Chapter 11

My father was the kind of man who would give away his coat to a needy person if it was below freezing and they were stranded on some deserted island. I have seen him give his time, money and life to help Langford and its citizens.

He has never won the “Man of the Year” award at the annual Chamber banquet. Somebody asked him once if it bothered him. Dad said it didn’t, but I knew it did.

So many other men and women had won who didn’t do half the stuff my old man did for the community. There were some people in Langford who didn’t like him, that was a given when you own a newspaper in a small town, and they would rather honor their friends.

Most of them probably couldn’t even remember why they didn’t like Dad. That’s how things are in a small town. You could have done something fifty years ago to a second cousin’s mother-in-law, but you are forever branded as a bad guy by that family.

You are on their bad list unless the same people who have carried a grudge all these years need something, then it’s like you are their best friend. I don’t know if that is how it is in all small towns, but that’s how it works in Langford.

There have always been children who didn’t like other children because of something that happened before their parents were born.

Since my father has ticked off some people over the years by putting their names in the paper when they got busted for driving drunk or when they were sued by the bank for not paying their bills, there are some Langford residents who dislike me, even though I have never done anything or said anything to them.

I’m used to it and could care less now. One day they will have to answer to a far greater power than me and I don’t think they will like the outcome.

It has always bothered me to see him do good things for others, but treat me like an unwanted red-headed stepchild.

My hair is not red and they are my biological parents, so I don’t know why my father has always treated me this way. I spent the first part of my life trying to win his love, or at least his acceptance. I used to think it was my fault until one day I realized who was really at fault.

My father is the one who screwed up. Now I am not perfect or lived a life free of mistakes. I have messed up many things in my life and deeply regret it.

But I am firmly convinced that with my father, he’s the one at fault.

I really didn’t want to come to Langford because of how I feel about him, or do what he wanted me to do.

“You need to cover the football game tonight,” he stated. Dad didn’t bother to ask or beg, just told me what I needed to do for him.

“Why?” I asked.

Dad hated for me to ask him “why” when he told me to do something. He glared at me for a second until he heard Vanna say something and looked back at the television.

“Because I can’t,” he replied, one of the first times I have ever heard him say he couldn’t do something. Whenever I asked him to do something for me and the request was turned down, it wasn’t because he couldn’t. It was because he wouldn’t.

“Don’t you have anybody else?”

“Yeah, your cousin Teresa could. If she ever got a chance to write about football, we would have to close the paper down because we wouldn’t have any more readers.”

He had a point. Teresa probably wouldn’t even put the score in the story, concentrating on the violence in the game and the fascination so many people had with a sport that she thought should be outlawed.

Teresa might be my cousin, but I still think she is strange. The feeling is unanimous by everybody, even Teresa. She is the only other person who writes stories for the Review, mainly about chick stuff and marriages, nothing serious or that most people would read.

“I wasn’t planning on going to the game,” I replied.

“Yeah, and I wasn’t planning on getting sick,” Dad followed up, topping me.

“I could get fired for writing for another paper.”

“You think anybody at your paper would ever read the Review?”

Only if they wanted something to laugh at, I thought, but didn’t add. “Probably not.”

“Then don’t put your name in the byline. We need somebody at the game. Did you bring that fancy camera?”

“Yes.” It bothers my father that I have given up on film and use digital. He doesn’t understand it, so it is bad.

“Good, take a few pictures. Band, cheerleader, cute kids smearing food all over their face. You know what to do.”

I should, since I did it for him for so long. That was how I started writing for the Review, covering the football games for Langford. Dad never liked sports. I did, so he told me to go watch the game, write a story and take some pictures.

When I went to college, I never planned to enter the field of journalism. My father belonged there, not me. But I soon discovered that writing was the only thing I liked and changed my major to journalism. I thought Dad would be happy when I told him. Instead, he laughed.

I would rather cover a football game over a trial any time. I covered some sports in college before moving over to features and the serious stuff.

Now, I seldom cover sports. Our sports staff is a concentrated clique with no outsiders allowed in. They are young for the most part, have a higher opinion of each other than they should, and believe all other writers are lesser people.

They don’t like outsiders to come into their area. I have never actually seen them do it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they marked the borders of their area like dogs do.

