Short Story

MY FATHER, THE BOXER

by

James Simpson
 

It's Friday afternoon and my white-haired father is at the end of the snack aisle caressing a package of assorted tiny chocolate bars labeled "fun size." He turns the bag over in his hands and mumbles something, then says to me "These are so good." All we have in the cart so far are a box of prunes, a roll of cherry Lifesavers, a can of shaving cream, and a new toothbrush for his dentures. I have a flashback of him buying me supplies for summer camp, minus the prunes and the Barbasol.

"These small ones keep me from eating too much," he says, and I know what's coming next. "I'm still at my fighting weight of one seventy-five."

It's his weekly routine: he picks out the little chocolate bars, pats his stomach, and mentions boxing-he fought once in his life-just loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear.

I don't know why he even buys the candy; he gobbles it up on Friday night, forgets that he's eaten it, then accuses his new nurse of stealing it when she comes on Monday. Sometimes he says Mom is hiding it from him, but he broods when I remind him she died nearly ten years ago.

"Okay, Dad, let's keep moving, I have to pick up Scott at practice later."

He tosses the candy into the cart.

"Scotty still shooting the hoops, huh, good for him. Always knew he'd be a fine athlete someday, he's got natural talent."

When Scott was six or seven, my dad taught him how to shoot baskets. We hung a backboard over the garage door and they'd be out in the driveway practicing for hours. Scotty adored him, and Dad was glad to have an enthusiastic and capable pupil.

I was a clumsy kid (my oldest son, Howard, was even worse) and failed at every sport I tried. Dad was patient and encouraging, but after a while we both concluded I wasn't athletic, so we gave up. He always said it didn't matter, but seeing him with Scott I knew it did. He had waited a long time.

He was a great teacher, too; a natural athlete-agile, sharp-eyed, skillful, quick and tough. He played everything and loved competition, even tried boxing in the Navy but got knocked out in the first round of his first fight and never stepped into the ring again.

"Can't Scotty drive himself home from practice? And where's that wife of yours?"

"He's only fifteen, and I already told you Meg is showing properties this afternoon."

"Why don't you ever show properties?"

"Because I'm not in real estate. I teach math, remember?"

He looks down, picks at his sleeve like an embarrassed child.

"You never call me Pop anymore," he says softly.

Like a bolt out of the blue I don't know where this one comes from; it throws me because I've never once in my entire life called him Pop.

"We still have more shopping to do . . . Pop." It sounds weak and unnatural, but he smiles and we're off again.

We hit the produce section and I choose the greenest bananas I can find because I know they might sit untouched on his kitchen counter all week. He's busy fondling an apple.

"Put it back, Dad. We'll get applesauce if you want it." He frowns.

This is our last shopping trip together. Next week he'll be a resident of Belle Plantation Assisted Living Community. It sounded wonderful and regal when his doctor mentioned it in his list of the top five in the city. I pictured a stately Georgian mansion surrounded by huge moss-covered oaks, vast rolling hills and fields of wildflowers where everyone is free to roam for hours or sit on wide porches drinking sweet tea and admiring the pink azalea blossoms. In person, however, it looks more like an elementary school. I'm not thrilled about my father living there for the rest of his life, but his days of self-sufficiency are behind him.

After work one day last month I stopped by his apartment and found him stuck under the bed holding an armload of dirty clothes. He said he was looking for the laundry chute, but I reminded him that he lives on the ground floor, and the only laundry chute we ever had was in the house we lived in when I was eight.

Another afternoon he was lying prostrate on the living room floor and I swear I thought he was dead. He said he had been doing sit-ups and had lodged his feet under the couch and couldn't free himself, so he took a nap. And last week when Meg and I dropped in after breakfast he was trying to cram dollar bills and silverware into the circuit breaker box in the hallway. He thought it was the safe, but of course he doesn't own a safe. That's when she and I decided he needed full-time care. Later that morning I nailed the breaker box door shut and sealed it with duct tape.

Knowing this day would come eventually, Meg and I spent many nights at the kitchen table discussing the possibility of his living with us, considering ways to shuffle our lives around to accommodate him. We had it all planned. Since Howard is grown and living on the west coast, Dad could move into his old room. I would teach part time in the morning and Meg would stay with him until I got home after lunch. She works from her office in the den most days anyway and spends weekends at open houses. It would take some adjustment, but we could do it.

When we pitched the idea to him he succinctly refused.

I don't want to cramp your style, son, was his response.

