By Jennifer Scott-Dewar
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My father died two weeks ago and left me his guitar.
When I look at it in the corner, memories come to my mind involuntarily. When
they get to be too much, I stuff the guitar in its case and hide it in my
bedroom closet. I haven’t tried to play it yet. I played some when I was
younger, but my father told me that there were too many guitarists in the
family. So, I took up flute instead.
When I
look at the frets, I see my dad’s fingers moving over them. Unlike most
guitarists I know, my dad had thick fingers that did not seem as though they
belonged on a guitar. He knew hundreds of songs and sang along -rarely
forgetting the lyrics. Dad knew he was not the best guitar player. He was not
classically trained. He was self-taught. Because of this, he felt it was
important that he became a good entertainer. He compensated by telling jokes
during his sets at the steakhouses where he performed. His energy was
boundless, and I loved watching him.
On a
rare instance one night, he picked me up in his dark blue Subaru wagon. I must
have been seventeen and made sure to dress in a new skirt and top. My father
liked us to look like we could go onstage at any moment’s notice. I knew
something was wrong right away by the look on his face. “Hey, Honey” he
said.
When I
turned to greet him, he looked away and peered out into the dark. I studied his
profile and could almost see his light brown hair and muscular, stocky build.
As he started to drive, he stated, “I have to go away for a bit. It might be a
while.”
I
waited but he didn’t add more so I asked, “Why dad?”
He
whipped the Subaru to the side of the road and parked. He looked around under
the streetlamp lighting. I became nervous. He quickly pulled a medium sized
plastic bag from under his seat. He opened it. My father didn’t need to tell me
what it was. It was a large bag of cocaine. I had never used cocaine but had
seen it on television. I was shocked and didn’t know what to say so I kept
silent. When I spoke, I asked him if he was going to jail.
“I’m
afraid it is worse than that. I won’t go into details. I want you safe. I know
I don’t tell you enough, but I love you and am proud of the young woman you
have become”.
I was
stunned. I couldn’t remember my dad ever telling me he loved me. He then took
out three hundred dollars and told me to keep a hundred dollars for myself. I
was to give the rest to my mother. He explained that he wished he could give me
more, but he owed some people too much money.
At
that confession, my heart started racing and my stomach became unsettled. I
looked behind me in the black night. Dad noticed and said that he should get me
home. He put the Subaru in gear and pulled out to the street. We were silent as
he drove. My mind alternated between blankness and racing thoughts. What if I
never saw my dad again? What if someone broke his fingers? What if they came
for me?
Probably
from nerves, dad started talking football. He must have forgotten that I didn’t
even like football. Before he dropped me off in the front yard, he kissed my
cheek.
“Don’t
tell your mom” he whispered. I agreed. I then watched him pull away from the
front of the house and followed his taillights as they started disappearing
down the road. I watched until I couldn’t see them anymore.
I
didn’t see my dad for twenty-seven years. During that time some people
speculated that he managed a restaurant a state over or became a boat captain
in Georgia. After those twenty-seven years, the next time I saw him was
identifying his body at the morgue. Apparently, he had suffered a massive heart
attack.
In the
morgue, they let me hold his hands. His hands had grown wrinkled but were
otherwise still the same-with fingers that couldn’t really play guitar but did.
I told the worker there that I hadn’t seen her father in twenty-seven years. He
didn’t respond, but then later he came over with a chair that I could use for a
few moments. I sat down- never letting go of dad’s hand. Throughout the years,
I felt a mix of being angry at him, to being sad and worried. Now, none of
those emotions seemed to serve a purpose.
It was
odd that I could hear his voice in my mind like he was alive. I noted how
voices aren’t forgettable and don’t change. So many times, I wished he had
called me on the phone. Now, here I sat knowing I would never speak with him
again. I could understand why so many people talk to the deceased.
I
imagined that I would find out where he had been all those years, but my mind
started to wonder about the possibilities as I moved to hold his other hand. I
liked to think of him as a boat captain and imagined that sometimes he would
sit out on the deck and play his guitar. It is better than the thought of him
living in a seedy motel in the southwest barely scraping by. I suppose it is
amazing he lived as long as he did- considering what had occurred.
I
leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “I hope you are in Heaven now Dad.
Maybe we will meet up there. It probably isn’t as much fun, but it is probably
beautiful.” I wondered if he still had the gaudy red pinky ring he used to
always wear. He had told me he bought the ring with the first one hundred
dollars he made singing and playing music. I guessed he still had it and
I would have it soon.
I laid my head on where
his heart used to beat.
About the Author
Jennifer Scott-Dewar graduated from the University of Illinois at Springfield with her master's degree in Child, Family and Community Service. She worked for several years in the violence response and prevention field. She last worked ensuring that children could have play visits in the jail with their incarcerated parents.