# 7 - Chapter Seven "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

Chapter Seven "It Hurts to Say Goodbye" 

Chapter Seven – El Siegel  

There was loud knocking on my front door, and I felt a shot of panic. Could that be the Philly police? Jesus, I was flooded by a bunch of terrible possibilities.  

It was only a few days since I talked with both of them, Boswell and Buckley, and I hoped – maybe it wasn’t realistic – that they’d give me more than a few days of peace. I could almost imagine their thinking: let the guy think he’s off the hook, and then hit him. He’ll blab everything to us. 

But the knocking got louder. I had no choice. 

I opened the door, and there he was. I found Patrick standing in front of me. I had a strange mixture of feelings. One was pleasure: I was struck by how handsome he was. He was dressed in a grungy way – jeans, t-shirt and what looked like an old sweat shirt. But he was looking at me with a slight smile and a kind of sideways glance, with his full head of chestnut hair and his blue eyes. 

The other was guilt: he called me and then texted me several times over the last few days, and I just couldn’t talk with him. I didn’t know what to say, especially now. Jesus, I didn’t even know where to start. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. You just never answered, and there’s some stuff I need. So  . .” 

“Don’t be silly, Jesus. Come on in, really. It’s good to see you. I been . . .  .” I pulled him into the living room and slammed the door behind us. Then I stood in the middle of the room and looked at him. 

“Com’on and sit down,” I said. “This is gonna sound stupid, but let’s talk. Honestly, this has been a tough time for me.” 

He threw his backpack onto the leather couch facing the window and sat in the middle of the cushions. I forgot how tall he was; his knees were jammed against the marble coffee table between us. 

I took a seat on the couch across from him, the one facing inside the house, and I didn’t know where to start. Patrick came with me to Gertie’s maybe two times, and I was sure I’d introduced him to Faith. But now, I just couldn’t even consider telling him about Faith’s death and the police investigation. 

And I realized I had something else to worry about. 

“Frankly, Dad,” and then Patrick stopped talking and waited. I had the feeling that he wanted to say more, but he stopped himself. 

I didn’t know what to say, so I waited. 

Then he continued. “Frankly, Dad, I need some stuff from my room, just a few books and notebooks for one of my classes at Temple. And I thought I’d grab some of my clothes, a couple jeans and t-shirts. Ma’s condo’s classy and all that, ya know, but not huge, definitely not huge. So I don’t have much closet space.” 

I had the feeling that he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. But he gave me a way out. I said, “Sure, sure. I haven’t touched a thing in your room But . . . You know, it’s your space, and it’ll stay your space. My God, Mom and I, we moved here because we wanted to do something new. But for you, you used to be a suburban kid, and now you’re a city man. It’s a different kind of life.” 

Patrick just stared at me in kind of a questioning way. “Yeah, sure, I guess so. Maybe I’m not that sure. Lot of the same stuff, some of the same restaurants and cafés, and maybe more bookstores, and things like that. I’m not sure. I spend most of time at Temple, at the library.”

“So, how’s school going?”

“It’s good, really okay,” Patrick told me. “I’m glad I’m there, really.” 

I decided to be a good host. “Hey, want something? I got beer in the fridge. Or maybe a cup of tea, it’d take just a second to make.”

“No, that’s okay. Really don’t have much time, lotta reading, honest. But if you want some news, I can tell you something. I’m changing my major.” 

“I hope you’re sticking with English,” I said. “You said before that you really loved the courses.”

“Maybe I don’t express myself that great for an English major,” Patrick said. “I’m not quitting anything, I’m actually adding on. I’m keeping English, because I love it, I really do. But I’m adding education. I think what I really want to do is teach creative writing. I’m hoping at the high school level. I just love learning stuff, really delving into it, and then sharing it with other people. And I love the act of writing. So, maybe teaching creative writing, my students and I will learn at the same time and from each other.” 

I couldn’t stop myself. “Jesus, Patrick, that’s wonderful, really great. I wish . . . I kinda wish that we spent more time talking about the authors I really used to love. Writing’s something I wanted, but I guess I took the easy way out and went into marketing. But, honestly, money had something to do with it.”

