Page 52 of On the Ropes
It was my other instincts, however, that urged me toward caution. The ones more concerned with self-preservation than creative muses.
“I bet if you made a video about this process, it would inspire a lot of people,” Dad said. “And even better, at least they’d have a recorded memory of it. Kinda like the way me and Kathleen have been laughing our asses off over all those old photo albums you keep finding at Lin’s place. It’s nice to remember something like this. Something good.” He shrugged. “Don’t you use your Instagram page to raise money for the community stuff you’ve worked on?”
“And what do you know about my Instagram feed?” I asked with a laugh.
That sheepish grin reappeared. “Kathleen likes to follow different cats online—”
“Makes sense.”
“Oh, and famous people who are bisexual.”
“Ah,” I said warmly. “That’s why I get a text from Kathleen every so often about bi celebrities.”
My stepmother showed her abundant unconditional love in a dozen different ways that often came in the form of cat videos and celebrity gossip.
“And you know she’s obsessed with everything you do, so when you post videos she shows ’em to me.” He tapped my notebook again. “I like your park idea. Sounds like people on the block like it too. It’s gonna cost money though, right?”
I dropped my chin into my hand. “It will cost money.”
He pointed to his temple. “I told you your old man’s still got some tricks up his sleeve.”
Tony yelled my dad’s name from the back, and he slipped off his stool to duck his head into the kitchen. I let my gaze wander to the large windows facing Broad Street, lost in thought. Thinking about fundraising videos. Like a lot of freelancers, I used my Instagram feed to show off samples of my videography and photography skills. Dad was right. I had a large enough platform that if the organizations or activists I was filming needed resources, it was easy to shout it out.
I wondered if I could do the same for Dean. I mean, the park.
Dad returned and dropped his apron back on, washing his hands in the sink behind the counter. “Tony’s gonna need me in the back in a second. Aren’t you doing a big cleanup today? I can throw together a few boxes of food if you want.”
I pursed my lips. “Lemon bars and bear claws?”
“For Midge and Maria, right?” he said with a grin.
“They’ve promised secrets about Dean in exchange for delicious pastries.”
This time, he did cast me a sly look that I nervously ignored. He dried off his hands, then planted them on the counter. “In case I wasn’t clear enough the other night, we’re real excited about you going out to Texas. And wherever you go from there. We miss you all the time, but I don’t want you to think it doesn’t mean how happy we are for you. And proud of you, honey. So damn proud.”
I squeezed his arm. “See? Coolest dad around.”
“I understand how hard it must be to come home and then leave again,” he added. “I know why it feels good. There were times when it was so bad between me and your mom, I used to dream about packing you girls up and hittin’ the road too. Just to escape.”
My hand froze, a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth. “You never told me that.”
“Yeah, well, some things you don’t tell your kids at the time. And the divorce was hard enough—and ugly enough—that I wanted to protect you and Alexis from it as much as I could. Hiding those feelings might not have been the smartest move on my part, but…”
I grabbed his arm again. “Dad. You did the best you could at the time. I completely believe that.”
Emotion rippled across his face. Then I watched him perform a maneuver I knew well: smile at me as if I’d mentioned the weather or asked him how work had been. Calm and pleasant.
It was the first time in years—maybe ever—that I seriously wondered if I wasn’t the only member of my family holding onto shameful secrets and uncomfortable guilt from those awful years.
“I’ll wrap up some food for you, how does that sound?” he said. Another maneuver I’d perfected over the years. A light, rapid subject change to avoid any emotional pitfalls or entanglements.
“That sounds good, Dad,” I said. “Thank you. You’re too sweet.”
He got Styrofoam containers and began filling them with pastries from the glass container near the register.
“Now it’s been a while but if I remember correctly, on the rare occasion he ate here, Dean the Machine was a pork roll man.” He said this innocently, in a tone devoid of mischief.
I peered up from eating the last of my breakfast, thinking about Dean saying I needed this more than I realized. Something as simple as lemon water ice was able to smooth the lines in his forehead and release the tension in his shoulders.
I fiddled with my ponytail. “I guess if you have any lying around, I wouldn’t mind bringing Dean some of his favorites.”
“You got it,” Dad said with a wink.
I knew criticism well. It was always the first choice out of my mother’s mouth, and that habit of hers never changed. But that night I’d gone down a Dean Knox-Morelli rabbit hole, I hadn’t only seen videos of past bouts and matches. There were articles, written by local sports writers and national commentators alike, ripping Dean’s decision to shreds. Every headline used some iteration of Philly’s Greatest or South Philly Golden Boy, raged at an athlete leaving the sport one match before he was favored to become the next light heavyweight boxing champion. I did come to understand that Dean hadn’t just pissed off drunk assholes at Benny’s Bar but an entire industry that had gotten behind his career.
I hoped another tiny surprise would elicit that same crooked grin on Dean’s face. That it would bring a measure of random, just-because joy for a man who seemed unsure of his place in the world.
I shifted on the stool and ignored those badminton-playing butterflies. Because I wasn’t getting too involved at all.
Not one bit.
