The Death of Dave’s Father

“I’ll never forget the days in the backyard playing catch with him, or the times we spent in the car on the way to school. It was such a long drive, but we always found a way to fill the time,” the speaker, a moderately tall man in an ill-fitted black suit, took a painfully deep breath to try and hide the shakiness in his voice.

Oh, Dave. I can feel the pangs of sadness in my chest as I watch you suffer through this. The pain entered and left my husband’s eyes as he mustered up the courage to continue speaking at his father’s funeral.

“But, the sing-alongs and stories of his dreams and mine didn’t last forever. I grew up, and in a way, so did he. I remember how quiet the car was in the mornings after I got my driver’s license. The rest of high school, community college, trade school, and even now on my days to work. It’s so quiet. I guess that’s just how it’s going to be from now on. I guess it’s been that way for a while, but the silence is permanent now. There are no more breaks, and no more hopes of returning to how things were…”

Watching as Dave’s voice trailed off, I remembered how he spoke of his father throughout our time together. Wow, 20 years. We’ve really been through a lot. I’m sure this will pass – just like everything else. I wonder if he’ll talk about the store. Dave’s father sunk so much money into advertising and trying to compete with the other stores in town, but it never really went anywhere. So much for a dream, I guess.

“When Dad’s vision started to fade, and his mind started to go, I started picking him up before work to drive him to the store. He needed some help these days, so he hired a couple of high schoolers to help stock the shelves and unload the trucks as they delivered everything. 

Those morning drives, on the days that he went into the shop, weren’t like the ones as a kid. It’s tough to dream after spending 50 years failing towards it. Making no progress and starving your family of what could have been a better life. But even in my daily contempt, there were glimpses of what used to be. I guess that’s why I even agreed to drive him in the first place. It was the hope of seeing the man I once knew, the one full of life. 

For a week or two, about a month before the accident, we talked every morning about how proud he was of Michael. Mike’s team just won the Little League championship, and Mike’s last hit was what put his team over the top. Dad’s eyes, bad as they were, tilted upward with pride as he reveled in his grandson’s accomplishments. I saw a hint of the man I once knew, dreaming of the future. Not for himself this time, but seemingly just the same as if it was.” 

After Dave finished his eulogy, he sat back down and listened to the others as they spoke of their time with his father, the type of man he was, and the life he lived. I could see the look in his eyes, beginning with disappointment and transforming into a subtle anger. I think that was good for him here, it helped his composure. 

On the drive home, Dave was quiet for a while, but I could see the battle within him. Even with the kids in the back, it was difficult for him to contain himself. He’d always been good at that, never one to lash out. So, I know this was eating at him. 

“They didn’t even know him,” Dave said, breaking the silence.

“They spoke well of him, honey,” I replied.

“Of course they did, it’s a funeral. What were they supposed to say?” Dave replied with a hint of contempt in his voice. 

“I liked the story that you spoke of, the one about your rides in the car,” I quickly tried to change the topic. 

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I spoke of him as if I was the only one who knew him. All of his friends, even his wife, sounded like they didn’t know him. Glaring generalizations to characterize his life. At least I tried to give it some color, I tried to give him justice,” Dave paused for a moment to collect himself. 

His voice returning to normal, he continued, “This is the last time many people will think of him, and that’s how he’s supposed to be remembered? A glaring generalization?”

“They meant well, they wouldn’t have come otherwise. Shouldn’t they get some credit for that?” I replied. If I shift to a question to give him more control of the conversation, maybe that’ll help. I find that helps sometimes. In moments like this, a little control can center you. Or at least, I hope. 

Glossing over my question and attempt to quell his frustration, Dave continued, “What was the point of his life? Is this how I’m going to be remembered? A nobody?”

___

Two months passed since his father’s funeral, and I’ve been seeing Dave less and less. The kids have too. I notice the effects more in Michael, he hasn’t been playing as well without his father’s help and it’s affecting his self-esteem. He’s less excited to go to school these days. 

“Alright honey, I’m heading out,” Dave whispered to me around 6 a.m. before heading to his new venture. 

“Love you,” I replied through a sleepily whispered yet static murmur. I’m not sure if he replied, but I think it was just because I fell back asleep. I did hear the front door shut. Maybe it was just the grogginess. 

