Papa

The big chair squeaks, just a little. Creak, creak, creak. The chair is a La-Z-Boy. He knows this from reading the logo imprinted on the wooden handle that sproing! makes the footrest jump up when you pull it. He is not allowed to pull that handle. "It's not a toy," Papa says. But he still reads it sometimes, when he is on the floor while Mama reads at night. He traces the letters, proud of himself for sounding them out. He wonders why a boy wants to be lazy.

He is uncomfortable now, in that sort of uncomfortable way where you don't want to move. His chin is pressed into a shoulder, which is covered in a wool sweater. The fabric pushes a pattern into his skin. The world rocks behind the faded green fabric of the big easy chair. Creak, creak, creak. His sobs have quieted, though tears still drip onto the sweater. He does not remember what he was crying about.

“Grumpy Bear in the old green chair…”

He feels the vibrations of the low, growling voice. It is a voice that fits Papa's flannel shirts and mustache. Papa smells like firewood and the out of doors, and the boy got to help cut up the firewood. He is a good helper.

The song carries no tune. The words, he has heard many times.

“Doesn’t want to go anywhere…”

The song is nonsense, of course. He feels it wash over him like cold water on a burn. The big hand is on his back. Pat, pat pat. Not quite in rhythm with the creak of the chair.

He tries to match the big, slow breaths of the chest that is tight against his own. He lays head against the shoulder, and even though the tears are still in his eyes, he smiles a little.

---

WHACK.

The room reverberates with the ricochet of an almost perfect serve. Almost.

"Whoa!" (smack.) "Ha! Good one, kiddo." He returns the serve easily, angling the racquetball toward the corner of the court. All tied up. They're evenly matched now, after playing for some years. The boy has a power serve he can usually get past his dad. Papa's spinner still can't be beat, though.

Two more games, and they spill out of the enclosed court. Both are dripping with exertion, ears ringing with the volley of the rubber ball, smiles plastered on tired faces.

"Let's hit the hot tub, what do you say?" This is Papa's favorite way to spend a Saturday, at the rec center with all the other old folks. Not that he likes to be compared with the old folks. He isn't that old, anyway. He says he may never grow up.

They shower, dip in the pool, sit for awhile in the hot tub. Papa says the warm water is good for stretching, but everyone knows that's an excuse. He comes to relax, to laugh and joke with the old men who always seem to be here. Papa always finds someone to laugh with. The boy isn't so good with people, but he thinks maybe one day he will be.

There's a large window just beside the hot tub. Late-season snow piles up on the other side of the glass. It's still coming down in wet, heavy flakes, surreal against the steamy air of the indoor pool. It's starting to get dark outside, and the snow forms a cone of light beneath a streetlamp in the parking lot. It'll be a long drive home. Papa will want him driving - it's only his second year with a license and he needs the snow practice. He doesn't mind. Papa's a good teacher, and he's a good driver. He likes being entrusted with the responsibility.

He doesn't know this will be the last time they'll play. By spring, Papa is under radiation treatment. Through the fall, he spends most of his days in the big green easy chair. By winter, he is gone.

For awhile, the boy still goes to the rec center. Then less often, and eventually not at all. He keeps saying he'll take up racquetball again, but when he moves to the school with the pristine courts right next to the dorms, he still doesn't. The familiar slap of the little rubber ball isn't the same.

But he learns to laugh and joke, and he still loves the snow. He marries the girl Papa said he should take out for an ice cream. And when he holds a little one of his own, he thinks he know what Papa would say.

---

"Proud of you, kiddo."

She's been in bed for a few minutes when he comes in to sing their bedtime song. She's probably too old for the ritual now, but she puts up with it. Same song, every night, ever since she was a baby. She doesn't mind, and neither does he.

"That was some performance today." he brushes back her bangs. "Bet you were nervous, huh?"

"Not too bad. I've had practice now. Besides, it's just an audition."

Just an audition. Five minutes ago, she was distraught at the prospect of presenting to her first grade class on the topic of "favorite animal." Funny how we forget.

"Well, you did great. I bet you're going to get the part."

He looks around her room in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Trophies proudly displayed on the shelf, none for any remarkable honors. Stuffed animals stacked mountainously in the corner. Walls covered with art in the pre-adolescent style.

She smiles up at him. This is their routine. A good-night kiss, a few words about the day. A moment stolen from the book that her best friend recommended and that she hasn't put down in four days. Sometimes there's a lot to talk about. Most days, just a little. That's okay.

Nights like tonight it's hard to believe he's the papa now. He hopes he lives up to the name.

He kisses her forehead. She's already gone, happily absorbed once more in her story. He turns, steps out of the room, doesn't look back.

But he smiles, too.