Carl

I pulled into Carl’s driveway, which was really just a soaked patch of grass, at about eight o’clock that night in my grey SUV. He didn’t have a garage and it was raining pretty heavily; I was gonna have to dash out of the car to stay dry. Raindrops hit the windshield and left clear streaks in their wake as they slivered down the front of my car, it made me miss the dry weather in Colorado. 

I wanted to go back. Right then. Put my car in reverse, pull out of that swamp and drive thirty-six hours from whence I’d came.

Then I looked in the backseat and remembered that I was carrying precious cargo: my fourteen-month-old son, Henry. He was so quiet that I almost forgot he was there with me, which was pretty normal when we made long drives like this one.

I had family all over the United States; even some up in Toronto and there were baby showers, weddings, and unfortunately funerals to attend nearly every month. Denise didn’t trust air transportation very much and my car got a good thirty miles on the highway so we blazed tire tracks all across the Red, White and Blue. Or at least, we used to.

It helped that Henry was such an easy going baby; he’d be in his car seat either discovering parts of his body or experimenting with his vocal range. He wasn’t very social though, whenever he met new people he would cling tightly to the teddy we bought for him from a gift shop during his first trip to Niagara Falls.

As for Denise and me, our drives often consisted of long arguments about Henry’s education or Henry’s religion or the sports Henry would and would not play when he got older; new, first-time-parent shit. Shit that we never usually talked through conclusively because I would ‘accidentally’ drive up on the soft shoulder or Denise would ‘get a headache’. Eventually we exhausted those excuses and rather than saying anything, we would just sit in silence as if we were playing the quiet game. And although he couldn’t speak a lick of English, Henry would always be the first one to say something and return us to the happy family we so desperately wanted to be.

I looked in the passenger seat, currently occupied by a light green duffel bag filled with clothes, baby carrots and all those other important childcare essentials. I packed it myself like the capable, loving dad that I was.

I began to rummage through the duffel, “You want some veggies Hen?”

I took my nose out the bag and met a steely glare.

“A cookie?”

He gave me a big smile and flashed his few, little teeth. I couldn’t help but laugh as I handed over the treat. He examined it for a second, like a scientist does a beaker filled with bubbling chemicals; then began his meal, taking time after each bite, savoring it. He was a cookie connoisseur. 

His mother swore that he’d grow up to be a chef, like Carl, and I wasn’t sure if she said that because of Henry’s mannerisms or because she knew it made me physically ill. That thought dragged me out of contemplation, the rain had lightened up so I figured it was as good a time as any. I grabbed my bag out of the back seat and my son, he grabbed his teddy, then I grabbed the baby bag and schlepped them through the rain to the pale blue, one story house.

The door was unlocked, like he said it would be. I tossed the bags onto a wrinkly, leather love seat and placed Henry on the adjacent recliner. He started to study the material.

I entered the kitchen where I was greeted by the smell of bourbon chicken; a Carl specialty. There was a pot filled with sticky rice, corn on the cob, mashed sweet potatoes. My eyes welled up a bit.

Then, BANG!

I sprinted out of the kitchen to see Henry pressing both of his little hands against the back, glass door. On the other side of the glass was a slender, light skinned man. With his eyes fixated on Henry, he carefully opened the door and took a step inside.

“Carl,” I said with an icy tone.

His eyes darted to me, he stared for a second as if he was looking at a ghost.

“Son, it’s-“

“John,” I snapped, “just call me John.”

I wasn’t ready for him to even attempt to acknowledge me as such. He was two decades too late for that shit, the neglect wasn’t going to be forgiven during this week’s trip. Possibly not ever. 

But Henry clearly did not pick up on that same energy. He waddled up to his grandfather with arms reached up as high as he could go without losing his balance.

It was like he was saying, “Gimme!”

My father digested my words but didn’t internalize them. He just crouched down to Henry with a gap-toothed smile and went to pick him up.

“And ya muss be-“

“Henry,” I lunged and snatched up my boy, “don’t touch him. You smell like smoke.”

Henry started fussing and flailing his arms, maybe he was hungry or tired or had just ‘coocoo-ed’ his pants. I hoped that the crying meant anything besides a desire to be near his grandfather.

“Me sorry,” my father’s Trinidadian accent was thicker in person, “Me just didda smoke one cigarette.”

“You still smoking?” I shook my head while rocking Henry lovingly, “Make sure you keep that shi- stuff outside.”

“Me know man, me know. Me a gwan showa right now, ya ‘ear me,” he strolled into his bathroom, “Make sure say ya eat someting, me know say ya ‘ungry.”

