I don’t really have much to say about my dad. How can there be much to say about someone that was never really around. Honestly, I don’t even know enough about him to disparage him. He’s just a guy I would see every few months and for a while every other weekend but that’s about it.
One night, probably 20 years ago when I was living in Chicago I got home from work and my grandma or grandpa said that Malcolm had called and wanted to talk to me and would call back later. It seemed odd that he would call to talk to me out of the blue like this. He had been one of the pastors years ago at the church we went to and had left for a position at a church in Tampa.
Tampa.
That was the reason. I guessed that he had somehow run into my dad and was told some sob story about how he had a son who didn’t talk to him and blah blah blah. About an hour later the phone rang and it was Malcolm calling back as promised. After the usual pleasantries that were standard on a call with someone you hadn’t spoken to for years Malcolm’s tone changed and he sounded serious and pastoral.
I stopped him before he started on a probably rehearsed speech about redemption and forgiveness and reconciliation. I guessed the reason for his call and I was correct. He had met my dad at some local church event in Tampa and was told some sob story about our relationship, which was largely embellished and potentially fabricated. Malcolm paused a beat after I finished speaking and simply said, “oh, that’s different than what I was told. Sorry about that.”
We talked for about 20 more minutes. Mostly small talk about what we had been up to and the goings on of mutual friends. After the conversation wound down I took the opportunity to end it at a natural lull.
“Alright, I gotta go, my dinner is getting cold” was my out because who could argue with that. We said our goodbyes and I hung up. I went back downstairs, grabbed my keys and my bag, and said I’d be back. I got in my car and headed to the Caribou Coffee in Oak Park to read and write like I normally did most nights.
I can’t imagine making up a story about someone to tell a pastor and thinking it would go well. But that’s what happened because when you’re (apparently) disconnected from reality anything can seem like a good idea.
Now, 20 years later I have no idea what number marriage my dad is on or if he’s still alive. It’s a weird feeling when I think about it - which isn’t that often - to not know if he’s dead or not. Haven’t seen him in 30 years and it’s becoming more evident that my mother is the same type of Grandma Jones to her granddaughter that my dads mother was to me.
Must be something in the name Grandma Jones. That’s the only thing that makes sense at the moment. I suspect I’ll write more about that later.
Thank you for reading along as I vent and try to work through and sort out my stuff.