OH, MY PAPA

I should have been, most certainly could have been, a better father. Now as my hair visibly gets whiter and whiter, disgust in myself is grinding me down into mincemeat. Clouds almost obliterate the rear view of my mind.

Love, sweet, stupid love, made me a big man at sixteen. Sex mademe a foolish boy. It was free, available and far better than looking at Sears & Roebucks drawings of ladies’ underwear. Candy was handy. Candy made after class work better than just dandy. I passed with honor grades but failed protecting us. Fear, shame knocked me over when she whispered in my ear I was going to be a father. Her mother had surmised it when she heard her daughter throwing up every morning for a week. No such thought came to Candy. All she had was an upset stomach. Neither of us had ever heard of ‘morning sickness.’

Stuff hit the fan. Clandestine meetings between our families kept the event quiet for a while. Candy was insatiable, insisted on meeting me under the football grandstand every day. She wasn’t afraid to get preg–she already was.

The Catholic Gordons were not devout church goers, but deeply instilled in the beliefs of their childhood. Their daughter was going to be a mother and I was the father and there would be no abortion, no adoption. Period. My parents put up a strong argument but lost. I moved into Candy’s room that had a single bed. Her father brought up an old army cot from their basement for me. My double bed with a coil spring mattress was wasted, empty. A family decision was made that we were not to marry until a few days before the baby would be born, just in case the baby didn’t survive. How thoughtful of them.

Every hard, lumpy night on the cot brought silent tears to soak my pillow, drown out Candy’s light snoring. The girl I had thought I loved needed me but I needed room to breathe and watched for the right moment to get away. Time was almost up. Mrs. Gordon drove Candy to the obstetrician’s for possibly the last time. With no plan set, I stuffed my clothes into a tattered suitcase and a large, strong shopping bag. The 33 streetcar left me at the Greyhound station where I was able to remove five one dollar bills from my shoe for whatever was ahead of me and a ten to more than cover the bus ride to Tampa.

There a glass of milk with a package of peanut butter crackers sufficed for supper. From the small table next to mine I confiscated today’s newspaper that still had the want ad listings. There was nothing for me. ‘Walk, Mister, get busy,’ I told myself. That was much harder than I had thought. My suitcase was growing rocks. The paper shopping bag was on the verge of disintegrating. The day was waning and I had no job, no place to stay and not much money. I walked right past it, did a double take and came back to see if the large and busy auto repair shop could use a semi-novice. An oil covered mechanic who looked older than my grandfather was surely going to throw me out. Somehow he must have felt sorry for me, was about to give me a hand out when I told him I need a job and a place to stay for a few days.

‘Will you be a go-fer, run errands, bring my men the tools they need, clean up the oil?’ ‘I’ll do anything you ask and learn at the same time. I’m smart, graduated with honors from high school.’ ‘Young man, I’ll give you minimum wage and a place to stay for a week. Let’s see what you’re made out of. My office isn’t the Grand Hotel but it is air conditioned and has a sofa that I use when I need a nap. Stay away from my files, my desk, my appointments. ‘Shake.’

Mr. Shapiro liked me. I liked him. I was doing a good job but had pain in my heart. What was happening to Candy, my baby? I couldn’t call her as maybe she, or the police could trace the call. I let it go one night, two and felt worse and worse. Saturday I spent two bucks for the round trip bus ride to Sarasota, called my parents who weren’t home and then rang Candy. I was sweating like a pig stuck in the mud. As if everything was normal, I said, ‘Hi, Candy. How are you? Did you have our baby? Girl or boy?’ Candy didn’t answer my questions. She screamed so loud I dropped the phone for a minute. ‘Where are you, Bastard? You good for nothing piece of crap. You took advantage of me. I should have charged you with rape.’ She kept on going. ‘Jennie, your daughter, needs you. She needs milk, clothes, diapers, money! I’m stuck here being mother, nursemaid, chief bottle washer. I can’t look for a job. My parents get little sleep. Come back, come back.’ ‘Not now, Candy, maybe never. Try to forgive me. I’ll send money for both of you, as soon as I get a raise. Tell your Mom you have to go out dancing, have a good time now and then. Otherwise you’ll never find a husband. She’ll know you are right and you will smile again. Tell my parents I called them but got no answer. You’ll hear from me regularly. I promise.’ Candy slams the phone. I hang up my end and spend a quiet day enjoying the beauty of Sarasota, the Gulf and am back in Tampa by 7:30 p.m.

I do keep my promises to Candy and one time she let Jennie say ‘Da Da’ over the phone. I dried my tears on my shirt, took Leona to dinner and bed.