Not showing up seemed to be the current theme of my life, so it was no surprise when Pa decided not to show up Sunday morning to lead the service. I had banged on his locked door, pleading with him to come out, but the only response was the squeaking of the mattress springs when he apparently rolled over. At least I knew he was still alive, so I had no other choice but to leave him and go face the congregation. It wasn’t the first time, but it was becoming harder and harder to lie to them.

I stood in front of the small group, shifting from foot to foot, staring at the back wall while trying to muster up an excuse as to why Pa was absent once again. Comments were being made about the beautiful magnolia wreath hanging just above my head. Considering the state Pa had been in since his botched hanging, I had no idea how or when he managed to fix the beam and hang the wreath.

“Umm . . . Good morning,” I mumbled. A few returned the sentiment but with less hesitation. “Hope y’all had a good week . . .” I was stalling, coming up short on what to say next.

The side door creaked open to my right. All eyes turned to it and watched Pa enter. Temperatures were at least in the mideighties outside, much too hot for a turtleneck, yet there he was, wearing one. He would have fit right in on that Beatles album cover where they were all wearing black turtlenecks.

There was no denying the fact that my father was a handsome man, in a walking dead sort of way. Even though he’d recently lost some weight, Dave Foster still had a profound presence. If anyone found it odd that he was dressed in such a way —and hello, they undoubtedly did —no one said a word about it.

Pa gave my shoulder a pat, dismissing me to get out of the way, and I did with no hesitation. From the back pew I watched him place his worn Bible on the small podium as he cleared his throat.

“I ain’t feeling too well today, so I’ll be brief.” He paused to clear his throat again. His raspy voice sounded like razor blades had shredded it, although I knew it was a rope that got the job done. He seemed to be flipping through the Bible aimlessly in such a lethargic manner that I wished he’d just stayed home. Finally he lifted his eyes and fastened them to me. “I heard the song ‘Dreams’ by the Allman Brothers the other night. . . . The lyrics spoke to me.”

“Why don’t you sing it for us, Dave,” Tripp encouraged.