grandma tells me, “Sorry about Jimmy. Just be glad you didn’t inherit his love of beer.” She looks approvingly at my flat stomach. I think it’s the most honest thing I’ve heard today.

**

A month later, when my term at Wentworth Tech is over, I use the money I receive from State Farm to fly out to San Diego. I make my way to the Beach Trader on Mission Beach, 2pm. 

It reminds me of the moment when, in your dream, when you’re seeing something that’s just impossible, you realize you are in a dream while you’re still asleep. 

I spot him. He has aged: a thicker neck, his beard has turned white. Everything about his style is different, yet I recognize his eyes, darting mischievously, looking for an opening, a new angle, the next scam to get ahead in this unfair world in which we live in.

“This is so dumb,” I say.

“I’m glad you showed up.” He smiles. “And don’t you have anything to say to your dad on his birthday?”

“Fuck you,” I hate him for putting me through the months of stress and worry.

“You need to grow thicker skin. The insurance money is paying for your college tuition!”

“I make more money selling test answers to freshmen.”

“I’m sure you are.” He smiles, a fatherly glow on his face, one filled with acceptance and understanding. He asks, “The blood on the steering wheel sealed the deal, didn’t it?”

“You were in the car, and your body was never found.” I give him a punch in the shoulder, and pull a plastic Shop & Shop bag from my backpack. His half of a million dollars. When you’re working a big job, best to keep a low profile, just like he taught me.