A Man Named Dave

yeah,” I broke in, “we ah, we’ve talked a lot.”
    “And she has the same feelings for you as you do for her?”
    I felt crushed. “Yeah,” I swallowed. “Patsy, she – she treats me great… and she’s had some hard times, too.” I caught myself. I was saying anything I could think of that would make this easier. “I’m sorry, Mom, I know you don’t agree. I just, I just respect you and Pop too much. I didn’t want to live a lie.” I paused, waiting for Alice to lay into me. I didn’t even hear her breathe. “Mom, Mom, are you there?”
    “Yes, I’m here. It’s just …” She stopped, and as she did, I hated myself. All I could do was wait for the bomb to drop. “It’s just, well … I took Harold to the doctor …”
    I felt a surge of relief that the subject had shifted away from Patsy and me. “So,” I put in, “it’s the flu, right? And all Pop has to do is stay home and rest for a while?”
    “David,” Alice said, “Harold has cancer. He’s scheduled for therapy, but … the doctor thinks it’s too advanced. He’s gonna fight it, so for right now all we can do is pray. I’m happy for the two of you, but for now let’s keep this between us.”
    Hanging up the phone, I turned to Patsy and told her the news. What I did not tell her was how ashamed I felt. That evening I thought of how selfish I had become. My flying, my globe-trotting adventures, my apartment, my live-in girlfriend – me, me, me. The next morning after returning from work, I sat down with Patsy. “I’ve given this some thought, and I think on the weekends I should go down and spend time with my parents.”
    “I understand. Remember, I just lost my dad, too,” Patsy responded. I nodded in agreement. “Listen, I’ve got a great idea, I can go with you! I can help out Alice, and this way we can spend time together.”
    My answer was not what Patsy had hoped for. “But I barely get to see you now, what about us?” she cried.
    “When I lost my dad, he couldn’t even say good-bye. No one was there for him.” I stopped, imagining my father alone in the room, covered in white hospital sheets. “When I first came to the Turnboughs as a foster kid, no one, and I mean no one, would take me in. We’ll have time together, but for now this is something I have to … it’s the right thing to do.”
    Patsy nodded. “I understand.” She reached out to hug me, but by the time I saw it I had already stood up and walked away.
    When I wasn’t overseas flying, I spent nearly every free weekend I could with the Turnboughs, sometimes even showing up after a Friday afternoon mission wearing my sweaty flight suit. Whenever Harold was not taking one of his lengthy naps, we’d sit outside in the closed-in screen porch he had constructed a few months before. For a person who had never spoken to me that much as a teenager, Harold now told me stories of when he served during World War II as a driver for the officers, and upon his return home from Europe how he and other veterans cried when they saw the Statue of Liberty. While some of his army buddies stayed in New York to celebrate, Harold caught the first train back to Missouri so he could get up early at home, grab his box of carpentry tools, and go from door to door to find work. For me it didn’t matter what he said, just as long as we spent time together. It was during those times, while a cool breeze blew in through the screen porch, that Harold and I accomplished something my biological father and I had never done: bond as father and son.
     
    As the months went by, I saw Harold slowly deteriorate. Those times Patsy joined me, she had to hold back her shock at Harold’s appearance. Leaving her with Alice, I’d sit with Harold as he drifted in and out of sleep. We all knew the cancer had spread too far and the chemotherapy wasn’t helping. Harold somehow held on, but his strength, coordination, and eyes were failing him to the point he could no longer drive his truck or do his woodworking. That’s when he knew the end was near.
    “I was gonna build that home for Alice, you know, in Nevada,” Harold said during one of my Saturday visits. “Had to wait to retire.”
    I nodded my head in agreement. “Yes.”
    “No time now.” He paused, rubbing his callused hands. “So … what is it you want?”
    “Excuse me?” I blurted from embarrassment. In all the years I had known him, Harold had never asked such a probing question. “Well …” I stuttered; “I – I like flying. I’ve always wanted a home at the river. Ever since my father passed