Remembering a Few Perfect Mornings With My Father
By Debra Green
The morning light was soft, the waves lapping at the shore and gulls cawing in the violet-blue sky as my father and I mounted our bicycles. His was green and silver, mine blue; both scratched with dirty tires. I had worn blue jeans to prevent the pedals from marring my newly tanned, Band-Aid-free, 4th-grader legs.
My dad was normally a sharp dresser, wearing shirts and ties on workdays. But today he was casually dressed: a maroon baseball cap on his head, black curly hair poking out from the back of his torn Rutgers T-shirt, cut-off jean shorts covering his skinny thighs.
The ten-minute bike ride to the bakeshop on Long Beach Island was our new ritual. We’d leave while the house was quiet, the remains of the previous night’s board games and snacks scattered on the white plastic cocktail table, my brother and mom still fast asleep.
Aside from a garbage truck, the streets were empty—safe even for a nine-year-old—as we pedaled past the crab shack, laundromat, and yellow motel. Two boys played an early morning game on the community center’s court, the bounce of the basketball the only sound other than what my bike made rotating on the blacktop and gravel. Dad turned to look back every other block making sure I was still there; Mom said she’d kill him if he didn’t bring me home in one piece.
The bakery was called Sweet Temptations. On our first trip, I’d sounded out the word temptation and asked my dad what it meant. He explained it was wanting something badly, something that might not be good for you. My list of temptations was long: scratching my mosquito bites, smacking my annoying brother, satisfying my sweet tooth. The latter had resulted in a paunch that pushed my shirts above my waistline. But my dad never seemed to notice. I was his princess, especially on our morning rides.
The bakeshop smelled like spun sugar, the glass cases filled with wizardry created hours earlier. I caught a glimpse of the baker through the open door leading to the kitchen, his hands and face coated in flour. His wife and daughters ran the counter and cash register and filled the boxes.
“What’ll it be today?” they would ask, as if everyone who came for a one-week vacation was a year-round resident.
“Four rolls, and, what else, Princess?” my dad asked.
“Two crullers and two chocolate cupcakes. Is that okay, Daddy? We can share them.”
“That’s perfect. And,” he added, turning to the younger girl behind the counter, the one with red hair and freckles and a serious mouth, “a cup of joe.”
“Black?”
“Cream, one sugar. Thanks.”
He cocked his head to the side. “How about a hot chocolate for you, Sweetie? We can sit outside before we go back.”
I nodded. The older girl at the counter handed us a bag of stale bread. “For the birds,” she explained.
We settled on metal chairs and placed our drinks on the table, steam rising off my hot chocolate. Dad gulped his coffee and tore at one of the crullers, giving me a piece. I felt so special. Just the two of us—Dad and me.
At home he was always busy with tax season, quarterlies, or extensions. I had dinner with Mom and my brother most nights, Dad’s dinner reheated hours later. His evenings were spent on the phone with clients or running outside to smoke the cigarettes Mom wouldn’t let him light up in the house. Weekends were dedicated to “resting up” for the week ahead—watching football, reading the paper. Before I blinked it was Sunday night, and he was gone again.
We left the bakeshop and stopped at the bay cove, where I threw handfuls of stale bread towards a few gulls who were digging in the sand with their beaks. They screamed and flew towards me, and I backed away to the table, shrieking in fright. Dad’s laugh came from somewhere deep within him as he reached for me. He messed with the top of my hair.
When we returned to the beach house, Mom was on the porch with a cigarette and coffee. She waved then looked at the beach where my brother sat building a sandcastle. Soon my parents were discussing plans for the day, which predictably centered on where to make dinner reservations.
The perfect, beautiful morning with just Dad and me was over.
Thirty-five years later, I moved into the sanctuary to escape the crowd in the greeting room, the chatter sounding more like a party than a funeral.
The shomer sat next to my father’s casket. “Would you mind?” He asked. “I just need to use the men’s room for a moment.”
“Sure,” I said to the gentleman hired to mind the deceased. Sitting on the beige folding chair he’d vacated, I glanced toward the plain pine box, my accountant father traditional and economical to the end.
I sat guarding his body and struggled to recall when I’d been alone with my father other than those perfect, beautiful mornings at the beach.
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Debra Green has always been drawn to good storytelling, especially historical novels and Broadway musicals. While motherhood, hospital administration, and community volunteering were all rewarding, none fulfilled her creative longings. A graduate of Rutgers University and Columbia University’s Mailman School of Public Health, when not writing, reading, or traveling, Debra can be found working in her ever-expanding vegetable garden. The Convention of Wives is her first novel. She lives with her husband, David, in Scotch Plains, New Jersey, where they raised their three children.