The Dad Who Stayed and other stories
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About this ebook
"Every emotional payoff, whether flash-of-lightning funny or tearfully joyful, is earned through a rich depth of honesty that is the polar opposite of sentimentality." -- Darrin McGraw, coauthor of Animal Future.
This collection of contemporary short fiction includes a novella with a Father's Day vibe, The Dad Wh
David Rodeback
A native of Boulder, Colorado, David Rodeback spent his youth in rural Idaho and a decade in upstate New York. He now lives in American Fork, Utah.
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The Dad Who Stayed and other stories - David Rodeback
Readers Praise
The Dad Who Stayed and other stories
" The Dad Who Stayed is a fun, nostalgic trip through childhood in the 1970s. It brought to my mind memories of my own experiences and things I’d never thought about them before."
—L
David Rodeback deals with difficult subjects with grace and humor. These stories of relationships across the lifespan will make you laugh, break your heart, and enrich your soul.
—S
"The Dad Who Stayed depicts with hilarity and deep compassion the inner world of a kindergarten-age boy beginning to navigate the outer world. . . . Every emotional payoff, whether flash-of-lightning funny or tearfully joyful, is earned through a rich depth of honesty that is the polar opposite of sentimentalism."
—Darrin McGraw, co-author of Animal Future
Also by David Rodeback
Poor As I Am and other stories at Christmas
The Dad Who Stayed and other stories
David Rodeback
image-placeholder60 East Press — American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2023 by David Rodeback
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations included in a review or as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests contact 60 East Press.
60 East Press
867 N 60 E
American Fork, UT 84003
60eastpress.com
These are works of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, or products is intended or should be inferred.
Marie
first appeared in Metamorphosis: A Collection of Poetry and Prose, published in July 2019 by LUW Press.
Her Voice
first appeared in Shadowed Hourglass: A Collection of Poetry and Prose, published in 2021 by LUW Press.
There Might Be Another Way
first appeared in Lost and Found: Second Chance Romance Stories, published in 2022 by The Writers' Cache.
LCCN: 2023942099
Trade Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9883510-2-3
eBook ISBN: 979-8-9883510-3-0
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book’s text was written by or with the direct assistance of artificial intelligence (AI).
Book cover by BookCoverZone
Contents
Dedication
The Dad Who Stayed
Prologue
1.Adam
2.School
3.Prowler
4.Potato Chips
5.Found
6.Jack
7.Mom and Jack
8.Okay
9.Decision
10.Don't Ask Juan
11.Churches
12.Hippies or Not
13.Invitation
14.Nightmares
15.Wedding
16.Honeymoon
17.Fire
18.Sick
19.Sicker
20.Rewards
21.Interview
Epilogue
From the Author
Short Stories
Her Voice
Falling Off My Shoes
If Only I
There Might Be Another Way
Nine Roses and Three
Beyond Ugly
Rhonda VII
Marie
I Am Chuck Steak
Unmanned
Not That Jason
Missed You
Acknowledgments
Also by David Rodeback
About the Author
Let's Connect!
For Mom and Dad
The Dad Who Stayed
image-placeholder60 East Press — American Fork, Utah
Prologue
Some dads taught their boys to fish, play basketball, and fix cars. At worst, they taught them to curse when they are angry or to sit around watching television in the evening and on holidays, while the women work.
My dad taught me to run away.
I don’t think he knew he was teaching me that, or cared. If it ever crossed his mind, he probably thought that, by leaving Mom two months before I was born, he had avoided affecting me at all.
He was wrong.
image-placeholderMy earliest memory of childhood is asking Mom, when I was three or four, where my daddy was. She shrugged, looked a little sad, and said softly, You don’t have a daddy, Joey.
Oh,
I said. I must have been concerned, because I remember asking, Is that okay?
It’s okay,
she said.
We lived in a small two-story house on Sixth Street. Our apartment was the whole first floor. An overweight, bald man with a beard rented the second floor. He worked nights, so we tried to be quiet during the day. We must have been quiet enough, because I never heard him complain. I hardly ever even saw him.
It was the early 1970s, and the people in our neighborhood fell roughly into two groups. One was mostly university students. They were busy burning draft cards and women’s underwear and experimenting with drugs and free love. I didn’t know what free love
meant, but it didn’t sound like a bad thing.
This group spray-painted a word on stop signs around the city. Mom said the word was war, so the signs read, STOP WAR.
