It's Sunday. The wind is still warm but already carries the sharp edge of the coming winter. An astonishing variety of clouds rush overhead across the sky. I love this weather. I love the promise of change it brings. Maybe that is what I want most of all: change. Leaving this sinkhole of a village, abandoning this wreck of a house. On my way to greater things, although I’ve no idea what.
Despite my longing to be anywhere else, the weekends at home have become increasingly important. It's liberating to have a bit more breathing room after a week full of unrelenting whispers, strict school rules, and the unwanted company of Gnat. Even my carefully cultivated discontent with my father can’t diminish that.
I’m even about to bring him coffee as part of my biannual attempt to learn something more about my mother. An endeavor so blatantly transparent that it’s doomed to fail. Still, I have to try.
Gran could barely hide a smile when I started my slalom through the many failed “inventions” that found their inglorious end in our yard after a short, angry flight through the window of the barn he has over confidently baptized 'laboratory,' holding a steaming cup with two hands in front of me. No pretentious cappuccino-latte-macchiato-skimmed-soy-milk nonsense, just old-fashioned drip filter coffee. Anything better would be a waste of money, as my father has no sense of quality whatsoever. You only need to look around his shed—sorry, laboratory—to see what I mean.
The enormous space is dominated by a gigantic, worn-down workbench which, like the rest of the shed, is cluttered with a wild variety of items: soldering irons, hammers, nails, bolts, screws, circuit boards, electrical wires, and a few complex-looking measuring instruments. Half-finished machinery is scattered everywhere around it. The only burning lamp projects an ellipse of light on the dirty workbench where my father, sitting in his wheelchair, is fidgeting with some relays and electrical wires.
When he looks up, surprise ripples across his face. “Tinderstick… Is something wrong with Gran?”
“Eh… no… I just thought…”
“Sweet of you.” he says surprisingly softly. “Best put it here.” When I don’t turn around right away, he continues cautiously, “How was school this week?”
“Mmmmm,” I mumble in the über-casual tone I’ve specially developed for him.
“Best time of your life, Tinderstick. Being young, having fun with your buddies.”
“Buddies, Dad? That word went out of fashion halfway through the last century.”
“Maybe,” he continues, almost inaudible because of the finger he’s pushed halfway down his nostril. “But don’t make the same mistakes I did, you are there to study.”
He turns back to the workbench, holding the mug with two hands as if he needs to warm them, even though it’s not cold at all. Steam curls up. He blows into it and gazes over the brim into the distance. He looks smaller like this, crouched and bent in his chair, like a crippled little bird that has fallen out of its nest. I swallow. I feel an unexpected urge to embrace him. I swallow again. Suddenly, he looks up.
"Ah, you're still here? I thought that..." He straightens himself in an effort to camouflage his vulnerability. I must be quick. He will shut down again before I know it. "Doesn't it hurt, Dad?" For a moment, he looks surprised.
"What, Tinderstick?"
"Well... your legs."
I'm not sure what his facial expression means, but when he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically tender. "Not really, Max. I haven't had any feeling in my legs for a long time. It's my back that's killing me. Sometimes..." He stops mid-sentence and looks me straight in the eye. "Sweet of you to ask." The warmth and fragility of his voice take me completely off guard.
"Ah... well... but... but... don’t you mind? Isn’t it frustrating?"
“It’s okay. Everyone has their burden to carry.” I need to be fast. He’s closing up again.
“Did Mom ever see you in a wheelchair?” Before I see his face change, I know I’ve messed up.
“Your mother didn’t have much patience with failure, Tinderstick. She was no fool.” The change is as sudden as it is absolute. All softness is gone. Shut like an oyster. Gruffly, he blows into his coffee, finds a biscuit that looks really old and filthy in his toolbox, dips it into his coffee, and puts the soft part into his mouth. A droplet runs from the corner of his mouth to his chin. It’s more than enough to make me click back into my own default state. “Jesus, dad. Next time you can get your coffee yourself. I’m gone.”
“Whatever you want, Tinderstick.”
We are back on common ground, and although we have done it like this for years and years, this time it hurts more than usual. For a moment, we had something else. For a moment, I felt how much I miss him and have missed him. That moment’s gone now, and there’s nothing I can do about it. We have both retreated into the trenches of our everyday warfare.