The Finer Socks in Life

The Finer Socks in Life

I. Justice

The universe can be such a cruel place, Ian thought as he looked out the window at a near-blinding blanket of cloud tops. If there were any justice at all, he thought, one of the engine pods from this very jet would fall off the wing and crash right down on the old man's house.

But such justice was not to be, and Ian knew it. Because the universe is cruel, and full of immutable truths. The sun sets and rises; the world keeps on turning; and the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

That last one was the one Ian was afraid of.          

II. The Bad Time. The Big Time. The Big Day

Landing always gave Ian a strange sensation, like he could see himself still in the air and firmly on the ground at the same time. As the jet touched down this time, though, it wasn't himself he saw, but his father.

Ian saw him through the lens of the past as a composite montage of experiences and snapshots, rather than a single defining portrait of a man: an unpleasant smell, like socks and mildew, faint but persistent and pervasive: a smell that had haunted his childhood. Bathing in cold water because the old man kept the house in such disarray that he could not find the electric bill to pay it. He saw his brother's flag-draped casket; having left home to escape their father's erratic, irascible hoarding and purging, Denny had lied about his age, gotten drafted into the army, and died of malaria in Viet Nam. He never even saw the enemy. The look of shame and confusion on his father's face when Ian confronted him about paying off an enormous gambling debt with the boys' trust fund money. Superimposed on all of these memories was the strange look of eager curiosity on his father's face, peering out of the filthy solarium window--out of one tiny space not completely obscured by stacks of old newspapers, unopened mail, and forgotten Blue Bonnet margarine tubs--as Ian left for the last time back in '79.

Ian worked his way through the University of Tennessee and graduated in 1985 with a BS in Business
Administration. He had laughed out loud when he watched Pretty Woman for the first time and heard Richard Gere's character confess to having paid ten thousand dollars to admit he "was very angry with his father." Ian had actually had an identical experience. He had tried hard to forget about his father, to forgive him. Love him. Whatever. But the old man never made it possible, it seemed. Every time Ian wrote off dear old dad, Ian would get a letter from him about some new gambling scheme; every time he almost forgave, a creditor would call Ian to collect on behalf of one of those schemes. Whenever Ian paused to metaphorically look over his shoulder, there was his father's expectant, excited face, blurred through dirty glass, framed by a lifetime of junk.

That was one vision he had of his father, the vision of the past; but like the queer doubling sensation he felt when the runway came up to talk business with the wheels, he saw, at the same time, what he had been told he would see with this homecoming.

There had been a message on his machine in the office in Chicago: his father wanted to talk to him about something big. While a message like this was nothing new in Ian's life, he was rather curious as to how the old man had tracked down his office number--or any of his phone numbers--here in Chicago. But curiosity was not enough to lure Ian into sheltering his father through another bankruptcy. Two days later, a man named Gilbert Wright left another message for Ian. Mr. Wright was a private detective, he said, licensed to work in all states east of the Mississippi, and had assisted Ian's father in tracking down his elusive son. Wright left his license number and telephone extension for Ian to research and reply, and added that Ian's father had paid him to corroborate some rather big news.

Ian had done some quick homework, and he had found Mr. Wright to be a PI in good standing with many law enforcement organizations throughout the Midwest. He had called Wright back on Wednesday afternoon; and that conversation convinced him that the universe was just plain cruel.

"Mr. Kilmartin, thank you for returning my message," Wright began after introductions had been made. "I am not a man of small talk. Please do not interpret my tone as rude; I am simply an agent, not much different than the computer terminal on your desk." He paused to let Ian process this a moment; then he continued.

"Mr. Kilmartin, your father is a millionaire."

Ian was speechless. He honestly didn't know whether to curse the old man or cheer for him. Wright continued. "Your father won the MiniMillions Lotto Jackpot last month, a jackpot of 16 million dollars. He opted for a lump sum payment, and received a cool 6.4 million dollars, after tax."

As Ian tried to gather thoughts that just weren't there, the faceless Mr. Wright delivered the punch line: "He wants you to come home and see him, sir. He told me you had reason to doubt his news, and ascertained my services to independently investigate his financial situation, and I am able to report to you that the man is not in debt, and has no reason to ask for anything financially from anyone.

"As a side-note, Mr. Kilmartin, I will offer that my services are not inexpensive. I'm not Spenser for Hire, working out of my apartment between bouts with women. Your father had to pay a good sum for me to independently review and confirm all of this evidence of his status. He is very eager to see you." The detective offered this last with a sympathetic sincerity that made Ian wonder when the last time was he had seen his own son.

