Daddy Parker's Arc

Chapter 9 of 10

The morning after the dinner, Daddy Parker walked the property with a folder under his arm. Inside was the paid stamp from the clinic, fresh from the mail. He had wired the balance before sunrise, clearing the bill in full. He stood a moment by the small shed at the back of his lot, the one lined with old plates and shop tools, and let the weight of it settle. The thing he had carried alone for months was done. No one had to know how late it was. He tucked the folder onto a shelf inside the shed and closed the door. By ten the fathers had arrived. Daddy Parker had set up a wooden platform near the showcase garage, with lights strung above and a microphone at the center. He climbed the steps and gripped the stand. His mouth went dry. He looked out at the five men he had chosen, and at his wife near the picnic table, and he started anyway. He thanked each father for coming. He named what he had seen in each one: the work, the patience, the showing up. He said they were the kind of men he wanted to stand beside. The words came easier the longer he spoke. When he finished, he pointed past the platform to the row of red Fords, keys lined up on a board. "It's time to drive," he said. The fathers came forward one at a time and took their keys. Daddy Parker shook each hand. At the head of the driveway he had planted a painted sign, an arrow pointing the way out toward the road. He had built it himself the night before, after he sent the wire. The first engine turned over. Then the second. Delores stood beside him as the cars rolled past the sign, one after another, the men waving through open windows. Daddy Parker raised his hand. He kept it up until the last Ford cleared the drive. Then he lowered it and breathed out for what felt like the first time all week. The bill was paid. The speech was given. The fathers were on the road. For one morning, he had done what he set out to do, and nothing was hiding in the drawer at home.