He floored me, because I'm sure he thinks-and has always thought-I don't have much style for the cramping.

* * *

We're at the orange juice section and he stands a bit stoop-shouldered, squinting at the cartons, the harsh fluorescent light bouncing off his face, making his hair glow. He resembles a turtle with his wrinkly neck stretched out, investigating.

"How many damned kinds of orange juice do they need to make now? 'Some pulp,' 'extra pulp', where's the plain old OJ?" Another ritual, the juice conundrum.

"On the bottom shelf again; not to worry."

"So where's that wife of yours these days?"

"You know how the real estate business is, she's always running around."

"She's a good little runner, too. A shame you never run with her, it'd do you good to get more exercise."

"You're probably right," I say. Meg wouldn't run if you held a gun to her head.

When had he gotten so bad? It started gradually enough with old family stories he'd told for years at holidays, but with each passing year spun more frequently with missing details, forgotten names, or with different endings. If he and I were the type of father and son who hang around together on the weekends watching hockey and drinking beer, his deterioration might not be such a shock, or maybe I could have seen it coming. Truth is we never spent that much time together until recently. Hell, even though we live in the same city, we would go for months without ever seeing each other, and we were fine with that.

Within the past year, though, he's called me more often, for no other reason than to say hello. I think he knew something was wrong and he needed help, even though he was never one to ask for it.

Behind the seafood counter he spots the young clerk he likes. She's a bubbly blonde, very cute, and I catch myself straightening, pulling in my stomach.

"There's my cute Karyn!" He pronounces it CAR-in like she's told him before. Sure, this he remembers.

He wants fish-calls it brain food as always-and asks what's good today, and I wonder which one, if any, is good for Alzheimer's.

While the two of them chat it up, I tell him to stay put (like he's going to leave Karyn?) while I go over to the deli counter to get his cheese. I'm in line for about five minutes, and when I go back to get him he and Karyn are gone. I ring the bell and she appears from the back room.

"Have you seen my father? He isn't back there bothering you, is he?"

"Oh no," she giggles. "He said he had to get some energy bars. I think that's really amazing."

"That he went to get energy bars?"

"No, silly. He's running a marathon! Twenty-six miles, I think he said. That's really impressive. Aisle seven."

"Excuse me?"

"Energy bars. Aisle seven."

"Oh, right. Thanks."

I go to aisle seven and he's nowhere in sight. Six, no luck. I make a complete lap around the store and see no sign of the marathon runner anywhere. Where the hell is he? He couldn't have gotten very far, he's not that fast these days. I imagine him somewhere in the store, in a stockroom perhaps, stuck under something after a failed attempt at pushups for a group of tittering cashiers on break.

Then I spot him in the candy aisle. He's caressing another bag of something.

"Dad, I told you to stay where you were, I'd be right back! You had me looking all over the store for you."

"I forgot these." He holds up a package of Tootsie Roll lollipops.

"No more candy, put it back." I reach for the bag.

He looks me in the eye and squares his shoulders, one hand balled into a fist. "Stop talking to me like I'm your little boy, dammit, I'm your father! And I'm buying these."

"Put it back!" I grab for the lollipops and it feels like a bag of bones. He wrenches it from my hand, the bag bursts open and a spray of brightly colored Tootsie pops clatters to the floor. He jabs me in the shoulder with his left fist enough to knock me back a step. I can't remember if he's ever punched me before, but I see he's wide open, his surprised face uncovered, and if I were a fighting man I could clock him good. I frighten myself because I really want to hit him. Hard. Something primal and irrational within me wants to knock this goddamned nonsense out of him, or shake him until he's himself again. Anything is better than this. Anything.

There is a strange quiet as though all the sound around us has been suddenly sucked out of the air, and I feel eyes on us. We must look ridiculous, poised and ready, sizing each other up for our absurd candy bout, and I start laughing, and he starts laughing, too.

"Really," he says, relaxed, smiling now, "they're not for me, they're for you."

"But I don't want them."

We kneel together and pick up the candy from the floor.

"I remember when you were young-no more than four or five. We'd hop in my old Chevy and go to the drug store on Friday nights. You'd be standing in the front seat, or sometimes I'd let you sit in my lap-back before all this safety crap-and then we'd go into the store and I'd buy my pipe tobacco and one of these for you."

Seeing the lollipops spread out before me brings it back, and I can almost smell his pipe smoke, soft, gentle and warm. Reassuring.

"You used to love that," he says.

"And we wore matching Bermuda shorts, and those Madras shirts."

