ZooTown #4
Of course, I was a bit wrong about my father’s plans. Thinking he was just gonna whip up some holy brimstone and hellfire and preach about the evils of trick or treating and wearing costumes and celebrating Halloween. Turns out, he had way more planned than just a Halloween night sermon.
Way more…
So a I'm sure you can figure, this past Sunday I wasn't in any hurry to get home, even though I knew a lecture about curfew, punctuality and obedience was waiting for me if I dragged my ass any longer.
But I just couldn't make myself pedal any faster. I coasted down Samara Hill, turned right onto Main Street and cruised past all the shops. The neat old bookstore, Arcane Delights, Handy's Pawn and Thrift, the pawn shop that's been on Main Street since forever, the pizza place and ice cream joint, Brown's Apothecary (which is a fancy name for drug store, which in my way of thinking is a bit two fancy for a small town like this), past the police station and the Town Hall.
Then, a sharp right onto Winter Street, past the rows of houses with lights burning in the windows, and then a left onto Stanton, up to the Baptist church, and to parsonage's driveway just past it. I had half-hoped that maybe Dad would be out, but no such luck: I saw the garage door down (a sure sign he was home for the night) and lights coming from the den window.
I could tell I was late. Didn't need a watch or clock. Just a sense that I'd missed my curfew of 8:30 by just a minute or so. It's weird, Father. At the time I don't think I meant to be late. There was that weird singing I stayed to check out at Raedeker Park, and even though I didn't ride as fast as I probably could've, I also didn't go super slow purposefully.
But looking back, y'know what? Think I subconsciously wanted to be late. Wanted to rile Dad up, get him angry...hell (pardon my mouth), have him yell at me, for once. Seems weird, but it was harder to deal with him being so calm, rational and distant all the time. For once, I just wanted him to yell and scream at me, hell (sorry again), even throw something. You'd think that would've made it harder on me, but not so. It would've made things easier.
So much easier.
*
"Easier to do what, son?"
Of course, Father Ward thought he knew the answer, but also thought it best to continue letting the young man on the other side of the confessional tell his own story.
A sigh, and then in a voice sounding regretful and not a little ashamed, "Easier to hate him, Father. I know that sounds awful. That I wanted him to yell and scream and treat me badly, so then I could hate him without feeling guilty about it. You can't hate a robot with no feelings, or a department store mannequin. Right?
Sure, Dad has grounded me plenty of times, has punished me and taken away privileges, forbids television and rock music around the house, doesn't want me going to parties or movies...but he always does these things in such a bland way. A boring way, almost.
Somehow, that's harder to fight. I guess that's probably why I wanted to be able to hate him. So I could fight him better. You really hate something; I mean really hate it, you can go after that thing, beat it down. Whenever Dad starts lecturing me about missing curfew, or grades, or the evils of rock and roll or monster movies or Halloween...he does it in this bland, perfectly calm manner that sorta tires me out, to be completely honest.
It doesn't matter how much I work myself up to get angry at him, he just looks at me with those sad, kind of dead eyes, his face blank as stone, and then he sorta hammers me with lectures. Takes the window out of my sails, beats me right down. Actually, it gets so bad that, like that night a week ago, I couldn't work up much gumption to get angry at him as I rode home, even as I was making myself just late enough to provoke a reaction. It's like, in the back of my head, even as I was trying to make him mad, I knew there was no point. He wouldn't get mad and yell. So why bother?"
The young man paused. Father Ward sensed the boy wanted to continue and was searching for the right words, so he held his peace, waiting patiently. After several more minutes, the boy continued.
"I guess that's why I want to hate him. He's so calm and rational all the time. He just sucks the life right out of me. Maybe if I hated him...if I could get angry and stay angry at him...maybe I could stay riled up and say what I want to say, finally. That's pretty bad of me, ain't it Father? To want to hate my Dad."
Father Ward released a sigh of his own. "Hate is inside all of us, son. Whatever faith a person holds - or even if they hold no faith - it's part of human nature to hate. And the fact that you want to hate, and find that you can't, and you feel conflicted over that? That makes you human, just like all the rest of us. But, I suppose an important question to ask is this: Do you hate your father?"
The boy's reply came quicker than Father Ward thought it would. "No. I want to, because it would make it easier to fight him, but I can't. And honestly, after this whole week, I don't think I can hate him at all, anymore. There's only one thing I feel for him now, Father - after what he's done, or tried to do. Somehow? That's even worse."
"And what do you feel for him now?"
"Pity, Father. I pity him. And somehow, that seems like the worst thing of all."
*
After I stowed my bike behind the garage, I went in around back, not attempting to be quiet, because there wasn't any point in trying to fool Dad. He may have a really early curfew for me, but he's always up late reading his Bible, studying and taking notes, trying to figure out all the perfect rules for making God happy, or whatever.
Even if for some weird reason he wasn’t at the kitchen table or in his den studying, and had gone to bed - which he's only ever done once or twice after I've missed curfew - he wouldn't be sleeping, anyway. He'd be lying awake in his bed, waiting for me to come home. He'd wait until I got up to my room, wait until it looked like I'd snuck in...and then knock on my door. That was always worse, so honestly I was a little relieved when I walked into the kitchen to see him sitting at the small table, head bent over his old and weathered family Bible, studying.
"You're late," he said, in that monotone voice of his, without once looking up from whatever passage he was reading and underlining. "Curfew is at eight-thirty."
