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backdrifterJohn Ivan Wilkins lived in a shitty tenement building on the Upper West Side, in a surprisingly horrible little pocket of an otherwise prosperous neighborhood. The elevator smelled of piss, and he took special care not to even brush the walls of it. Each floor had one toilet, and there was a big padlock on the door, as if it was a room worth guarding.
He lived in apartment 4E. Most of the other doors had some kind of decoration on them, whether it was children’s drawings or a notice to firemen that the owner had this pet and that pet, and please rescue them. The door wasn’t even steel; it was made of what seemed like a rather lightweight wood, like a hotel door. It would be like matchsticks to anyone determined to break in.
Respa shrugged his jacket on a little closer, and he pushed the doorbell in the doorframe hard, but it seemed broken, because it didn’t ring at all. He resorted to knocking, a consistent and hard knock that was hard to stop.
“Yeah, I fucking hear you!” a voice came from within, and he withdrew his knuckles immediately. “What are you, a cop? I told you, my parole—oh.”
The two men stared each other down for a moment, and it struck Respa that he looked more like the old man than he’d ever thought. Though he was considerably lighter than his son, John Wilkins shared his hair texture, his nose, and his jawline with him. They shoved their hands into their pockets in the same resolute way, and they matched each other stare for stare.
John relented first. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, if ever,” he said, his expression relaxing. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Respa replied, terse.
“Uh, come in, son.”
He obeyed wordlessly, striding over to the solitary couch against one wall. He stopped there, unsure of whether or not to sit.
“Sit, Thomas, please.”
“Don’t call me that,” he muttered, staying on his feet. The couch was a rather ugly floral that he’d never associate with his father in a million years, threadbare at the corners of the cushions. He’d found it in the trash, Respa was sure.
“You thirsty?” John asked, heading to the fridge. Prison had gotten him in shape, for a man his age; the paunch had been replaced with a defined waistline, and his bulky arms were now actually somewhat muscular. It made him nervous. “I’ve got milk, orange juice, and apple cider. I wouldn’t drink the tap water in this godforsaken building.” The idea of his father grocery shopping and making mundane choices like that, though, was somehow even more unnerving.
“The cider, I guess,” he said blandly.
There was a pause as his father took out what sounded like cheap plastic glasses, and then poured drinks. In the silence, Respa wandered over to the homemade shelf near the door decorated with picture frames, unsure of what he would find. What he saw surprised him; here was a picture of himself at some single-digit age, maybe five or six, looking happy and healthy with his child’s arms barely able to hang onto the beach ball he held. When he picked up the frame and turned it over, he saw “Thomas at Jones Beach, 1993” written in neat blue ballpoint. Probably his mother had written it.
There were other pictures he didn’t expect to see, like a creased wedding photo, a candid shot of a young Mary-Ann, and most surprising of all was a large high school era class photo—the one his mother had pushed crumpled cash into his hand for—in a kind of cheesy gold-colored plastic frame. He wasn’t smiling in it, but at least his hair was clean.
“So I know I said this already, but really, I didn’t expect to see you at all,” John said as he returned with a drink for each of them, orange juice in his own cup. “I mean, after…”
Respa jumped at his father’s voice, though he tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. He backed away quickly from the shelf, and he waved the sentence away, keeping his other hand in his pocket. “Please.”
“Right, I’m sorry. And please, sit. So tell me, Thomas, how’re things? How’s life?” John tugged up his pants at the knee and sat down heavily. Like an old man. Respa fell back onto the couch, albeit the farthest corner from the other man that he could manage. “That’s some beard you’re growing.”
“I’ve got a daughter,” Respa said, shrugging a bit spastically. He stroked his beard at the mention of it; it was less an experiment with his look than it was simply saving money on razors. He thought it made him look like an Arabian dignitary, though. “She’s about three now.”
“A granddaughter,” John mused. “What’s her name?”
“Kathy. Katherine Wilkins.”
“I wish I could see her,” he sighed, as though Respa had already refused him. Not that it mattered; Respa would never let him near Kathy. It was bizarre to see, though, that the old man clearly yearned for family—any family.
“Well, you won’t.”
“I understand that I can’t expect you to ever forgive me for how things were, son, but don’t make your daughter suffer just because of an old grudge.” He sipped his orange juice, and Respa thought he might have an aneurysm.
“An old grudge?” he spluttered, gripping the arm of the couch and leaning forward. “You’re saying I have a grudge, like you grounded me or something?”
“Well—“
“Kathy’s not going to suffer. She’ll be all the better for never meeting you, you sad old man.” He pushed himself to his feet, teeth gnashing and brow furrowed deeply. “Goodbye.”
“I really did love you and your mother,” John said, and Respa pretended the words rolled right off him as he stalked out the shitty wooden door. He slammed it too hard behind him, walking with long strides until he stood by the stairs to the train station.
John’s words were lodged like a bullet in his mind, and he was thankful he at least hadn’t seen the facial expression that had gone with it. His father couldn’t possibly know what it meant to love; every interaction they’d had after Respa had turned twelve was brusque at best, and downright violent at worst. His mother had climbed into bed forever ten years ago specifically because John’s temper had eventually overwhelmed her; she chose to deal with it by shutting it and the rest of the real world out.
