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he took to control blood pressure, and
quantity of scotch consumed against the advice of his doctors.
    The
hospital hall is quiet and the rubber soles of your shoes squeak on the flecked
vinyl floor. The noise slows as you near his room. You’re afraid to enter,
afraid of your own thudding heart.
    His eyes
open at the light touch of your hand.
    Dar, is
that really you? Did you really come all this way?
    With a
little tease in your voice you say, Come on now, don’t sound so surprised. Then
you look for evidence of Leslie, some gift she might have left, a bouquet of
flowers or a box of his beloved chocolate cream. There’s nothing.
    You take a
chair and draw it to the bed. You mention the weather there in Pennsylvania, and remark that your spring at home is several weeks ahead. How silly you
sound, because any fool knows that spring travels from south to north.
    The
radiator bangs, then hisses. The ugly beige curtains don’t quite close,
allowing a column of glare to fall across the floor.
    The nurse
comes to take your father’s temperature. She takes his blood pressure, too. She
refills the pitcher of water, slides the thermometer from his lips, reads it,
and drops it in the pocket of her bright, floral-print smock. Then she’s gone.
You wish she were still there, occupying space between you and your father.
    Guess they
told you what your dopey ’ole father did. Sailed right off that damn chair. The bruise on his cheek is florid and difficult to look at.
There were no major injuries, otherwise. He’s being kept for observation only,
for an assessment of his mental state, and to determine if he’s fit to return
to independent living.
    Suddenly
his face tenses, and his eyes focus on you hard. You’re reminded of a picture
taken years before, a candid shot by a student wanting to capture your father
in mid-lecture. The expression is the same, fierce, intent, totally absorbed.
    Did I
ever tell you about Stu Drake? he asks
you.
    You hear
that Stu was another Illinois grad whose straight teeth and high grades put him
in the cockpit by the summer of ’42. Stu wrote often about training
paratroopers, the wide billow of the silk growing smaller as they dropped away.
    So, that’s
what your father thought of as he fell. About dead soldiers, their chutes
becoming shrouds.
    Your
words, not his. The drive has made you punchy. And the call from your husband
on your cell phone as you reached town, his voice full of remorse about last
night’s disagreement which you can’t at the moment remember.
    Did I
ever tell you how I wanted to be a pilot? Failed the physical. Know why? Your father taps his crooked front teeth. Wouldn’t fit
inside an oxygen mask. Probably saved my damn life. His voice becomes as
thin as the late afternoon light. I was lucky. Luck is a kind of
responsibility, and I didn’t know what to do with it .
     He wants
something to drink, something alcoholic, which he’s not allowed. You consider
buying him a bottle, hiding it in your large, messy handbag, and sharing it as
the night comes on. You won’t, though, because he’s still talking and needs
your audience even more than he needs the alcohol.
    She
hated me for what I did. I suppose she told you all about that, though, didn’t
she? Sometimes I feel like picking up the phone and trying to set the record
straight, but what’s the use? Your father
has forgotten that your mother’s been dead for ten years. She thought I was
arrogant, do you know that? She accused me of thinking that ordinary people
were too stupid to be trusted with the knowledge I had, but that wasn’t it at
all. I couldn’t talk about my work because I took an oath of secrecy. An oath
is supposed to mean something.
    Information
has become declassified and television shows about the war years, specifically
the code-breaking efforts on the part of the United States and Great Britain have aired, yet your father keeps quiet.
    He’s grown
tired, and closes his eyes. In a few minutes he’s