And damn it all (sorry again) if his flat tone didn't just tire me out, so I wanted to go to sleep, right then and there. I'd already been pretty resigned to not fighting with him, but he's always like a negative charge, draining me even further than I'd already thought I was drained. "Sorry," I said, opening the hanging cabinet next to the fridge and searching for a glass. "Brian and I got talking. Lost track of time."
It sounded like a lame excuse to him, I'm sure, even though it was the truth. "And where were you and Brian this late at night?"
That right there probably would've set anyone else off - 8:30 not being all that late for a Saturday night, especially when you're seventeen - and it annoyed me, but like always, his bland, unemotional voice blunted any annoyance I felt at first. I found a glass, finally, went to the sink and started filling it with cold water. "Raedeker Park. We were just killing some time at the zoo."
Even though I was looking out the kitchen window into our dark backyard and couldn't see him, I swear, Father, I could HEAR his raised eyebrows as he said "Killing time? There was nothing more productive to do? Homework? Your devotions? Some reading?"
I took a drink, swallowed and said, my voice sounding eerily flat and dead like his, "Math I got done after school yesterday. Only thing left to do is a chapter and summaries for History, and I'm going to do that tomorrow, after church."
Again, with the raised-eyebrow-slightly-surprised-and-disappointed voice. "Homework, on the Lord's appointed Day of Rest?"
(That's how he said it, Father, all important, like the first letters of day and rest should be capitalized).
"So that's what shiftless 'killing time' leads to. Violating your curfew, and finishing the rest of your school work up on the Lord's Day, which should be devoted to contemplating things of His purpose." He paused, and than said - almost slyly, like he wanted me to say yes - "Was it Brian? Did your good Catholic friend convince you to violate curfew?"
Yeah, I hate to say it, Father...dad's not so big on Catholics. Not a big fan of the pope, he isn't. Honestly, if he knew I was here right now, he'd probably blow a gasket. In his quiet, boring sort of way, of course.
Anyhow, that's probably what prompted me into opening my big mouth. I hated the way he talked about Brian (again, in his so calm and rational and dead way) and about Catholics, hinting they were too liberal, and that would be my downfall and all, so I wanted to defend Brian, y'know?
But to be honest, it was probably also just more passive-aggressive provoking on my part when I turned around, leaned back against the sink and said, "Nope. It's not Brian's fault at all. In fact, he left soon as we were done, probably around 8. I stayed because I thought I heard someone singing at the amphitheater, so I went and checked it out."
Now, this doesn't make me feel so great about myself, Father, but I felt kinda happy when he froze, his pen stopping, and he got all kinds of still. Was like I finally got a shot past his defences and made him react to something, for a change. He sat there for several seconds, staring at his Bible, not moving, until he looked up at me, face blank as always, but his eyes wide and curious, and maybe even...
Afraid.
That's what it was. He looked afraid. I had no idea at the time why he would be afraid, but again, I'm not gonna lie, even though it makes me look like a pretty bad guy...that scared look in his eyes?
Made me feel pretty good, honestly.
Doesn't say much nice about me, does it?
That afraid look didn't stay there very long. Pretty quickly, his eyes got flat and empty like aways. His voice sounded like he was asking about the weather. "Singing. You heard singing at the amphitheater?"
I shrugged. "Thought I did. Nobody was over there, though, so I must've imagined it. Or maybe someone was driving by with their car radio really loud, with the windows down or something."
Dad stared at me for several more seconds. For just a moment, that scared light in his eyes flickered. But all he did was press his lips together, look back down to his Bible and say, "You are to stay away from Raedeker Park, son. I don't want you going there. And I expect to be minded."
I chugged the last bit of water in my glass, swallowed and said (again, probably hoping to get some sort of rise out of him), "Why? You find a new Bible verse saying zoos are evil? Though shalt not keep kangaroos in cages?"
Yeah, that was a pretty snarky thing to say, but as usual, he didn't rise to it. Without looking up at me, he said calmy, "Not the zoo. The amphitheater. I want you to stay away from there. If you're not part of a performance scheduled, you're not to be messing around there. A town ordinance, as you know very well."
Now, I didn't know that very well at all. Kids are always hanging around on the amphitheater's stage without permission. But like always, his dead tone of voice stole any mood I had to disagree.
Still, for some reason, I couldn't let it go. I wasn't about to argue the town ordinance thing, but I was also in no mood, for once, to just walk away. "Why, Dad? For once, explain to me why, instead of ordering me around like I'm some sort of indentured servant."
That finally scored a hit. He closed his eyes, shoulders going rigid, and he squeezed his pencil so hard, I thought he'd snap it in two. But he got control back pretty quickly. He breathed once, shoulders and fist relaxing. He opened his eyes and, without looking up from his Bible, said in a voice both sharper and harder than I've ever heard: "Do not defy me. You will stay away from the ampitheater at Raedeker Park until further notice. Am I understood?"
I'd gotten what I wanted: A rise from Dad. But the underlying steel in his voice sent shivers down my spine, and I instantly regretted it. "Yeah Dad. Understood."
"Very good. Get to bed. Make sure you do your devotions for the night, before going to sleep, like Christ's disciples did in the Garden of Gethsemane, right before he died for them."
I nodded (which didn't matter, of course, because he wasn't looking at me), and left for my bedroom without saying another word. I'd been dismissed for the night, and I knew he'd have no more to say.
