Mohawk

house sometime,” Dallas concluded, a familiar promise that nothing would come of. Randall wished more than anything that his father wouldn’t make it, and there were times when he thought that things might be all right between them if Dallas could somehow refrain from saying he’d stop by the house.
    In the nearly two years since Randall and his mother had moved back to Mohawk, Dallas had “stopped by” only twice. He’d intended to many other times, probably even shaved and showered, but then would stop downstreet for a paper or something and would run into a guy who’d just heard something about a poker game, and he’d stop in for a hand or two since he was early anyway, and next thing he knew the sky was gray in the east and his recently clean-shaven face was rough, his eyes bloodshot, his hands unsteady. And what he would feel more than disappointment in himself was a sense of relief—that he’d very nearly done something foolish.
    As Randall and Dallas parted, the WALK sign flicked off again, and when Randall looked back, he saw his father in the middle of Main Street, cars whizzing by him on both sides. He remembered, then, something he’d overheard his grandfather observe to his mother—that for Dallas life was a series of near misses. To Randall, his father now looked kind, of sad, standing out there in the traffic, waiting for an opening so hecould scoot the rest of the way. And it occurred to him that it might have been a kindness to his father if he had lied, told him his mother was serious about somebody, instead of getting his hopes up. When he was little, there had been a time when Randall had prayed his father and mother would get back together. Now he looked at things differently. To pick out all the things that were wrong with his father wasn’t hard. His shirts never even said the right name and, though he hated to admit it, Randall was ashamed of him. Dallas needlessly complicated their lives, and his son couldn’t help thinking how much simpler everything would be if his father weren’t around.
    Behind him tires screeched, seemingly in answer to the boy’s innermost thought, but when he whirled around his father was disappearing into the
Mohawk News
, where he would get a number down before returning to work.

7
    Mather Grouse was home from the hospital only a week before being readmitted on the advice of Dr. Walters, the family physician. Had it been up to Mather Grouse himself, he would’ve cheerfully ignored his old friend in this matter, just as he had in all the others over the past thirty years. But it was not up to Mather Grouse. His wife had insisted. Mrs. Grouse had great faith in physicians in general—Dr. Walters in particular—and she often argued their omniscience with blasphemers like her daughter Anne, who refused to accord them the reverence they deserved. Mrs. Grouse believed that physicians spoke concentrated wisdom, like Jesus in the parables, and one’s duty was to be alive to possible levels of meaning. So, when Dr. Walters intimated that a series of tests might be beneficial, Mrs. Grouse saw to it.
    She was convinced, for one thing, that Dr. Walters was concealing the real reason for the tests. He claimed that Mather’s blood pressure had been high during his recent stay in the hospital, explaining that people with pulmonary disorders were especially susceptible to heart attacks. The effort they expended in breathing was greater than the human heart was designed to accommodate. Mrs. Grouse nodded politely when all this wasexplained to her, though, of course, she knew better. What Dr. Walters was really concerned about, she knew, was the damage to her husband’s lungs resulting from her daughter’s negligent use of the inhaler. It said, right there on the label, that frequent use damaged the inner lung. Dr. Walters was too kind to make an issue of Anne’s carelessness. Mrs. Grouse had suggested a mild dressing down, but the doctor had just smiled like an old imbecile and said he didn’t think the damage was permanent. But Mrs. Grouse took as a vindication of her own view his decision to admit Mather Grouse for further tests.
    Over the years, Mrs. Grouse’s only complaint with the family physician, who attended their church and was middle-aisle usher, was that he lacked sufficient sternness. Another doctor might have frightened her husband into quitting smoking sooner, whereas Dr. Walters, she suspected, secretly sympathized with her husband’s