Authors: Carolyn Astfalk
Dreams of Our Fathers
The torrential rain required Chris’s full
concentration on the road, forestalling any conversation on the ride from the
church to Rebecca’s apartment.
The drum of rain on the rooftop created a
relentless rhythm. Rebecca’s thoughts drifted back to the church as she
struggled to see through rain splattering and rolling down the windshield. The
scene after Mass turned out not to be a scene at all. She had caught Chris off
guard, but being a good-natured guy, she didn’t detect even a trace of
discomfort in his introduction.
Father John had taken her hand and begun shaking
it, saying how pleased he was to meet her when his arm stilled with
recognition.
“Rebecca Rhodes? It can’t be.”
“It is. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” he said before he released her hand.
“Chris didn’t mention your last name.”
“He didn’t mention yours to me either. I didn’t
realize until I saw you up front.”
“Your first Catholic Mass?”
She nodded. It may have been her last, too.
That’s when he caught sight of Chris’s bruised
face. “What happened to you?”
Chris bit the right side of his bottom lip, the
uninjured side, and shrugged. “Ran into a fist.”
“Yeah. I bet there’s more to the story than that.”
Father John had a great smile, which he bestowed on
them then as he looked back and forth between her and Chris a couple of times
and then at their hands interlocked between them. He shook his head. “I never
would have guessed . . . but God never ceases to amaze me.”
Chris glanced back at the long line of parishioners
waiting to greet Father John and inched them forward while clapping Father John
on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later this week,” Chris said as they
moved toward the exit.
***
Rebecca ran up the three steps to her door, yanked
her key off of her wrist and jammed it into the lock. She felt Chris on her
heels, the bag he carried for her bumping into her calves. The rain came in
blowing sheets now, and when she had managed at last to get it open, the storm
door blew out and allowed them quick entry.
She stripped off her sopping hoodie and dropped it
on the hook in her entryway. Chris set her bag down on the laminate floor,
careful to keep himself dripping on her mat.
“Do you want a towel to dry off?”
“Nah, I’m fine. I’d better get going.”
He didn’t move to leave then, and her gaze locked
on his. She watched as a tiny rivulet ran from his hair down his temple and
along his cheekbone, tracing the now-swollen and purple bruise along his jaw.
She raised her hand to caress it, but drew it back not so much afraid to hurt
him as she was nervous about what seemed like an intimate touch. Before she
could pull her hand back to her side, he took hold of it and laid it on his
face.
“I’m sorry about this.” She brushed the tender skin
with her fingertips.
“You have no reason to be sorry. We should have
slept in separate tents. I should’ve thought what it might look like.” His blue
eyes, lashes still wet with rainwater, focused on her.
“You offered, but if you remember, I was so chicken
I could barely sleep with you
inside
the tent.”
He smiled until the movement must have caused his
cheek some discomfort, and he winced. “Thank you for coming with me. It was
like seeing the park for the first time again through your eyes.”
She let her hand slide the length of his arm, cool
and wet. “It’s beautiful. I can see why you love it so much.”
He rested his hands on her waist, inching closer to
her, and the smell of campfire and bug spray lingered on him as he leaned in to
kiss her. She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He’d given her
no more than a couple of pecks on the lips all weekend, but apparently now all
bets were off. The feel of his lips sent a chill through her already cool body,
but she warmed quickly—from the inside out—as his lips fused to hers, coaxing
her to surrender a little of the feeling simmering in her chest. She felt a
deep affection for Chris, even more so after the weekend they’d shared, so why
was this so difficult? His kiss was persistent, and eventually her heart
capitulated, her fervor overriding her reluctance. She knew the instant he felt
the response he sought because his hands tightened on her waist, and he
murmured, “I knew you were in there somewhere.” He pulled away from her ever so
slightly and pressed a final kiss to her lips. “Good night.”
“Good night, Chris.”
He tugged his collar close around his neck and
turned, letting himself out the door and closing it behind him. His feet
thudded down the slick wooden steps, the pattering of rain a steady backdrop,
and then the engine hummed as he drove away.
Deciding she couldn’t stay transfixed in a heady,
kiss-induced haze all night, she grabbed her bag and moved away from the door
just as someone pounded on the opposite side. At the same time, her cell phone
buzzed in her pocket. She slipped the phone out of her shorts and read the
one-word text message from Abby. “Sorry.”
Rebecca walked back to the door and looked through
the peep hole, its bleary view already little better than a funhouse mirror
further distorted by moisture. Her breath caught in her throat. She swung the
door open and braced herself for a torrent worse than any summer storm.
“Daddy.”
“Who was that?” He gestured with his thumb in the
direction Chris had headed.
There was no “hello” or “how was your weekend?” He
pulled open the storm door, stepped inside, and pushed passed her as his rain
jacket dripped onto her floor.
“A friend of mine, Chris.” The warm feeling had all
but left her body, replaced by a tightening coil in the pit of her stomach and
a chill that made her tremble.
“Is that how you say goodnight to all your
friends?”
“No. . . No. Of course not. I’ve been seeing Chris
for, uh, a while, and he’s very special.” She wished she could say her dad
would like him, but that wouldn’t be true. Almost any other dad would be
thrilled with him, but not hers.
“Is this the friend you were camping with
overnight?” He spat the last word out, a fine spray mixing with the water
splattering her floor as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Abby assured me you
were in, and I quote, ‘good hands’.”
What had Abby told him? If she had intended to rile
him—and knowing Abby, she had—it had worked. How could she convince her dad it
was perfectly innocent?