After waking, I started breakfast and waited for the kids to trickle in from their post-sleep and not-ready-for-school states. 

“Mikie! You’re up early and ready to go?” I said to Michael as he entered the room. It was the first time in weeks he seemed excited for the day. Maybe things are getting better. 

“Dad said he was going to play catch with me after work!” Michael replied with a smile beaming so brightly I couldn’t help but smile back. The truth behind that smile was enough to breathe more life into me on that early morning.

The day rolled on, and Dave returned home only an hour after the children came home from school.

“Dave? You’re home early?” I said to him as he hastily removed his wet jacket and hung it on the coat rack. His hair was damp and messy, and his eyes darted around in no particular direction. It was clear he had a lot on his mind. 

“I planned the day to play catch with Mikie but the damn rain,” his voice trailed off, “The damn rain pours on the one day I can take some time for it.”

Dave’s new business finally started getting some clients, and he brought in a partner to share the workload. It was actually one of his dad’s old friends, one of the luckier ones still on his feet. The thought was, since they knew most of the folks in this town across the generations, that they could turn a profit and make something of themselves. Or at least, so that Dave could do it eventually. 

“What happened to your hand?” I said as I noticed that the outside of his palm was black and blue with a hint of a bloody red to merge the two. 

“Just one of those days,” he replied. 

He seemed somewhat regretful. Probably thinking something like, “Why come home when I can improve the business? With the rain, I’m not getting anything out of coming home early.”

Spending time with us certainly isn’t helping the business. I know he’s working hard though, and at least part of it was for us. That’s why he saved so much money, before he was his own boss.

I know that part of it is for his dreams though, not for me or the kids. Is it selfish to expect him to spend all of it on us? That’s what we’ve been told he should do. Maybe I should get a part-time job, it’ll give him some more length to get the business running before he has to go back to his old job. Realistically, taking care of the house and the kids is enough of a job for me, though. It’s his dream anyway.

“Have you thought of your father, recently?” I said to him, trying to remind him of how his father’s shop consumed him and how, ultimately, people remembered him as a glaring generalization. I hoped this would keep him home for the evening, knowing that it wouldn’t really matter as long as he could provide for us.

“Not really, I’ve just been focused on making this work. I told you that we’ve been getting some new clients, right? The savings are starting to get steadier. If we keep working, I think this could really be something,” Dave said, but there was nothing really behind it - empty words leaving his mouth. 

A few jumps down the stairs and there was Mikie with his glove, “Dad! Did you still want to play catch?” His face beamed with excitement. 

“Son, it’s raining.”

“What if we move some stuff around in the garage? Come on, just 15 minutes!!”

“We’ve got your whole life for catch, son. I need to go back to the shop. I… there was something I have to finish up.”

“You’re becoming just like him,” I replied to Dave bluntly.

“I can’t just go to work and wait to die, like my father. I have to actually build something. Maybe then people will have more to say about me when I’m gone. Maybe then, I’ll be more than a nice guy at the corner store, or the guy that fixed their electrical sockets,” his voice breaking for a moment, then steadying, “This is all I know, some sacrifice now will be better for all of us later. Then you and the kids can muse about how I built something that mattered, something that provided for us and the community. They’ll speak of me like a, like someone who mattered. Someone they won’t forget.” 

“But Dave, it’s Friday. The shop will still be there tomorrow. You’ve been working 7 days a week to get this going. Your family needs you; I need you,” I pleaded with one last effort to coax him into staying home. 

“I don’t want to be forgotten like my father. This has to work. It won’t be for much longer. Like I said, we’re already getting more clients,” Dave said as he grabbed his coat and headed for the car, a few of the raindrops flew off his coat and onto the floor.

That was the last conversation I had with him, the rain had continued to get worse during our conversation, and the sun had set. They found his body split between his steering wheel and the side of the light pole he crashed into. 

It turns out that he decided to come back home to us when he was about halfway to the office, but the blinding rain and the darkened sky made it difficult for him to see. His quick U-turn in the pick-up truck, right after he chose to prioritize us, became his last decision. That’s how I’ll remember my husband, David. The man who, in the end, chose his family and gave everything for us. That’s how he’ll be remembered, thank you all for coming.