“Where is Gus’s dad?” she asked.
She was completely innocent. This was her son’s first year on the team and she was a nurse, I think. So her hours did not allowed her to attend the games until that day.
“Gus’s dad is not in the picture,” I said and immediately regretted it.
She hesitated, her eyes wide, her mouth in the standard O-shape as she processed the meaning of my answer. Embarrassment set in, though completely undeserved. She had no way to know.
I did what I could to save the moment. “Your Jeremy is a great short stop. We’re glad to have him on the team.”
“Thank you,” she said and moved away.
These Father’s Day Tournaments were the worst. Gus was sixteen-years-old and we’d been coming to them since he was seven. He didn’t even ask about his father any more. Maybe that was a good thing. At least, for me.
His father was a jerk and I was young and stupid. Gus, however, was a daily miracle. Even as a monosyllabic, stay-in-his-room, over-cologned teen he brought me joy and I thanked God every day for him. Even on Father’s Day.
It was early in the season, and our team won. Gus didn’t score. He fouled out twice and got a couple of singles. He was walked twice. He was a heavy hitter and went for the home run every at-bat. Even the big-leaguers have their off days. But his defensive play was dependable every day.
The high temp that Father’s Day was supposed to be 93 degrees. In the shade. Unfortunately they don’t put baseball fields in the shade. That was just June. I always started dreading baseball season’s August ending at the beginning.
At game's end, he lumbered up to me, his face dusty and sweat-streaked. He had my dad’s eyes and smile, but he was built like his dad. At least, like I remembered his dad – tall and slender. He was beginning to come out of that all-elbows-and-knees stage that young humans go through. Only mothers and teenage girls can think teen boys are cute.
“There’s a bunch going to Braums for burgers and ice cream,” he announced, his blue eyes crinkled with mischief. He knew exactly how many Weight Watchers points hide in Braums food.
“Thank you, no. You go on, if you want. Someone’ll give you a ride.”
He poked me with his bat. His special, high-dollar bat. “Nah, we got popsicles at home. Can I drive?”
He couldn’t wait to get his license and then he wanted to drive everywhere and anywhere. I think he’d’ve driven to the mailbox at the end of our sidewalk, if he’d thought I’d let him.
I guess I should have been glad he liked to drive our old clunker. Actually, it wasn’t too bad. All the fenders were the same color. It ran. It was red. And it was paid for.
Thank goodness it ran. Then. The month before it had needed a new alternator.
Gus wanted to get a job that summer, but he was a really good ball-player. Maybe good enough for college. A guy from State’d been talking to him. That and his good grades. Sure would beat finishing school with student loans over his head.
“Radio?” he asked.
“No radio. You know the rules. No radio your first six months driving.”
“Mom, talking to you is as distracting as the radio.”
What made him think logic from a sixteen-year-old would be any more persuasive than whining from a twelve-year-old?
“You want me to be quiet?”
He didn’t answer.
“What’s that noise?” I asked.
A rubbing noise came from the left front when we turned right.
“The steering doesn’t feel right,” he said.
There’d been a noise like that for a while. Not so loud, but loud enough I’d had the mechanic at the lube place check it. He hadn’t found anything wrong. He said the power steering rack may need replacing, but that was expensive and he wouldn’t recommend it unless it got worse. This noise was much louder. Maybe this was the “worse” he was talking about.
And I had a dental appointment that next week. Fix my teeth or the car? Neither a pleasant choice.
“Pull over.”
“Flat tire,” he announced before I could get around to the driver’s side.
“Small mercies,” I said.
“Do you know how to change a tire?” he asked.
I know not all fathers are good at fixing things. It just seems like it would be good to have one around who was at times like that.
“Yes, my dear. I do know how. And you will, too when we finish here.”
An hour later we were home. Both of us hotter and dirtier from dealing with the flat tire and the spare. He called dibs on the shower.
“Kevin’s picking me up. We’re going swimming at Neil’s.”
“Odd. That doesn’t sound like a request for permission.”
“Sorry. Is it okay?”
“It’s okay. Hurry up in that shower.”
When he finished, I showered. I stood under the water for ages. It felt so good.
I came out into a quiet house. He hadn’t even told me goodbye.
The kitchen was a disaster. How could one child do so much damage in fifteen minutes? He must have made himself a sandwich. Guess I should have been glad it wasn’t a five-course meal.
After a zapped left-over dinner and a nice cup of tea, I went to bed with a book.
On my pillow was a note and a rose. The rose was from my own Mister Lincoln bush, a beautiful velvety red with that wonderful rose scent.
The note was addressed to “Mom” and said,
“Happy Father’s Day to the best Dad a man ever had.”
Signed “Your son, Andrew Augustus Samuelson”
With a P.S. “I’ll be home before curfew. Love you.”
As if I wouldn’t know who Andrew Augustus Samuelson was.
Or that he was a “man” at sixteen.