She took his jacket from him and hung it alongside
her hoodie, then stepped into her living area. “Yes, Daddy, but it’s not what
you think. He invited me—”
“Did you share a tent?” Her father’s gaze drilled
hers and without a word demanded the truth.
“Yes, but only because I—”
“I want his full name, Rebecca, and his address.
Now.” Her father’s face reddened, and he dragged a hand over his head, a sure
sign he was going to lose it. He paced in small circles, and she followed him.
“No, Daddy. It’s not like that. We were in
separate sleeping bags. He offered to pitch a tent for me, but I was too scared
to sleep alone in the woods.”
He stopped then and studied her as if he were
trying to decide whether or not to believe her. “Scared? Of what? You weren’t
afraid of him taking advantage of you. Or ruining you or your reputation.”
“He’s a good man, Daddy. He’s not like that. He
respects me, and I trust him.”
“Is he a Christian?”
“Yes.” It was true, but she knew her dad considered
Catholicism little more than a cult or false religion. Having gone to church
with Chris, she could see how others might think it all strange. She certainly
did. But she had also heard Scripture sprinkled throughout the whole service.
More Scripture than she ever heard on a given Sunday.
“If he's such a respectable Christian man, why are
you hiding him from me?”
“I'm not.”
“Then bring him over.”
“Okay, but he…he works weird hours, and I don't
know when…” She didn't like where this was headed.
“I want to meet him.” He stared for a moment, then
in a gentler tone said, “How about Friday night? My manager Reggie’s got a
bunch of fresh salmon he’s bringing back from Alaska. I’ll grill it.”
Surprised by her father’s sudden reversal, Rebecca
didn’t know if she wanted to subject Chris to her dad yet. He may decide a
relationship with her wasn’t worth dealing with her father. She had met Chris’s
parents though, and if she didn’t agree to the dinner invitation, her dad would
be suspicious.
“Okay. I’ll invite him.”
Her dad nodded his approval. “I made a special trip
here with that floor lamp from the attic. You acted like you wanted it, and you
said you’d be home this evening. I get here, and you’re nowhere to be found.”
Rebecca twisted her hands, anxious to claim the
lamp and bid her dad goodnight. “We got held up by the weather.”
Her dad snapped his jacket back off the hook. He
reached into the pocket, retrieved a small plastic bag, and tossed it at her.
“Here’s the hardware for the shade.” He glared at her, shrugged into his
dripping jacket and zipped it. “Lamp’s on the porch, in case you didn’t
notice.”
With that, he flipped up his hood, turned, and
walked out into the rain.
***
The invitation to have dinner with Rebecca at her
dad’s house surprised Chris. She hadn’t said much about her father, but he knew
that, while they were in regular contact, their relationship was rocky, at
best. He also sensed getting her father’s approval would be an uphill battle,
but one he wanted to win. After last weekend, Chris felt certain he wanted this
thing with Rebecca to be long term. The good news he had gotten this morning
would be important to their future.
He knocked on the door, and as he waited outside
the cream-colored bungalow where Rebecca had grown up, he took in the homey
feel. Faded burgundy paint covered the gingerbread on the wooden porch supports
and the shutters. White petunias and ivy spilled out of matching flower boxes
below the two first-floor windows, and a sturdy wooden porch swing hung from
rusted chains.
He straightened his tie and pushed up the knot so
that it pressed neatly into his collar. He had offered to bring a bottle of
wine, but Rebecca informed him her father did not allow alcohol in the house.
Rebecca swung the door open, and he couldn’t stop
the smile spreading across his face.
“Hey, you.” He stepped inside the door and glanced
about to see if they were alone.
She blushed, and it drove him crazy. “Hey
yourself.”
He pulled her close and kissed her, then whispered
in her ear. “I have some good news to share with you, and I’m about ready to
burst.”
“What is it?”
That smile. Those eyes. This job had suddenly
become more important to him than he had ever dreamed. He couldn’t rely on his
motorcycle anymore. Not while he dated Rebecca. He needed a car. “I got a new—”
Rebecca’s father bustled into the foyer. While
taller than Rebecca, his eye level reached only to Chris’s chin. His narrow
face, long nose, and graying hair gave him an authoritative air. Chris couldn’t
find a whit of family resemblance between him and his daughter.
“Daddy, this is Chris Reynolds. Chris, my dad.”
Chris extended his right hand. “Nice to meet you,
Mr. Rhodes.”
“Likewise,” came out of his mouth, but from the way
her dad looked him over, he sensed he wasn’t pleased. He welcomed Chris in and
excused himself to tend to dinner.
Rebecca took hold of Chris’s hand, squeezed his
fingers, and ushered him to the dining room where her dad set a bowl of boiled
potatoes on the table. It looked like how he remembered his great grandmother’s
dining room.
An antique hutch filled with fancy china sat in the
corner. A buffet against the wall topped with a beige doily featured several
framed pictures and a tarnished silver platter. Both a fabric tablecloth and a
plastic liner covered the oval dining table, which had been set for three with
fancy white china plates and real silverware. A cheap print of DaVinci’s
Last
Supper
in a dingy frame hung on the interior wall.
Rebecca let go of his hand and headed for the
kitchen, he presumed to help her dad. He glanced at his watch to make sure he
hadn’t been late. No, right on time. Apparently, Rebecca’s dad didn’t waste
time socializing.
In a few minutes, the table filled with drinks,
dinner rolls, and broccoli, and Rebecca told him to take a seat. Dinner smelled
good but more like beef than fish. He pulled her chair out and then sat next to
her. Her dad brought in the remaining platter of steaks—beef, not salmon as
Rebecca had told him. Chris held his breath knowing that simple menu change
could very well cinch her dad’s opinion of him.