The Hangman

It was a pleasant period and my thoughts were mostly good ones, with little time wasted in regret. For these reasons I found myself searching the walls for a pay phone. I had just arrived in Chicago, en route to Seattle by train, and as scheduling goes, I had a layover. I had not seen my father in five years.

I could have called him the night before, but that might have given the appearance of anticipation; I was curious to see him, but not desperate. "Andrew?" I asked upon his answer, even though I knew it was him. "Andrew," I said again. I had given up the more endearing term dad years before in favor of his first name, but when I heard his voice, like a sad and forgotten old record, I was drenched by a deluge of pity, and I offered it up as a gift, but I'm not sure if it was for him or for me. I added, "Dad, it's Stephan."

"Stephan?" he asked. "Son, are you okay?"

I didn't answer his question. To answer would have been to forgive, and I preferred to keep him at a remorseless distance. "I'm at the station," I said instead. I was yet to tell him which station, and I was unsure if I should. I had just referred to a stranger as dad, and he had replied in form. So peculiar, I was puzzled with what to make of the sound, like I had been living in a silent world and these were the first words ever heard. They hung before me in alternating images: first I saw a masterwork, beautiful, intricate, and then I saw a noose. I studied the sound and allowed myself to feel what I would, and then continued: "I'm at the train station. I've got some time. Why don't you meet me, we can have lunch."

"Lunch?"

"Yes, dad, lunch." I called him dad, like a Rembrandt tacked to a gallow.

"Sure, son." He called me son, like a van Gogh in the arms of the hangman. "I'll take a cab. About ten minutes, okay?"

Ten minutes can be lengthened in many ways, all of which were at work that afternoon. I had dismissed his ten-minute arrival as it was heard and doubled his offering; it would take him ten minutes just to find his hat. These minutes, now standing at twenty, would double again through the course of anxiety. I paced between two ornate columns that seemed to support nothing and was struck with the comparison: my father, nothing more than an ornate column - he served no purpose, a non-existent man in Chicago, a city I had never visited, never desired to visit, yet he was on his way to meet me for lunch, a lunch that would take an hour at most, and then he would stumble away. I had phoned a stranger, no different than had I picked a number at random. Except that he was my father.

When I caught sight of him, I saw something unexpected: he was nervous, which made me less so. His kerchief wiped his brow and he shifted as he walked, his eyes darted left and right.

The other recollections were what one would expect - he had gained weight, lost hair. The lunch was what one would expect as well - little said, less eaten. To recall the details now would serve only to tarnish his memory, and I see no reason for that. He was my dad, and for that hour, we sat as father and son. As I walked away he called out, "I'll see you at Christmas." Even still, I've no idea why he said that.