I didn’t know it meant that the Vietnam War should be ended. I thought it meant, Stop, there’s a war ahead,
which, for some reason, there never was.
The second group tried to ignore the first group and scrape out a living.
Mom called the first group hippies.
The second group she called people like us.
Chapter one
Adam
There were hippies across the back fence. They were hairy, colorful people who planted marijuana between the corn in their garden. One day I saw them sunbathing nude in their back yard, and they saw me, even though I was so short I wasn’t even in kindergarten yet. The next week, they built a tall wooden fence with no knotholes.
One day that summer, an African-American couple (that’s not what they called themselves then) moved into the house next door. They seemed friendly, but I took one look at their hair and clothes and decided they were hippies, not people like us. So I tried to avoid them.
They built a lot of small cages out of lumber and chicken wire in their back yard, and they started fixing up the house. I always made sure they weren’t outside before I peeked through the chain-link fence to watch the little animals they put in the cages. Mom said they were prairie dogs, but they didn’t look like dogs. They looked like rats.
One afternoon, the sky was full of dark clouds, and the prairie dogs weren’t acting right. They were jumpy, and they made little yipping noises.
I heard a voice say, The prairie dogs are afraid of the tornadoes. Aren’t you?
I was too startled to run away, so I made a friend.
I’m Adam,
he said. What’s your name?
Joey Robinson,
I said. Do you live here?
I do now. I get to live with my aunt and uncle this year, and all their animals.
I don’t have any animals,
I said. I have a mom, but I don’t have any aunts and uncles.
That’s okay,
he said. You can use mine.
Adam said tornadoes were small, circular, very powerful winds that could rip houses apart and even blow drinking straws through fence posts. He said you could listen to the radio and find out when they were coming. He had just heard there might be some in our town that afternoon, and he planned to watch them.
Do you think they will ruin my house?
I asked.
No, they usually just hit a few houses and leave the others alone.
Why?
Dunno.
He shrugged. Maybe God tells them to.
I had heard of God, and I was pretty sure he didn’t like hippies, so I was worried. Are your aunt and uncle hippies?
I asked. If they were, their house was in danger.
No way, man. They’re married. They’re square.
What’s ‘square’?
It means not hippies.
I don’t think God likes hippies,
I declared. So your house is safe, and my house is safe, but he’ll probably have the tornadoes hit that house.
I pointed to the one with the new fence.
Cool. Let’s watch.
I probably should have run into the house, interrupted Mom’s work, and told her there were tornadoes coming to wreck the hippies’ house, but I was afraid she wouldn’t let me watch. I let her work.
Adam brought out a radio, and we turned it on, so we’d know exactly when the tornadoes were coming. He said the darkest clouds were the ones tornadoes came from, so we watched those, he from his side of the fence and I from mine.
While we watched for the tornadoes that never came, I learned that Adam was from Nebraska, but his mom was sick, so he came to live with my neighbors.
What kind of sick?
I asked.
Drugs. She takes drugs.
Like marijuana?
And some other stuff,
Adam said sadly.
What about your dad?
I asked.
Ain’t seen him in a long time.
Do your aunt and uncle take drugs?
No, man, they got too much religion for that. I don’t take no drugs neither. Drugs is bad stuff. Drugs make you stupid.
That’s what my mom says. What about those animals?
Animals don’t take no drugs.
No, I mean, what kind are they?
Oh. They’re prairie dogs. Uncle does science stuff with them for the university.
They don’t look like dogs.
They’re not. They’re more like rats, I guess, but cute instead of gross.
I like them. Can you get them out and play with them?
Nope. Uncle says if we take them out of their cages, they’re not scientific.
That evening, while we ate our macaroni and cheese, I told Mom about Adam. He already felt like my best friend, and not just because I had never had a friend before. He was nice to me, even though he was a year older and about to start first grade, and he knew lots of amazing things.
I told Mom about watching for tornadoes that didn’t come. I told her the people next door weren’t really hippies. They were people like us.
Chapter two
School
Istarted kindergarten, and Adam started first grade. I liked having a friend at school. I think if the kindergarten recess had been at the same time as the first grade recess, I wouldn’t have had a bloody nose and gotten in trouble and missed two recesses in the same week. And if my dad hadn’t run away before I was born, my mom and my teacher, Miss King, might have liked each other.
The time I got a bloody nose was my teacher’s fault. We were learning our phone numbers, and one day, just before recess, she gathered all of us in the corner of the room. She sat in her favorite chair, like she always did when she read a book to us. We sat on the rug around her to listen.
