Chapter 2: A Walk in the Park

Rayanna’s Tablet Diary

Dear Diary, today unfolded so perfect.

Our house was the only house in this part of town that was unique. Larger than the others, more distinctive. All of the rest are cookie-cutter homes from the 1950s. While ours, built before the rest, was nothing like the others, and oh, so much better.

The park was only three blocks away. It lay beyond the identical squat houses with their cracked birdbaths and toppled recycling bins. But the walk seemed to take us across state lines.

My dad didn’t speak, not even asking me if I wanted to cut through the corner lot where the grass grew knee-high. Always two or three stray cats in that field who ignore you, which cats love to do. An enormous black and white tuxedo tom kept all the queens with kittens to feed.

The twins had cats growing up. Tonie took hers with her, and Tommy took his. Leaving me cat-less.

As we moved along, Daddy kept his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his coat, his shoulders up around his ears, like he waited for a blow. I matched his stride, half a step behind, the way you do when you’re not sure if you’re allowed to walk beside someone.

Fighting the impulse to take his hand, to tell him I loved him so much it hurt. Throbbed inside me a need I couldn’t obtain. But he wouldn’t get what I meant. No, Daddy would assume spoke about a daughter’s love of her father. Not a woman’s love for her man.

By the time we reached the park entrance, my nose and cheeks turned red and raw from the wind. It wasn’t cold, not really, but the air had that dry, metallic taste of fall just before winter officially shits on everyone. I paused at the gates, wrought iron, fancy once, now rusting in streaks like dried blood, and watched my dad push through without slowing. He didn’t look back.

The park used to be a place for strollers and soccer games. These days, the pigeons and ducks ruled, and the old men fed them both. The trees, mostly oak, with the occasional weeping willow or sap-stained maple, held onto their leaves with grim determination. Yellow and brown banners fluttered overhead but refused to dislodge from the limbs.

The sun, diluted by clouds, made a half-hearted attempt to create shadows, but everything appeared faded. Nothing more than an old photo left in the back window of a car for a decade.

I caught up to my dad near the pond, where the path turned gravelly and the only benches that weren’t splintered or tagged by middle-schoolers faced the water.

Following the edge of the pond with slow, deliberate steps, Daddy kept walking. From behind, he looked like an overcoat stuffed with a laundry load. While big, he’d shrunk in places, especially about the neck and shoulders.

The collar on his jacket turned up, and his hair stuck out in every direction, uncombed and uncompromising. To be honest, he needed a haircut and a shave. But he needed both for months. Every few days, he used the sideburn trimmer and gave himself a half-assed shave.

Stopping at one of the better benches, this one, slightly warped, Daddy stared out over the water. For a moment, I hovered beside him. After a beat or two, I sat and made sure my jacket brushed his sleeve. Close, but not so close, he couldn’t mistake it for an accident.

The ducks were in rare form today, quarreling over a half-loaf of bread some generous but misguided citizen had dumped into the pond. The largest male, white, with a bill like an old banana, chased the smaller ones in tight, jerky circles.

The ripples made everything else on the pond, the reflection of the trees, the sky, the rusty playground on the far side, shake and double.

We sat in silence. My dad’s breath came in slow, heavy pulls, almost like he suffered in pain. His hands worked at each other, thumb scraping the nail of his index finger until the skin turned red. I tried to find something to say, but every option felt pointless or cruel.

He sighed, a sound like gravel shifting under a car tire, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Up close, the circles under his eyes were almost purple, and a haze of gray stubble discolored his jaw. He looked like a man who’d been up all night digging graves. Or maybe dreamed about robbing graves.

While I watched the pond, I studied him out of the corner of my eye. However, Dad didn’t watch anything. A jogger passed by, shoes slapping the path in quick, efficient bursts. As she passed, Daddy didn’t flinch. But I saw his fingers twitch, his right hand curling into a fist before relaxing. Shifting his weight, the bench squealed in protest.

“Nice day,” I said, because sometimes you have to say something to prove you’re alive.

At that, he made a noise in the back of his throat. I couldn’t tell if it was in agreement or as a warning.