"Now," Wright resumed, clearing his throat back into his previous professional tone. "I promised myself I would not press your father's case, and I fear I am doing just that. So. Your father would like you to visit him, Mr. Kilmartin, at your convenience, to see for yourself--and I quote--'that he has arrived.'"

Ian sighed, but did not immediately respond. Wright waited patiently on the other end of the phone. Finally, Ian had answered: "Alright. I presume Dad is waiting for you to ferry him a response. Tell him I'll visit this Sunday. His address?"

Wright replied flatly, "He said you would know where to find him. 'The Old Homestead,' and again that is a direct quote." Ian thanked Mr. Wright, hung up the phone, and shook his head. Giving a packrat a million dollars is like planting a poppy field for a heroin addict. "Damn, the universe is mean," he muttered.

Dad. In a nice new sport jacket. Shaved and clear-eyed. Standing on a clean tile floor next to a table containing only a vase and maybe some pears. Contrasted against a dirty, disheveled man, continuously rediscovering his way through a maze of needlessly salvaged trash and inherited accumulations.

These images fought their way into a sickening headache as Ian's plane taxied to a stop Saturday evening.

III. Town. Denny. Sleep On It

Driving into the night had always made Ian tired. "Driving the sun up or driving the sun down, always seems like extra hours on the road." He had told his fIancee, Meredith this one night as they drove home from a short vacation in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. She had looked at him in silence, then back out the window. When they got home, a moving van was just pulling away from the curb in front of the small house they were renting. Meredith coolly told Ian she was leaving for Seattle. She stepped out of his car, crossed the street, got into her own, and drove away forever.

"Jesus," muttered the latter-day Ian to a darkening north-Tennessee sky. "That's just the kind of cheery memory to start off the weekend. Man, I should have hired a driver..."

He knuckled weariness (and memories of Meredith) out of his eyes as he drove under the traffic light on Jessup Street, the unofficial town line. Laines, TN, is a small town, by anyone's standards. Three stoplights ("Oh look, there's four, now," Ian noted aloud to himself), a couple of bars, and one five-story office building. Not too much had changed in the last decade-and-a-half, either, Ian saw. The extra stoplight had been added. The Burger Chef was now a Sonic, but KFC still held pride-of-place in what passed for the town square. The water tower had been replaced and upgraded, as had the fire station (which, he had read, had ironically burnt to the ground in 1988). Otherwise, not much had changed at all. Driving these streets was as familiar and pleasant as putting on last night's wet shoes.

Ian was feeling mean and low, and he knew if he ran into anybody in this mood, he would pick a fight. It had been years since he had boxed--not since college. He really didn't need to ask to have his ass kicked as a formal welcome-home present, so he decided to visit the one person in town he knew would understand his frame of mind. Denny.

He made a right turn onto the tree-lined drive of Rowan Hill cemetery. The trees here were all maples, and there was no hill; it had always bugged Ian. He left the car in the parking lot and found one more of the changes in Laines: the cemetery was now gated and locked. Ian wrapped his hands around the wrought iron bars of the gate and looked in, like a prisoner on the wrong side. "Oh well. Sleep tight, Denny," he whispered into the chill. When he turned to walk back to the car, he seemed to hear a distant voice from the direction of the cemetery call back, "See ya, bro!" It wasn't comforting, and Ian hurried back to the Lincoln at a brisk walk.

"Town's bound to be full o' ghosts for you, kid," he reminded himself as he turned back onto the main road. At least his anger had deflated. He was more likely to be civil now; maybe he would be tomorrow, too. He wasn't sure if he had come here seeking resolution or spoiling for a fight.

"We'll find out tomorrow," he said to no one at all, pulling into the Kellington House parking lot to claim his lodgings for the night. "Guess I'll just have to sleep on it."

IV. Hope

Hope and fear are twin brothers, Ian thought as he ate his breakfast. He had opted out of the fancy continental breakfast served in the Kellington's small dining room. Hostess doughnuts fresh out of the box washed down with Folgers instant--all to the soundtrack of CNN--did not sound like a great start to the day. Instead, Ian let his feet lead him a block or so to one of his old haunts, Martin's Diner, down on Herschel Avenue.

