I heard my own voice, followed by silence. Then a huffing under the stillness. Breath, not human, behind me, approaching quickly. I turned, not fearful, more curious to see whatever was coming. A deer? A bear? Death?

No, it was a chocolate Labrador retriever outfitted in a tight-fitting Day-Glo vest. He flashed a wet smile of appreciation, sniffed at my shoes, circled me once, then loped away down the path, indifferent. Keeping pace, two oldsters (probably about my age) appeared, gripping collapsible L.L. Bean walking sticks. They smiled as if this was the moment we’d been waiting for all day. Had they heard me talking to myself? I meekly said, “Nice sunset!”

They blew past, grins frozen with exertion. They’d tricked me. I felt I should say hello and I did, but now they did not return the courtesy. Deaf-mutes, perhaps. They were only intent on tracking the dog with their rapid, health-promoting step, pumped full of high-omega fish oil. Fuck ’em.

I scanned the horizon and the sunset, found my path and noted how dark the woods had become. By the time I was in Dad’s backyard once more, the streetlights had clicked on. I found Dad asleep in his armchair, left him there and drove back to the Marriott. Locked in for the night, I sipped minibar whiskey from a bathroom glass and watched the mayhem on the evening news.

December 15, 2005

In an attempt to achieve some kind of intimacy with Dad before leaving town, I drove over to his place and spent the morning with him. Not that there was anything to do or say. We’d said it all. In his living room, we drank instant coffee cut with nondairy creamer. Suddenly Dad stood and pronounced “Time to go.” He had a doctor’s appointment. I thought, what the hell, and tagged along.

Dad insisted on introducing me, even though I’d met his doctor thrice before. Dad loves the rush of saying “Have you met my son, the writer? He’s been nominated for the Pulitzer. Twice.” My bile rises whenever he utters those words. Back in the day, my father fought my ambitions with undiluted venom. “Get a real job! You’re wasting your time!” I will never forget the patronizing sneer. He even walked out of one of my readings claiming he had indigestion.

That was when Dad was young and strong and bristling with plans for me and everyone else. We battled hard then. I cursed him. He slapped me. I threw a teakettle at a wall. The dent is still there. He never missed an opportunity to cut me with his dismissive attitude. I returned the favor by riffing on his own neurotic existence in my second collection of short stories. Which he never read.

Fame heals all wounds. Old Dad has been crushed into nonexistence by the sediments of time. New feeble Dad is invigorated with the power of my notoriety and that’s all there is to that. “You know my son, the bestselling author?”