She didn’t read to us. Instead, she asked us to recite our phone numbers. I had a cold, and when it was my turn to say my phone number, I had to clear my throat first. She thought I had to stop and think, so she gave me an S
for Satisfactory
instead of an O
for Outstanding,
because I wasn’t fast enough.
It wasn’t fair. I knew my phone number. The only thing I didn’t know in kindergarten was how to tie my shoes right, but that wasn’t the same as my phone number.
I was so angry I was afraid I would cry, so instead of playing at recess, I hid. It was raining outside, so recess was in the classroom. We had big rolling carts full of big cardboard blocks. When we weren’t using the blocks, the carts rolled out of the way under a counter. When we were using the blocks and the carts were out, under the counter was a good place to hide.
Some kids who never let me play with them were building a castle with the blocks. When they rolled the empty carts back under the counter to get them out of the way, one cart hit me and gave me a bloody nose. They probably didn’t know I was there, but they might have done it anyway, if they had known.
I only got a little blood on my shirt. Mostly I used my handkerchief.
The next day, the weather was nice. During our first recess, our student teacher, Miss Whitney, was sitting on a bench, watching us. I liked her a lot, so I went to talk to her. It was fun until I called her a steam shovel. I didn’t mean anything bad. We were just joking around. But Miss King heard it, and she didn’t like it. I missed the rest of that recess and the next one, because she made me sit in the classroom while the others played.
I didn’t blame Adam. It wasn’t his fault. But if we had been in the same class, I would have been playing with him, instead of hiding under the counter one time, and calling my student teacher a steam shovel the other time.
image-placeholderMom was always working, doing something with big books of numbers that she could usually do at home, instead of going to an office or a factory like most parents. She started very early in the morning. Before I was in school, I would sit with her and do my work, drawing pictures and practicing my letters and numbers.
In the afternoon I would play. After I started school in the morning, I couldn’t work with her, but there was still time to play in the afternoon.
When dinner was done and the dishes were washed, she would be too tired to work anymore. She would sit in her favorite chair in the living room, and I would sit on her lap. We’d watch TV or have a talk, and then we had a story or two. Then she would hug me, and I would go get ready for bed and brush my teeth. She usually fell asleep while I was doing that, so I’d go back to the living room, wake her, and walk her to her bedroom. Then I went to my room, said my prayers, and got in bed.
Mom worked so hard in the morning that sometimes she didn’t even look up when I said goodbye and walked out the door. I liked that, because I could wear whatever I wanted to school. Mostly I wore the same shirt and pants all week, but sometimes she noticed and made me change.
Two or three days after the nosebleed under the counter, I was still wearing the same shirt. During my bedtime story she noticed the little spot of blood, and I had to tell her about it. Then I told her about calling my student teacher a steam shovel and missing recess. I wasn’t going to tell her that, but I did. She wasn’t angry about the nosebleed or the steam shovel, but she made me promise to wear a different shirt tomorrow.
Besides,
she said, you and I are going to a parent-teacher conference after school. You’ll want to look your best.
What’s a parent-teacher conference?
That’s where you and I go and talk with your teacher about how things are going for you at school.
Am I in trouble?
I tried not to look worried.
No, of course not. We’re just going to talk to your teacher.
I thought that meant Miss King was in trouble for what had happened. That was okay with me, as long as Miss Whitney wasn’t in trouble too.
When we went, Miss Whitney wasn’t even there, and my trouble at recess never came up. Mom and Miss King talked about math, penmanship, and other stuff, and I mostly ignored them. Then Miss King asked if my father would be coming to any parent-teacher conferences during the year.
I knew the answer to that. I don’t have a father. Or a dad.
Mom corrected me. Actually, you had one, but he’s gone now.
Gone to where?
I wondered.
Just gone away,
she said with a shrug.
I see,
said my teacher.
I saw too. I saw the same look on Miss King’s face that I had seen when I called Miss Whitney a steam shovel. I was glad my mom didn’t have any recesses to lose, because Miss King thought it was bad of her that I didn’t have a dad.
I thought Mom saw it too, and it bothered her, because she didn’t talk much after we got home. She just held me while we watched Bonanza. I didn’t see her cry, but she looked like she wanted to.
I didn’t ask her any more questions about my dad that night or even that whole week. But anything I couldn’t ask Mom, I could ask Adam. The next time I saw him, I asked, Adam, is it bad when you don’t have a dad?