They always call the other staff members “dude”. Male or female, it doesn’t matter. They seldom talk to anybody else, unless they need help with some difficult problem like spelling words with more than four letters. Then we’re their best friends until the problem is solved.

The only time I talk to them is during football season. Once the playoffs start, they never have enough people to cover the games and the editor will buddy up to me until I give in and cover some games.

I like to cover sports, but certainly don’t want to do a story on the Langford Lions.

“I’ll think about it,” I say and leave in an agitated mood.

I start walking up the stairs to my old bedroom. Mom is waiting for me at the top with her arms folded.

“Did he want you to cover the game tonight?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answer, shaking my head in disbelief.

“What did you say?”

“That I would think about it.”

“If you don’t do it for him, please do it for me.”

“Why do you care?” I asked, still stranded on the stairway.

“It worries him that the game won’t be covered. He doesn’t need any more stress than possible.”

“I don’t know how he could ask me to do something for him.”

“Easy, he’s your father.”

“He’s never acted like a father to me.”

Mom started getting upset. She seldom cries and I always felt bad if I was the reason for the tears. It looks like the whole world is coming down on her shoulders.

“I can’t apologize for your father,” she said. “Please do this for me.”

“Okay,” I agree, and walk up the final few steps and approach my bedroom door. The phone rings and Mom rushes away to answer. It could be one of her buddies wanting to talk, after all, and share some gossip.

I step into my old bedroom. Everything has changed since I left. All my posters and anything that would say it once was my room have been removed. It could be a bed and breakfast now.

I wonder where all my old stuff went, probably to the dumpster, I decide. It is now a guest bedroom and that is how I feel, like a visitor, not a son returning home.

There is one cordless phone in the house. Mom is carrying it as she walks in the bedroom, a look of disapproval on her face.

“What is it?” I ask, still standing in the middle of the room.

“It’s a phone,” she replies.

Mom hands it to me, shaking her head the whole time.

“It’s that Squiggy!” she exclaimed.

“Hello,” I said. “Squiggy, you can’t…”

I was going to tell him that he didn’t need to call me, but he interrupted.

“Your ma don’t like me,” he stated, with what could almost be considered a little remorse. “Is it cause Pyscho dropped a load in the flower bed?”

It’s much more than that, I want to say, but don’t want to spend an hour discussing it.

“Aren’t you at work?” I asked.

“Naw, I told em I was sick with one of them ingrowed wisdom teeth and theys let me go.”

I had never heard of that particular ailment.

“Now we can goes to the game together,” he added.

“I’ll just meet you there,” I responded. Squiggy had been to my mother’s house once today. He was already way over his quota. “I have my truck.”

Squiggy snorted.

“That thang ain’t a truck!” he practically shouted.

Apparently he didn’t think much of my Ford Ranger.

“It gets me where I’m going,” I stated.

“Doncha wanna drive to the game in style?”

Not really, failing to see how I could be styling with him.

“I’ll just meet you there,” I said, something I wasn’t looking forward to. “I’m covering the game for my dad.”

Squiggy grunted.

“We’s gonna go drink beer after the game,” he added, like that was a surprise. “You can come.”

What an honor.

“I’ll think about it,” I lied. I had thought about it and would rather spend time with my father watching Wheel of Fortune.

He hung up without saying anything else. I laid the phone down and started unpacking the few clothes I brought. The phone rang again before I could put up my underwear.

I was technically a visitor to the house, but answered the phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mike?” the called inquired. I recognized that voice in a heartbeat.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about what happened today,” Sandy said. “He can be a jerk.”

I wanted to agree with her, but let it pass.

“It’s okay,” I lied. My lying had gone up a lot since I got to Langford. “I enjoyed talking to you.”

“Yeah, it was nice. Are you going to the game?”

“Yeah, Dad talked me into it. Are you?”

That was a stupid question. The man she plans to marry is coaching Langford.

“Yeah, I guess. Are you covering the game for the paper?”

“Afraid so.”

“I was hoping to sit by you if you weren’t,” she added, knowing that I always cover the games on the sidelines, unless it is raining. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course,” I answered. I would do anything for her.

She told me and I regretted my answer.

Chapter 12