The Game

I told myself I’d let it go.

Be nice, be nice, be nice. It doesn’t matter that the hallways are clogged with revelers, heading to the parking garage where my Subaru’s waiting for me way up on the fifth level. And Mom. It’s probably okay with her if we wait indefinitely for him to wander back. She’s probably not in a hurry to return to just the two of them, rattling around their house crammed with the detritus of nearly fifty years of aimless collecting.

“He’s taking pictures of Julia,” Mom explained when I asked where Dad was. I scanned the section of the stadium where the band was seated. But of course, no one was in the seats. The Kirkwood Pioneers had just clinched the state championship and the sea of students in their spirit wear erupted liked a tidal wave, racing toward the narrow exits with whoops and shouts and the high-pitched laughter of adolescence.

Julia would be mortified, of course. If he actually found her. Trying to disguise how painful walking is now, with his toes perpetually clenched and his legs creaky with age and neglect. He’d tap on the sophomore’s shoulder sitting next to Julia and say, “Excuse me, miss, are you a movie star?” He’d laugh softly, lift his camera and ask if he could take a picture of the two of them. The sophomore would roll her eyes at her friends, discreetly so my father wouldn’t notice, then say brightly, “Sure!” Julia, meanwhile, would be shooting flaming daggers of horrified dismay straight through his stomach from her eyes. For her sake, I hoped he couldn’t find her. But I also kind of hoped he did. It would be nice to have photos of Julia in her band uniform. All the pictures that I’d managed to take were great of the other kids, but unflattering of Julia. Probably because she couldn’t bring herself to smile. I was so embarrassing.

It occurred to me that my dad may have foreseen this reaction and had found a place along the perimeter of the stadium where he’d go undetected, zooming in on Julia’s freckled face without her knowing. “Mom!” Madeline broke my concentration. “When are we leaving?” I’d made Madeline go to this game, the only one she’d attended since she was a freshman in the band. Julia wanted Madeline to see her march, but Madeline was stubborn when it came to things she did not want to do. I bribed her with a book. She could read while I watched.

“Honey, we can’t leave without Poppi,” I told her. She sank into the seat next to my Mom and reopened her book.

“Can’t you see him yet?” my mom asked. “No,” I replied, with a hint of disgust. “How long has he been gone?” “A while now,” she said, shifting her weight in the seat reserved for handicapped guests. “Maybe we should go look for him.”

“No, we should wait here, or we’ll never find him.” I snapped a little, more than I’d expected. Then I forced a smile and said, “It’s no big deal. He’ll come back.”

But it kind of was a big deal. Or I was making it one. It’s that way with my family. I love them, but they drive me crazy. Like the way they let the piles of catalogs pile up in the hallway where they’ve landed through the mail slot and onto the floor. Or my father’s habit of feeding their overweight dog Coconut from his dinner plate. Or the kitchen counter crowded with Sam’s Club boxes of muffins, ketchup packets, various loaves of decaying bread and an abandoned bowl of instant oatmeal. I learned to avoid going to their house because it inevitably triggered binge eating or depression. Or both.

Then I saw him. Hobbling along in his worn red jacket, about four hundred feet from us. “There he is,” I told my mom, and she hoisted herself up with her cane. “Finally,” Madeline mumbled, and we headed his way. But he kept walking toward us. “Stop!” I yelled. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” When he heard me, he waved. But he also looked kind of annoyed. Really, Dad? YOU’RE annoyed? “We need to go that way anyway,” I told him as I repeated in my head, “Be nice, be nice, be nice.”