Patrick leaned forward and stared straight at me. “I’ll tell ya, Dad, that’s something you gave me. We did talk about books a lot. And if you walk into my room, you’re gonna notice a bunch of books, almost all novels, a bunch of books that used to be in your office. Let me know when you want them back. But thanks.”  

“I don’t get it. I had the feeling I spent all my time at the office.”

Patrick pushed himself up from the couch and smiled at me. “Look’it, I gotta get going. I’ll just borrow a big bag and grab some of my clothes. That way I won’t have to wash my clothes so often. Sounds lazy, huh?” 

“No, no, not at all. I been there too. But just wait a second, just a second! I wanna say something.” I tried to think of the best way to approach the subject. “I just kinda thought you wanted to say something a while ago. You wanted to say something and then you stopped yourself.”

He looked at me. “I guess my heart’s on my sleeve. You’re right. But I didn’t know how to fit it in, make it sound casual. I’m just messed up about you and Mom. I just don’t understand.” 

I was afraid of this. “Pat, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m trying to figure everything out myself, trying to understand my own feelings. All I can tell you, and I really mean this, nothing’s your mother’s fault. We been married for a long time, and she was always a good wife.” I stopped, and we looked at each other. “It’s me, and I gotta figure some things out.”

“Dad, I’ll be honest. I still don’t understand. You and Mom, you were always solid. I don’t think . . . . Sure, you guys probably disagreed once in a while, but it sure wasn’t like some of my friends’ parents. Gosh, my friends, you wouldn’t believe what some of them say, what they say about their parents. Some of them really went at it. They went at it for each others’ throats. I just thought we’d stay a family for always.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no fault, at least on your mother’s side. Sometimes that’s just the way it happens. Like I say, I gotta work some things out.” 

I don’t think I’d ever seen Patrick so serious, when he said: “Dad, will you do me one favor? Just one! Just call Mom. That’s all I wanna ask you. Just start a conversation, and see what happens. Just start it.” 

My son waited for my answer. 

“I’ll do it, I promise. I’ll call your Mom.” 

I found a shopping bag in the front closet, and gave it to Patrick. It seemed like it took him three seconds to find his notebooks, the clothes he wanted to take, and whatever else he needed. He made a racket when he came back down the stairs.

We stood in the living room, just looking at each other, without saying anything. We didn’t move, not knowing what to do and what to say, in the middle of the furniture, the volumes in our bookcases, all the little objects and souvenirs from the past, all of the things that had been part of our lives.

“I guess I gotta get moving,” Patrick said finally.

We hugged, and he was gone. 

I didn’t know what to tell him. I was trying to think of some kind of an explanation. There were things I didn’t understand myself. And there were things a father couldn’t tell his son, like there were images that floated through my mind even while we were talking, images of a woman half my age, images of a woman I loved, images of a woman who was murdered, images of a woman I betrayed. 

And then I thought of the new dangers. The Keystone Kops would find out in any event. It was sure. Somebody, I knew, somebody was sure to mention that I’d taken Patrick to Gertie’s, and that he could’ve met Faith. Jesus, I knew, I knew in the bottom of my soul, I didn’t want my son involved in this. I thought of what a good kid Patrick became, he was a good man moving in a good direction in his life. 

I couldn’t allow it. I just couldn’t allow those Philly cops pulling my son into a murder investigation. 

I’d forgotten how Patrick and I talked about novels and their authors. Maybe I wasn’t such a bad dad. And then I started thinking about my own Dad. He was a good dad, always wanting to help me. He gave me my taste for novels, good novels. I remembered how we used to talk about the books we both loved, and then I chickened out and went the marketing route.

Since my Mom died two years ago, my Dad must’ve been so lonely, even though he never complained. I had to admit my own son was better to me than I was to my own father. Yes, I could’ve been a better son. I did call him once in a while, but I haven’t driven out to Sycamore Streams, his senior center, for maybe three months. I made a promise to myself to call him and then drive out there. 

Now that made two promises. More pressure on me, it was at a time when I felt more than a little confused and in control of nothing.