He was damn right, but I didn’t want to give in to the urge because I knew this meal, down to the spices, was a tasty, nutritionally balanced apology letter. 

But then another, foul smell seeped into my consciousness. I looked down at my little man and met his eyes.

He smiled slyly as if he was saying, “You smelt it, you dealt it.”

I laid out a blanket then placed him atop it. I dove into the duffel for diapers. 

Size two Jordans. Polo Ralph Lauren shorts. Cookies. But no diapers.

I suddenly missed Denise a whole lot more; she was good for the essentials and she loved to rub it in. This time would’ve been no different. I began desperately searching my bag as well.

“Wha you’a look fa?” My father exited his bathroom.

“I’ve gotta go to the store for diapers,” I stood up straight.

“Easy man, easy,” he called out to me as he went back into his bathroom. 

He returned with a cloth and a clothes pin, I watched bewildered as my father removed my son’s diaper with his hands. Gently. Methodically. He handed me the package without even looking in my directions.

Then he crafted a sort of loincloth and pinned it carefully. He picked up his grandson by the hands and my son kicked and laughed loudly.

If he could have, Henry probably would’ve said “Thanks grandpa. I love you.”

I snatched my son back from Carl, “It’s time for bed Hen.”

My boy fussed for a good twenty minutes in his foldable crib in my father’s guest room. But after I gave him his bottle, and his ‘choopa’, and his teddy, he gave in and fell asleep. I stood over my son and didn’t want to move from that spot. 

I wanted to be there for him always, not just while he was young and pudgy. I wanted to be there for everything he did, whether football games, maybe dramatic plays… even cooking classes if that’s what he really wanted to do. I wondered why my father didn’t feel the same longing for me.

I slowly closed the guest room door behind me as to not invoke squeaks. When I entered the kitchen, there was a full plate at the head of the table and Carl sat at the other end.

“Sit,” he beckoned, “eat.”

I plopped down and stared at the food. Then I looked back up at him.

“Nuh act shy man,” he laughed, “Me did make enough fi feed one village.”

“You expected more people?"

“Where ‘im motha deh?”

I clamped my jaw, “We only see each other to hand Henry off, once a month.”

“Dat is a shame,” his shoulders slumped, “You should try fi speak wit her more, it would be best fi everyone. Especially Hen-“

“I’m not looking for dating advice from you and most certainly nothing parenting related. You can’t claim to have been a great success in either of those fields.”

“Ya right, ya right,” he sighed, “but isn’t it a fatha’s job to guide ‘im children so them nah ‘ave to make the same mistakes?”

“You think I’d leave my baby boy? Ever?” I was trying to keep my voice to a whisper as best I could, “Genetics don’t play into child raising Carl. You think saying that shit to me now is gonna make a difference? I learned not to abandon my family over the twenty years of me and mom struggling without hearing a peep from you.”

His eyes shot to his lap. His shame made me crack a smile. I finally had a chance to make him feel what I’d bottled up and wasn’t going to let anything stop me.

“Ya tink a day go by, where me don’t tink bout the shit me did put ya motha and especially you through?” He swiped away a tear from his right cheek, “And me know say me can’t give back dat time. But me want fi be ‘ere now, wit Henry and you too. Me nah want… me can’t live knowing say me ah miss out pon my family.”

I slammed my fists down on the table and yelled, “Why couldn’t you have had this revelation when I needed you most?”

Henry’s cries echoed through the house and I snapped out of my rage. But before I could rush to my baby, my father was already beside me with his hand on my shoulder.

“Me nah want nobody fi look pon me as painfully as you do. So me did pray fi forgiveness from God, now me want forgiveness from you, please. It nah ‘ave fi be today.”

I trembled, not wanting to forgive him ever. I wanted to stay mad and treat him like shit and he wouldn't have a damn thing to say about it because he knew that I was justified in my anger. But now, once I was here and saw him and how Henry loved him like he’d known the man for all of his short life, the fuel for my venomous ways was detoxified. I wanted to see and love my father like my curious baby boy did, like I did when I was younger. I sat down.

“Me will get ‘im,” he assured me, “Eat man.”

My father shuffled to the guest room, as I looked down at my plate. I couldn’t hold back any longer. All of my favorite foods. Ingrained in me since my dad used to cook them for us while I was just a toddler. It made me feel at home. It made me feel sick.

A few tears fell from my eyes. However, I was so captivated that I didn’t even wipe them. Just kept devouring my food and let them run.