Stupid old man, trying to confuse him with such obvious lies.
He lived in apartment 4E. Most of the other doors had some kind of decoration on them, whether it was children’s drawings or a notice to firemen that the owner had this pet and that pet, and please rescue them. The door wasn’t even steel; it was made of what seemed like a rather lightweight wood, like a hotel door. It would be like matchsticks to anyone determined to break in.
Respa shrugged his jacket on a little closer, and he pushed the doorbell in the doorframe hard, but it seemed broken, because it didn’t ring at all. He resorted to knocking, a consistent and hard knock that was hard to stop.
“Yeah, I fucking hear you!” a voice came from within, and he withdrew his knuckles immediately. “What are you, a cop? I told you, my parole—oh.”
The two men stared each other down for a moment, and it struck Respa that he looked more like the old man than he’d ever thought. Though he was considerably lighter than his son, John Wilkins shared his hair texture, his nose, and his jawline with him. They shoved their hands into their pockets in the same resolute way, and they matched each other stare for stare.
John relented first. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, if ever,” he said, his expression relaxing. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Respa replied, terse.
“Uh, come in, son.”
He obeyed wordlessly, striding over to the solitary couch against one wall. He stopped there, unsure of whether or not to sit.
“Sit, Thomas, please.”
“Don’t call me that,” he muttered, staying on his feet. The couch was a rather ugly floral that he’d never associate with his father in a million years, threadbare at the corners of the cushions. He’d found it in the trash, Respa was sure.
“You thirsty?” John asked, heading to the fridge. Prison had gotten him in shape, for a man his age; the paunch had been replaced with a defined waistline, and his bulky arms were now actually somewhat muscular. It made him nervous. “I’ve got milk, orange juice, and apple cider. I wouldn’t drink the tap water in this godforsaken building.” The idea of his father grocery shopping and making mundane choices like that, though, was somehow even more unnerving.
“The cider, I guess,” he said blandly.
There was a pause as his father took out what sounded like cheap plastic glasses, and then poured drinks. In the silence, Respa wandered over to the homemade shelf near the door decorated with picture frames, unsure of what he would find. What he saw surprised him; here was a picture of himself at some single-digit age, maybe five or six, looking happy and healthy with his child’s arms barely able to hang onto the beach ball he held. When he picked up the frame and turned it over, he saw “Thomas at Jones Beach, 1993” written in neat blue ballpoint. Probably his mother had written it.
There were other pictures he didn’t expect to see, like a creased wedding photo, a candid shot of a young Mary-Ann, and most surprising of all was a large high school era class photo—the one his mother had pushed crumpled cash into his hand for—in a kind of cheesy gold-colored plastic frame. He wasn’t smiling in it, but at least his hair was clean.
“So I know I said this already, but really, I didn’t expect to see you at all,” John said as he returned with a drink for each of them, orange juice in his own cup. “I mean, after…”
Respa jumped at his father’s voice, though he tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. He backed away quickly from the shelf, and he waved the sentence away, keeping his other hand in his pocket. “Please.”
“Right, I’m sorry. And please, sit. So tell me, Thomas, how’re things? How’s life?” John tugged up his pants at the knee and sat down heavily. Like an old man. Respa fell back onto the couch, albeit the farthest corner from the other man that he could manage. “That’s some beard you’re growing.”
“I’ve got a daughter,” Respa said, shrugging a bit spastically. He stroked his beard at the mention of it; it was less an experiment with his look than it was simply saving money on razors. He thought it made him look like an Arabian dignitary, though. “She’s about three now.”
“A granddaughter,” John mused. “What’s her name?”
“Kathy. Katherine Wilkins.”
“I wish I could see her,” he sighed, as though Respa had already refused him. Not that it mattered; Respa would never let him near Kathy. It was bizarre to see, though, that the old man clearly yearned for family—any family.
“Well, you won’t.”
“I understand that I can’t expect you to ever forgive me for how things were, son, but don’t make your daughter suffer just because of an old grudge.” He sipped his orange juice, and Respa thought he might have an aneurysm.
“An old grudge?” he spluttered, gripping the arm of the couch and leaning forward. “You’re saying I have a grudge, like you grounded me or something?”
“Well—“
“Kathy’s not going to suffer. She’ll be all the better for never meeting you, you sad old man.” He pushed himself to his feet, teeth gnashing and brow furrowed deeply. “Goodbye.”
“I really did love you and your mother,” John said, and Respa pretended the words rolled right off him as he stalked out the shitty wooden door. He slammed it too hard behind him, walking with long strides until he stood by the stairs to the train station.
John’s words were lodged like a bullet in his mind, and he was thankful he at least hadn’t seen the facial expression that had gone with it. His father couldn’t possibly know what it meant to love; every interaction they’d had after Respa had turned twelve was brusque at best, and downright violent at worst. His mother had climbed into bed forever ten years ago specifically because John’s temper had eventually overwhelmed her; she chose to deal with it by shutting it and the rest of the real world out.
Stupid old man, trying to confuse him with such obvious lies.