When he walked inside, he was finally glad for something since he passed under the light on Jessup last night. Martin's was untouched since he was here last, in the late summer of 1979. The linoleum tile on the floor still had the same seasick unevenness, the red vinyl covering on the chair cushions was still split from frequent use, and the dinosaur of a pay-phone (replete with its own booth and exhaust fan) still stood proudly in the back, right between the restrooms.

And the smell was like a time machine. Grits and eggs and bacon, all mixed together with coffee and the pungent tang of old cigarette smoke--it was ambrosia to Ian, and it transported him.

He sat by the window looking out on the street, as he always had, waiting for the same thing he had always eaten here: three eggs sunny, grits and bacon, and coffee black (although he ordered decaf now; he had switched to strictly unleaded about the time Sunoco had). As he sat, he thought about the family, and how hope and fear were such close siblings. They could both galvanize or immobilize you--and govern your course of action. And they could both drive you crazy, like an itch you have to scratch, but which hurts like hell when you finally touch it.

When his food finally arrived, Ian was disappointed to discover he wasn't hungry anymore. He was either too frightened or too eager to eat. With an apologetic nod for the waitress, he paid with a twenty, and left a big tip.

"Hope you're feelin' better soon, honey," the waitress offered as he headed for the door. He looked back at her and tried to smile.

"Here's hoping," he said.

V. Dad

"What did I ever do to you, Universe?"

Ian sat behind the wheel of his rented Lincoln staring at his father's house. The property was located at an odd point in town, built into a hill that overlooked state-owned wetlands. It was like being at the edge of town right in the middle of town. The lot was large, and the front lawn was expansive. That lawn, as Ian looked at it, was shaggy and untidy, growing up over the walk and arguing with the shrubs for right-of-way. The hedges themselves crowded over the front step and bullied visitors at the door. Even from the crumbling drive, Ian could see how badly that door needed paint.

His first urge was to just put the car in reverse, toss Denny a wave in passing, and get the hell out of Dodge. But Ian needed this to be his final visit, for better or--as things looked from here--for worse. This was the closure he needed, the closure his way-too-expensive therapist never could provide.

He left the car and navigated the surly walkway, muscling past the green door sentries. He rejected the idea of knocking, and opened the door unannounced. The smell inside was as memorable and powerful as had been the aroma at Martin's--but the destination to which this one transported him was not nearly as pleasant. The odor was dank, like a restroom in a leaky basement. It brought back all the taunts and jibes from school, reminded him why he had started boxing in the first place. As his eyes adjusted from the morning sunlight outside, Ian's resentment collapsed into disappointment. It was all the same. Only the stacks were higher, the papers older and dustier. The dust bunnies on the floor had mated with the cobwebs to produce an unholy breed of tumbleweeds that scattered like disturbed thoughts in the breeze from outside.

Ian stepped slowly inside, hoping against hope his father had simply moved from here, abandoned the place, that this was not really--

He heard the old man cackle in the dining room, cheap silverware clink on cracked china. This was it, then; this was real. This was what his father had somehow paid good money for Ian to come back and see. Like he was in a bad dream, Ian slowly walked the old, hated path from the door to the dining room, his high school jacket replaced now with Armani suede; his red-striped tube socks and Chuck Taylors with designer argyles in Gucci loafers. As disorienting as the feeling was, it was nothing in comparison to his shock when he stopped in the doorway. He stood, speechless and transfixed, at the horrorshow in front of him.

The entire solarium beyond the dining room was full. In '79, there had been a frightening accumulation of...well, stuff. Now the entire room, floor to ceiling, was full. Paper, bottles, cans, boxes from TV dinners, mail circulars. The room had been a twelve by thirteen foot sanctuary when Mom had it built. Now, it was a landfill.

The table in the dining room was heaped in stacks and piles of notebooks, dirty newspapers, and spent lottery stubs. One tiny alcove had been left clear--just enough space for a battered old black and white television and one small plate. Even though the morning outside was bright, the overhead light was needed in this dingy living mausoleum. And in front of the TV, leaning back in an ancient and filthy chair, was Kenneth Kilmartin, Ian's new-money millionaire father.

And he was wearing nothing--nothing--but a pair of black socks.

Ian searched for his voice and finally managed to croak out his incredulity in fits and starts. "Dad...! You-- The detective said... What-- Dad... " He gaped at the naked old man, fixing his stare on his footwear. "What the fuck?!"

Ian's father followed his stare, then slowly looked Ian in the eyes with an expression of curiosity mixed with hurt, and spoke.

"I thought you'd be proud of me, son. They're from Brooks Brothers!"