My trip with dad: A fleeting family reunion with an estranged father | Opinion

A warm spring sun shone through my bedroom window as I dressed my 10-month-old son for church. As he wriggled, the phone rang. In response to my “Hello,” a man’s jagged, raspy voice asked, “Is this Bunny?” When I said it was, he responded, “Well, this is your old man. I’m at the Greyhound bus station in Salinas, I’m broke and I’ve got no place to go. Can you come and get me?”

I didn’t really know this man. As he spoke, I accepted the fact that he was my father — the man who left when I was a baby. The only contact I had with him beyond his leaving was an occasional drunken phone call in the middle of the night when I was in fifth grade.

There’s a country song that says, “A phone that rings at midnight has nothing good to say.” And that was true of these contacts from my father — him, sitting on a stool in some faraway barroom, me, a little girl who was afraid of the dark and had no idea who this wild man was. He was always full of some fantasy about writing songs for Hank Williams and getting rich.

When those calls ended, I felt no loss, only relief.

Out of nowhere, then, came this disconcerting question from a man I was closely related to but knew not at all. “Will you come and get me?” Covering the phone, I turned to my husband.

“What should I do?” I asked Doug. “Well,” he said, “if he’s your father, I guess you should go get him.”

And so I did.

Daddy was in the midst of alcohol withdrawals. He was a mess. As he recounted to us how he had ended up homeless, we learned that he had been a forklift operator for Tilly Lewis in Stockton until the ramifications of his alcoholism became so extreme that he became a safety hazard for the company and was fired. Doug told my father that he could stay with us until he got back on his feet, but there could be absolutely no drinking.

Since he was in no position to argue, Daddy accepted that condition and took up residence in our extra bedroom.

My father went through some terrible episodes of hallucinations and physical suffering as his body detoxed. About two weeks into this arrangement, his symptoms had subsided to the degree that he became concerned about the belongings he had left in Stockton.

“Will you take me to my apartment so I can get my gear?” he asked one morning. I said, “Sure, Daddy, we can do that.”

And thus was arranged the only trip I ever took with my father.

We left for Stockton early the next morning. When we entered the city, I followed his directions, becoming more and more concerned as the neighborhoods grew seedier, more dilapidated, and anything but welcoming. Finally, Daddy looking out his window, said, “Stop here!” Like all the buildings in this area, this one looked sad, forlorn and dejected.

He hurriedly got out of the car, saying, “Keep the motor running. I’ll be right back.”

As I sat at the curb, I saw my father stick his head out of a second story window. Then, without warning, bags, boxes and miscellaneous items came tumbling out the window. Mixed in with a radio, an alarm clock and loose underwear were cans of soup. I watched, amazed.

“Open the trunk,” my dad shouted as this barrage of debris rained down.

Leaving the key in the ignition, I opened the trunk. My father came racing out of the building, grabbed his belongings where they lay, threw them in the trunk, slammed the trunk lid, jumped back in the car and said, “Let’s go!”

As I pulled away from the curb, a man came sprinting out of the building — gesticulating, flailing his arms and shouting obscenities.

What had just happened? Had I aided and abetted something illegal or at least immoral?

I didn’t ask, and we never talked about it.

Daddy was with us for about six months. He did some odd jobs around the house, and Doug provided him with a nice older model Chevy.

During this time, I got to know him a little. I discovered that he was an avid reader, and Ray Bradbury’s “Dandelion Wine” was his favorite book. He also wrote. Reading some of his poetry, I wondered, “Is this where my love of the written word came from?”

I was pregnant with his second grandson when we got up one morning and discovered Daddy was gone. Just gone — no parting words, no words of blessing and no mention of what had been given or received during our brief time together.

I never heard from him again.

But I do remember the one trip I took with my dad.

Bunny Stevens lives in Modesto, her hometown, and has served on The Modesto Bee Community Advisory Board. She is the opening courtesy clerk at the Safeway supermarket on McHenry Avenue and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. Reach her at BunnyinModesto@gmail.com