Daddy Parker's Arc

Chapter 10 of 10

After the fathers drove off, Daddy Parker stood at the head of the drive a while longer. Then he turned back toward the garage. The six red Fords were still inside, lined up in their bays, hoods cool in the shade. He had only handed out keys, not titles. The cars stayed. The men went home in their own trucks and on foot, the way they had come. Daddy Parker walked the row and rested a hand on each fender. Six cars. Six fathers. He had built a place, not a giveaway. Delores came out from the picnic area carrying two plates of pot roast. She set them on the long wooden table near the garage doors and waved him over. Above the table, a weathered banner hung between two tall posts. She had strung it that morning while he was on the platform. Faded shapes ran across the cloth — small cars, small hands, a sun. "For next year," she said. "And the year after." He sat across from her. The children were inside the cottage with a sitter. For a few minutes it was only the two of them and the smell of the roast. She pushed a flat package across the planks. He opened it. Inside was a framed screen, a still image of him at the microphone, lips parted mid-word. She pressed a small button on the side. The screen lit up and played his speech back to him, all four minutes and forty seconds. He watched himself thank each father by name. He watched himself look at her. He did not stumble once. He had not known how he looked from the outside. He looked like a man who meant it. He set the frame down carefully on the table. "Where did you get this?" "I had someone record it," she said. "Figured you'd want to see it later." He nodded. He pictured the banner still hanging next June, and the cars still in their bays, and another pot roast on this table. He cleared his throat. "Would you do it again next year? All of it. The setup, the speeches, the lunch." Delores chewed, swallowed, looked at him plainly. "Yes." She did not pause. She stood, walked around the table, and hugged him hard around the shoulders. He held on a moment longer than he meant to. When she sat back down, he ate. The speech had landed. The cars were home. The bill at the clinic was paid and the youngest had said a clean word at dinner two nights back. For the first time in months, nothing was hidden in a drawer. But he looked at the banner and counted forward — twelve months of school shoes, winter coats, more therapy sessions, three birthdays. The relief in his chest sat next to a quieter math. He had promised her next year. Now he had to find the money for it.