June is the month we celebrate Father’s Day. When remembering my father, I recall a moment when I was in the seventh grade and a man from the local high school came to our class to have us fill out a preliminary questionnaire.
When I got to the place to fill in “father’s name” I raised my hand. The man came over to my desk, the third one in the second row, and leaned down to hear my question. “What if you don’t have a father?”
He inquired, “Oh, is he deceased?”…
Not knowing what the word deceased meant, I replied, “No, he’s dead.”
I was in the early stages of coping with the traumatic event of my daddy and my little brother dying in a plane crash. The wreckage was not discovered for three months as my surviving brother, sister, and mother lived in limbo not knowing their ultimate final fate.
No one has ever called me by anything but my first name except for my father who called me “Mouse.” He’d say, “Is there a Mouse in my house?”
Daddy traveled often for five to seven days on business as he piloted his private plane across the U.S. and beyond. Me and my siblings were often his honorary co-pilots.
On the day of his expected arrivals, I would keep a solitary vigil with extreme excitement. I organized my stakeout by turning off all the lights in the living room so I could peer into the night without being seen. I knelt on the black and yellow, tweed loveseat with elbows resting on the back and held back the lemon curtains so I could scrutinize the night undetected.
A matching loveseat leans on the adjoining wall with a square table lodged in the corner between them, making a convenient place to set highball glasses next to the armless couches. It’s the mid-1950s so accurately depicted on the TV series Mad Men.
With the room darkened I can see clearly into the night. There are no streetlights on our block. In fact, there are no streetlights throughout this entire part of town so we are blessed to be able to see the Milky Way on a clear night, and once I even saw the aurora borealis.
The only lights that interest me are the dual headlamps of the cars on Lake Avenue. I’m the Greek goddess Britomartis tossing my net to catch Daddy’s car and gather him home.
My incantation goes like this: “This one, this one will surely turn. No? It will be the fifth car after the next one that passes. One, two, three, four. This one?”
I don’t give up no matter how many cars I count. Eventually, and much later than my heart desires, a car turns, its lights creeping slowly across the ceiling. At last, it’s Daddy.
Lickity-split I’m at the back door poised to greet him with the biggest, most welcoming hug anyone has ever felt. I know he’s home even before Mother knows because I’ve captured him in my magical web. Yes, there is a mouse – a most affectionate, most snuggly, loving mouse in his house.
I was a Daddy’s girl. I continue to miss him even to this day.
-Justine
