A "Real" Dad Part I

What Makes a Father

What makes a father?

My husband, Craig, never knew his. He and his brother, only one year apart, had a sort-of-father in the home up until about the ages of 12 and 13, and it’s telling that my husband has never given this man the title: “Dad.” This man married my husband’s mom when the boys were just babies and quickly adopted them, giving them his surname. But the name carried no honor as the man treated their mother with disdain, to put it lightly. To put it more accurately, he turned over tables in the middle of dinner, threw something that broke his wife’s nose, beat the boys with a belt, and called them names of all sorts. Plus, he never held down a steady job, so his wife supported the family on an income just below the poverty line. They did have food on the table, but a fear of ending up living under a viaduct somewhere always showed up quite realistically in the boys’ nightmares.

No mention of the real father, or the biological one that helped conceive these two boys, ever came up over the years as their mom carried on a little charade that this dad was their dad. Who knows? Maybe the first guy was worse. Their mother even went to the trouble of officially changing the boys’ birth certificates, removing her first husband’s name from the files. The boys never asked many questions. Even after their mom finally divorced this second dad, they carried his name into adulthood.

My mother-in-law eventually became part owner of a small bar. The profits helped pay for her sons’ more expensive needs, like hockey equipment, shoes for ever-growing young men, and winter clothes. Her elaborate Christmas parties must have cost a bunch too, for when I came into the picture, she showered me with beautiful, very personal gifts.

One of the late weekend nights my husband spent bartending for his mom, a man took a seat at the far end of the bar, talking to another patron. Craig hadn’t waited on him yet when his mother sidled up next to him, leaned in close and whispered, “See that guy down at the end there? That’s your father.”  She sort of nudged Craig to go talk to him. “Go ahead. May as well introduce yourself.”

This took more than a nudge. A million thoughts surfaced. Twenty-one years of latent wonder woke up in an instant and stood in the forefront of his head, barring the way forward for a few moments. After all, this was the first time he’d ever really seen the man. But introduce himself, he finally did.

“Oh Son, I’ve always loved you. I have wanted to contact you, but your mother wouldn’t let me. She always kept me away from you boys. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t thought of you.”

Too much information here. Too fast. Too bewildering. Craig may have felt a twinge of intrigue, but as a very careful person, he put up a little screen to guard himself from crossing all the way over. This man placed a small possibility on the bar in front of him and shoved it forward with a finger. A number written on a napkin.

“Call me,” he said. “We can catch up.”

Catch up? After twenty-one years of silence. Craig was dumbfounded for a minute. Many confusing emotions welled up. Plus, he had all the warning signals from his mother’s assessments of her first husband. Were they accurate? Craig was not sure. Maybe, despite the trepidation, they could pursue some semblance of a relationship.

But Craig moved slowly, never the type to dive right in, and six months flew by with no move toward contact. The second encounter, again at the bar, occurred late into the night, near closing time.

“Son, why haven’t you contacted me? Your brother did. You think you’re too good for me? Are you all high and mighty because you’re a big college student?” He took a long swig of the brown drink someone else had placed in front of him.  “You think I’m a low-life, don’t ya? I’m your father, damn it.”

Craig’s hands naturally reflected what he felt, and they rose up in front of him. “Hold on. I don’t even know you. I’m not sure how to respond here. I can’t just suddenly call you my father. I don’t think this is the best time to resolve all of what you’re saying right now. Maybe another time when you aren’t drinking, okay? Not in the bar while I’m at work.”

With that, the man slammed his glass down and walked out. Craig finished his cleaning duties for the next half hour as the bar emptied completely. Thoughts ran around his head again. He supposed maybe his mother was right about this guy.  He behaved the way everyone would expect an estranged father to behave. Put upon. Mistreated. As if it was everyone else’s fault. Craig knew, even at this young age, that it was never his own responsibility to shoulder such a relationship. A real father would have tried harder. A real father would be man enough to pursue his children and not blame them. Just because he and this man shared blood did not make the man his dad. Genetics or not. Confirmation of his worst fear settled: his mother was right. Craig lined up his thoughts and made a tentative plan to communicate his resolve with his father at some point, when the man was at least sober. He felt pretty confident that a relationship might not work.

As Craig locked up the bar and made his way to his car in the corner of the parking lot, he saw a dark figure standing at the curb, facing traffic on the busy Telegraph Road. Inching his car up for a closer look, he shook his head as he witnessed his “father,” with his pants pulled down in front, relieving himself of all the liquid he had imbibed right into the street, headlights illuminating the picture for all to see.