My dad died 4 years ago this coming May. He had been ill for quite some time--emphysema, congestive heart failure, and a lingering depression born in his youth that was probably instrumental in all of this.
When Dad was graduating high school, his wish was to attend the University of Detroit and study art. His father, a self-proclaimed “big-shot Detroit banker,” quashed this dream and informed him that he would begin working at the National Bank of Detroit and follow in his (my grandfather’s) narcissistic footsteps. My dad, being ever the good first son, complied.
Dad was great at putting on “the face.” But as I grew older, and perhaps a bit more empathic, knew better. He had had his dreams refused at the age when young men and women are supposed to be spreading their wings and conquering the world.
But rather than regale the world with his whimsical and creative cartoons, he was stuck in a cold, marble, all white-male banker’s world. It must have been suffocating. But Dad did “the face.”
“The Face.” Did he ever regret not standing up to his father? Did he regret marrying my mom? Did he regret having kids and moving out of his hometown? I do not know.
I was a junior at The University of Michigan when his father, my grandfather, died of a heart attack at his Florida home. By this time, Dad was working for General Motors. He constantly complained about the place. Work (and life)was something to be tolerated--at least that is the message I received.
The summer following my Junior year, I was home one weekend afternoon, watching the old movie, “The Days of Wine and Roses” with Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick. Dad came into the family room, circled my chair a few times and asked tentatively, ”How do you think your mom and I are doing?” Not thinking and not fully listening, I mumbled something lame like, “Well, I know you’re working a lot , but you’ve been married over 25 years, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
He did not say anything for about thirty seconds and replied, “Well, I think I’m going to go for a drive.”
Again, I half-heartedly said, “Okay,” and went back to my movie.
An hour or so later, the phone rang and the voice on the other end was Dad’s best friend, John. “Jeff, is your mom home?”
“No, John. She’s still out golfing.”
“Well, you need to tell her that your Dad is not coming home.”
“What-John--wha...???”
At that very moment, Mom walked into the house. She had a big smile on her face--she must have had a good round. I handed her the phone. I could tell she was confused by my blank expression.
“Hello? Oh, hi, John.” As she listened, she clutched the receiver--her hands began to shake and her eyes filled with tears.
Dad had spread his wings--without a good-bye.
