Dear Miller,
I just have to say: Jesus H. Keeriiisst, it’s __________ here in __________. Yesterday got so __________ he took off his __________ and went __________ in the __________. He’s from __________. He’s like everyone else I’ve ever met from __________: too stupid to live. Or maybe he’s just stupid enough. The __________ started __________ at him, and like it was no big deal, he got out of the __________ and put back on his __________ and picked up his __________ and started __________ back. He’s fine, although still stupid. I’m fine, too, although I’m feeling old. I miss you and your mom. Everyone here misses someone. But missing someone seems to make them feel young. Missing you and your mom just makes me feel old.
But enough about me. Enough about __________ and the __________.
Thanks for your letter, bud. For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe you read so many books this summer! You should be the one teaching my Great American Writers class, since you’ve already read all of the Great American Writers, even the ones you’re not supposed to! Speaking of my class: thanks for offering to teach it while I’m away, but I don’t think that’s such a hot idea. I was thinking about quitting anyway. I don’t think I’m going to be an English teacher anymore. And don’t worry about K., either. You don’t have to worry about looking after K. Let’s not talk about K. Let’s not talk about JCCC, either. Let’s talk about something else. Like your school. I can’t believe you’re about to be in eighth grade! I know you’re nervous, Miller, being with all those big kids in advanced reading. But don’t be. You’re going to do great. Better than me, at any rate. I was never much of a student, not of anything, not even of literature. I’m more of a literary idolater; even though a certain writer we (!) love said that literary idolaters fall somewhere between blubbering ninnies and acutely frustrated maidens, that’s what I am. But you’re different, Miller. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have a kid like you. I know your mom feels the same way.
That’s it for now. I’m so proud of you, bud. I’m doing my best to make sure you’re proud of me, too.
Love, Your dad
An Early Birthday Dinner
I got in the front seat. Usually Mother made me sit in the back, because it was the law and she was a lawyer. But I figured since this was a special treat, maybe she’d let me sit in the front. She did. I buckled my seat belt and looked at her. She was still dressed in her work clothes. It was Tuesday. On Tuesday, she wore a chocolate brown skirt and chocolate brown jacket and a shiny blue shirt. I don’t know what she was trying to say with the clothes. But she always looked pretty on Tuesday.
“Where are we going?” I asked again. Mother was looking straight ahead, paying attention to the road. She smiled but didn’t say anything. She drove down Thompson and took a right on Washington, away from my school and toward downtown and the Public Square. It was starting to snow again. Not enough to stick yet, but enough to look good way up in the streetlights. Mother slowed down a little. She never liked driving in the snow. She and my dad used to fight about it. In fact, I think that’s what she and my dad had fought about on the way to Sears to get our picture taken: it was snowing, and Mother said my dad was driving too fast in it and my dad was saying that he really wasn’t and would it kill her to trust him once in a while? “Trust you?” Mother asked, and then no one said anything after that, not even “Cheese” in Sears when the cheese-ball photographer told us to. But like I said, the snow wasn’t even sticking. You could see it in the air, but not on the ground. Mother really was driving slowly, though. We rolled past Good Sam, the welfare office, and the library, and then we seemed to slow down even more as we got close to the VA hospital. Which was when I remembered that I hadn’t seen my dad that day. How could I forget to go visit him? How could I do that? Was it that I’d been too busy doing things for him to actually see him? Or was it that it was harder to actually see the sick person you love, and easier to be somewhere else, keeping busy and doing things to get him better? Either way, I was starting to feel terrible about it when Mother slowed down even more. We weren’t moving much faster than a fast walk now. And I wondered: Could this be the special treat? Were we going to see my dad? Was Mother really going to admit that my dad had been in Iraq after all? That he was in the VA hospital? My heart started to flutter again. Because I knew what I knew, but I didn’t know what I didn’t. Had Mother finally admitted that my dad was in the VA hospital? Had Mother seen him that day? Did she know something that I didn’t? Was my dad all better? Was he at least better enough to come home?
“Miller,” Mother said. She was leaning over the steering wheel. She was grabbing it tight. Her knuckles were white. I always thought that was just a saying, but I guess not. She glanced at me and said, “What are you doing? Put your seat belt back on.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d taken my seat belt off. I put it back on. But in my mind, it was still off. In my mind, I was jumping out of the car and running into the VA hospital. Mother was right behind me, in my mind. Outside my mind, we were almost at the VA hospital. We were a building away. The building was the Daily Times building. There was a driveway between the Daily Times building and the VA hospital. We were even with the Daily Times building, and almost to the driveway, when a car came screaming out of it. It didn’t stop to see if anyone was coming. Mother slammed on the brakes, even though she wasn’t really going fast enough to need to slam them on. The car took a left, fishtailed, then, like us, headed south on Washington Street.
“I hate driving in the snow,” Mother muttered. She put her foot on the gas, and we crept past the driveway, then past the VA hospital. The car moved on, but in my mind, I could still see us going into the hospital, my dad waiting for us, us bringing him home.
But before I knew it, I had something else to think about. Mother pulled up in front of the Crystal, put the car in park, and turned off the engine. The lights were on in the Crystal. I could see a bunch of people at the bar. Almost all the tables and booths were full. Someone walked out of the front door, and for a second or two I could hear voices. They sounded happy, upbeat. I didn’t hear music, but with voices like that, maybe you didn’t want or need music. Then the door closed again. It was snowing harder now. And it was getting cold in the car. I could see my breath. The Crystal looked like a nice place to come in out of the weather. I was still looking at the place as though it had nothing to do with me.
“What are we doing here?” I asked. I looked at Mother. She was grinning at me again.
“It’s your birthday dinner,” Mother said. “We always go here for your birthday dinner.”
This was true. Mother and my dad always took me here for my birthday dinner. Or at least since I was five. When I was about to turn five, Mother asked me if I wanted to stay in or go out. I said I wanted to go out, to the Crystal. Because I knew it was my dad’s favorite place. The Crystal wasn’t Mother’s favorite. But she said, “The Crystal it is.” Because it was my birthday and she’d asked what I wanted and that’s what I wanted.
“But my birthday isn’t for another two days,” I said.
“I know,” Mother said. She explained that the next night she had to give a talk at the YWCA. And the night after that, my birthday night, she had an important meeting. She really needed to go to it. It was really important. But she could get out of it if I really wanted her to. If it was really that important to me. Was it really that important to me? Because if it really was, she’d try to get out of it. By that time, I just wanted her to stop talking about her meeting and to stop using the word “really,” so I said, “No, it’s OK.”