He thought for a minute, then said, I don’t know. I sort of miss mine, but he’s a bad man, so I guess it’s okay that he’s gone. When he was home, he and my mom always yelled at each other. That’s when I was younger, so it usually made me cry.
"Aren’t kids supposed to have a mom and a dad?" I asked.
I don’t know. You’re okay with just a mom, right? I do okay with just an aunt and uncle, don’t I?
I guess so.
Anyway, there’s weirder things than not having a dad,
he said. I heard it on the radio.
What things?
There’s this guy that wants to marry his horse. I told Aunt and Uncle about it, and they laughed. They didn’t believe me, but I really heard it.
That’s dumb,
I scoffed. If they have kids, will the horse be the mom?
I don’t know,
said Adam. But I bet the kids will look stupid.
I wanted to say something just as funny after that, but all I could do was laugh.
Chapter three
Prowler
On Friday nights Mom and I went to a grocery store together. One time, we finished dinner late, and it was getting dark while I was still getting my shoes on. Mom went outside, and I heard her yell. I wasn’t sure what she said, but it didn’t sound like she was yelling at me.
When I had my shoes on, she was still standing on the doorstep.
Did you yell at me?
I asked.
No, Joey.
Who were you yelling at?
It doesn’t matter.
When we got out to our car, the little door to the gas tank was open, and the gas cap was missing.
Stupid prowler,
Mom grumbled as she closed the little door. I guess we’ll get a new gas cap tonight.
I worried that the gasoline would come out, if we drove the car without a gas cap, but she said it would be okay for a little while. After the grocery store we went to a store that had car stuff.
I asked Mom why a prowler would want our gas cap. She told me not to worry about it. Then she said we were stopping for ice cream cones on the way home, which we did.
The next day, I asked Adam what a prowler is and why it would want our gas cap.
I could just tell you,
he said, but let’s do what Aunt and Uncle make me do, when I ask them what a word means.
What’s that?
Look for it in the dictionary.
You have a dictionary?
Yeah, a big one.
I don’t. What’s a dictionary?
Duh! It’s a big book that tells you what words mean.
Does it have every word?
"Sure. Let’s go look for prowler."
That was when I learned that a dictionary is a big book that explains words you don’t know by using other words you don’t know. We found prowler, but when we were finished reading about it, we still didn’t know what it meant. The only part we understood was the first three words, a person who.
That didn’t help a lot.
That’s okay,
Adam said. Aunt will tell us, if we’ve tried the dictionary first.
Let’s go ask her,
I said.
Okay, but first, are there any other words you want to look for?
There were some words I had learned at recess, then used at home—but only once. When Mom heard them, she got mad and told me never to use them again. She wouldn’t tell me what they meant, but she said that, if she ever heard me say them again, she would wash my mouth out with soap. She even said I should be glad I didn’t have a dad, because, if I did, he would probably have spanked me for saying those words. After that, I only used them at school, when a teacher wasn’t there to hear.
We found all those words in the dictionary, but we didn’t understand very much about them either. The explanations used the words vulgar and obscene a lot, so when we asked Adam’s aunt about prowler, we asked about those too.
She shook her head and frowned. If you insist on looking up naughty words in the dictionary, you can’t use the dictionary anymore.
I didn’t see how that would be a problem, since it wasn't very helpful anyway.
Why are you curious about prowlers?
she asked.
We had one at our house last night. It stole our gas cap. What’s a prowler?
It’s a person who sneaks around people’s yards, looking for something to steal.
I was pretty worried. Do they hurt people?
No,
she said. They run away when they see or hear you coming.
That’s good.
I felt better. Why would the prowler steal our gas cap?
He was probably trying to steal your gas, and he had the cap in his hand when your mom frightened him away.
Prowlers sounded pretty harmless, except that they steal your stuff, but just to be sure, I asked, What should I do if I see a prowler? Yell at him?
Oh, no,
she said. You should tell your mom, so she can call the police.
Obviously, if we needed the police, prowlers were worse than she was saying. But I didn’t tell her that. After that I was almost as afraid of prowlers as I was of fires.
Once, when I told Adam I was scared of fires, he told me there was nothing to worry about, because his uncle knew the fire chief, and he wouldn’t let any fires burn down my house.
It would have been good if Adam’s uncle knew the police chief. We never had another prowler, but I kept worrying. For a long time, whenever I went outside at night—because prowlers usually don’t come when it’s light—I carried an empty water pistol and pretended it was a real gun. I wasn’t sure it would scare a prowler, but I felt