"You remember!"

It's getting late so we stuff the candy into the bag and I shove it back on the shelf. We continue down the aisle, but I turn back, grab a fresh bag and lay it in the cart.

* * *

We drive to his apartment sucking our lollipops. He asks me if I'm ever going to get married. I don't answer; I just glance at him sitting there, the muscles and tendons above his jaw working the sucker. His pudgy little body that was once so tough, so agile, is now shapeless and frail. He seems to think he's in great shape, but I wonder if he's ever frustrated or feels betrayed by his body and his mind. What must he think?

"I bought a six pack of beer," I say, "if you want to watch a Blues game or something." I'm not even sure if it's still hockey season. I don't even like hockey. It's spring, so baseball just started, that much I know.

"Sure," he says. "Blues don't play until tonight. The Cards are playing the Cubs in Chicago, though. Should still be on."



"We need to go to a game the next time they're in town." I try to sell it. "Okay, if you want." He shoots me an odd look. My unconvincing tone gives me away. "Didn't think you were much of a fan."

"Baseball's good." I don't follow sports, but it's about the only game I care to watch at all. The stats, batting averages, ERAs and scoring- basic math, sure, but interesting.

We enter his apartment and put away the groceries. He plops down in his recliner, I take the couch, and we quietly sip our beers and watch a scoreless game.

"Can I drink beer," he says flatly. I'm not sure if it's a question or an affirmation: Can I drink beer or what, buddy boy!

"You're drinking it now, Dad."

"At the new place." He's either agitated or tired, I can't decide which. "Can I drink beer at this new place I'm going to?"

"I don't think they allow it, but maybe we could sneak some in."

He nods and sets his half-empty bottle on the end table.

We watch through three innings until Sammy Sosa hits a long shot that looks like it might be a homer, but our center fielder grabs it at the warning track to end the inning. Dad doesn't react either way, and I look over and his eyes are closed, his round little belly rising up and down rhythmically, and I realize I'm running late to pick up Scott at school. I leave the game on, and before I head out the door I stop in the hallway to check the breaker box. It's still taped shut, secure.

* * *

I call him every day at lunch and drop by after work. He's quiet and distracted, acts like he's in a rush to get me out. By Thursday he even asks me "Why are you here so often? Are you moving in or something?"

"No. Do you want to move in with us?"

He flashes a small grin, but shakes his head no. He's forgotten to shave again and his shirt is inside out.

"Tomorrow's the big day, Dad. Meg and I are taking you to Belle Plantation." God, it sounds so awful, like we're going to bury him, plant him in the ground.

"Remember, I like the light beer. Keeps my weight down. You'll sneak it in, right?"

"I'll try." We both smile broadly and laugh, but I laugh so loud and hard my eyes start to water. I reach for the kitchen towel hanging from the refrigerator door handle and wipe them. His cologne is on the towel; very faint, though, a slight lingering whiff in my nose, then it's gone.

I call Meg and tell her I'll be late, and I stick two frozen dinners in the microwave for us. Turkey, mashed potatoes and vegetables, a quickie Thanksgiving. He looks down at his plate, his hands together hovering in the air under his chin and he begins mumbling something. Is he praying? He's never been religious, so is this something new? I watch him and determine he can't decide whether to use his fork or spoon.

After dinner we watch another ballgame and he drifts off again. While he's asleep I go into his room and set out his clothes for tomorrow and pack all the things he'll take with him. A box for his books and magazines, one for photos of us and Mom to hang on the wall, and the biggest one for his medals and trophies. I've forgotten he had so many, but there's one for each sport: tennis, golf, basketball, football, baseball, but none for boxing. Framed shadowboxes with medals and ribbons encased under glass, some as far back as grade school.

I go back into the living room and wake him gently. The game long over, a perky woman is telling us about tomorrows weather, partly cloudy with lots of sunshine, she beams. A wonderful day.

I help him into his pajamas and he slides into bed. Before I turn out the lights he spots the boxes in the corner.

So, you packed all my medals? I've got everything I'll need?" His voice is thin and hopeful, almost pleading.

Sure did.

You didn't forget the boxing ones? He smiles up at me, but his eyes are wily.

I didn't forget. I grasp his leathery hand. "You were really good."

§ § §


James Simpson is a writer and graphic artist in Atlanta, Georgia. His fiction has appeared in Big City Lit, and StorySouth. He is currently working on a novel, but who isn't? He can be reached at: fictionwriter@bellsouth.net .

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