This is not a
happy story, I warn you. There are no daisies, gold at the end of a rainbow, or
anything ridiculous like that. This is an angry story, a sad story, a story of
regret. But most importantly, it’s a life lesson that I was taught and learned
the hard way – probably a little later than I would’ve wanted.
My father was a man named Roman.
Roman A. Tibbs. He was a serious man, but had his moments where he liked to
have fun. He was a tall man, a permanent five o’clock shadow on his face,
course brown hair and thick black eyebrows. His musky scent and slightly sweaty
palms served as constant reminders of his job when he came home in the
evenings.
My father was a bastard. No, not
that kind of bastard. A real bastard. He never knew who his real father was.
The orphanage was all he’d ever known until he turned eighteen. He enlisted in
the military shortly after graduating high school. Infantry. Not much for
making a military career, he served his time and was discharged; honorably no
less.
My father was a bodyguard. He picked
up a few jobs here and there until he started working for some small time
bookie that eventually got him tangled with “The Don.” The Don was a mafia guy,
Italian to be specific. He considered himself King of Manhattan, but he was no
Scarface or Al Capone. However, the cops were keeping their eye on him and so
were the other smaller crime syndicates in the downtown New York area.
My father was a murderer. He’d been
doing a job for The Don. It was only supposed to be a stakeout, but it was a
setup. My father was the fall guy since he was honorable. He took the blame
gladly, happy to be of service to the group. The Don promised to take care of
my father’s kids. My mother left a couple of years ago, deciding that the kind
of life Roman Tibbs was providing his family wasn’t good enough.
My father was a prisoner. He was
held in the jail of the 17th precinct police department until it was
time for him to be moved to the local prison. I’d be in my late twenties by the
time of his release from prison, give or take. Because he was convicted of
murder in the second degree and it was his first offense, the sentencing wasn’t
as heavy as it could’ve been. But still, he’d killed someone. Though being
former military, taking a life probably came natural to him.
After the routine frisking and
checking ended, I was allowed access to that foggy plastic window that mirrored
my father to me. The dusty gray jumpsuit seemed to fit him. He used to be
mechanic’s assistant at a small shop downtown. I sat down in the visitor’s
chair and picked up the phone, watching as he did the same. I could hear his
breath in my ear as I’m sure he could hear mine through the receiver. For a
while we said nothing to each other. I couldn’t imagine what sort of expression
I had, but it managed to elicit a smile from him. The gesture was warm, yet it
reflected his exhaustion from being behind bars.
“Hey, Stevie.” His voice was deep,
the words rumbling in his throat.
“Hey,” I muttered, drumming my
fingers against my thigh.
“How’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
“How’s your brother?”
I looked away from him. “Fine.”
“Well, how’s school?”
“Fine.”
I heard a heavy sigh, forcing me to
look up at him. His face looked even more worn than it was a few seconds ago. “Stephanie…”
“What?”
His
eyes burrowed into mine, as if searching for some kind of answer to a silent
question. I watched him shake his head, running his fingers through that thick
head of course dark hair. The digits moved to scratch where his prominent five
o’clock shadow should have been, now replaced with a beard that resembled the
spines of a baby porcupine. He looked as if he was about to say something, then
changed his mind. “Nothing. Nevermind.”
I
sighed, rubbing my temples. “The Don called. Said he was going to come and see
you when he could.”
“Yeah?”
“I
hate that guy.”
“I
know.”
“No
Roman, I don’t think you do.”
He
visibly winced, doing his best to shake it off. “I get the idea…”
My
father quit nagging me about using his name a long time ago. He’d further lost
the privilege of being called “Dad” ever again the moment he was convicted and
sentenced. Letting The Don brand him as the scapegoat made me lose what respect
I had for him.
“I
gotta go,” I said, looking at my watch.
“Wait!”
I
was already moving my hand to hang up the phone, stopping short when I heard
his muffled voice on the other side of the glass. I looked at him, his image
scratched and foggy on the other side. Placing the receiver back to my ear, I
waited patiently for him to speak. Seconds ticked by and all we did was stare
at each other. I sighed, propping the phone my shoulder as I looked at my watch
again.
“Roman,
my shift starts in half an hour and—”
“I
love you, Stevie.”
I
looked at him, at the man named Roman A. Tibbs. His hand was pressed against
the surface of the plastic wall separating us, the saddest of smiles on his
face. Both his words and actions were so unexpected. I had no idea on how to
respond, so I kept silent.
That’s
when I saw it. A single tear had rolled down his left cheek and got lost in the
dark forest of his beard. I had never seen my father cry in my life so the
sight surprised me. Shocked so much so that my mind began sounding off warning
sirens. I needed to escape from this person across from me.
“I…I
need to go.” I dropped the phone onto the hook as I clambered out of my chair,
hastily making my way toward the exit.
I
needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. I barely acknowledged the
guard as he told me goodbye, my legs moving a lot faster than my mind was
processing things. I threw myself against the metal double doors that led out
to the busy streets of New York. It wasn’t until I was huddled over, breathing
heavily, that I realized I’d been holding my breath. I didn’t care about the
pedestrians who cut their eyes at me, judging me. I didn’t care about the
bustling city and all of its sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and textures.
I
ran.
I
didn’t see the red light flashing at me. I didn’t hear the incessant horn
blowing from the oncoming taxi. I didn’t smell the burnt rubber and smoke that
tried to fill my nostrils. I didn’t taste the metallic substance slowly filling
my mouth. I didn’t feel the wind against my body, lifting me up gently into the
air.
It
was amazing the things I didn’t remember compared to what I did. I didn’t
remember when I first lost my tooth – how my father and mother were both there
to point and laugh at me as I cried while the blood poured from my mouth. I
didn’t remember when my younger brother and I got into our first fist-fight –
how I broke his nose and he gave me a black eye that lasted a week and a half.
I didn’t remember my first crush in junior high, Thomas, or why I started
crushing on him in the first place. We’d been in band together, both of us
trombone players, and he helped me with the b-minor scale. “Remember, third and
fourth positions are a little tricky, so you have to move the slide just right.”
I didn’t remember reading The Divine Comedy and how it fascinated me,
making me wish that I could’ve been Dante traveling through the various levels
of Hell. I didn’t remember when I stopped calling my father, “Dad.”
As
I felt myself falling, I remembered the ocean. The smell of salt, the cool
breeze against my skin, and the gritty sand between my toes. I remembered my
brother and me collecting seashells on the beach. I laughed as he stepped on a
sand crab and got pinched. I remembered watching him scream, crying and flailing
his arms about as he called out for Mom and Dad. I remembered plunging
headfirst into the water, the salt of the ocean stinging my eyes but I insisted
on keeping them open. I had been too lazy to get my goggles. The light of the
sun reflected off the surface of the water above me and I felt like a mermaid,
wishing that the fish would dance around me and that a little red crab would
yell at me for swimming away from Atlantica, saying, “Dis is an outrage!
Whatchu going to do when da humans see you?”
I
remembered breaking the surface of the water, the breath I inhaled invigorating
me and reminding me that I was alive. I floated on my back, enjoying the
feeling of freedom and peace that came with lazily bobbing up and down against the
water. The warmth of the sun beat down on me from above, forcing me to close my
eyes until I could feel myself drifting. Drifting. Drifting away.
“…I
love you too, Daddy.”
