There are moments in our lives that occur without any definite beginning. These occasions come naturally, as though you only need to be in the right place at the right time. They may occur in the most unlikely of places: the Long Island Railroad, for example.
My father and I began our train ride with the usual train-ride banter-a little bit of sports talk alternated with occasional bouts of Hilltop-infused conversation. But I knew that the light-hearted nature of our conversation couldn’t last much longer, the same way you know that after you hit Kew Gardens a conductor will creep up from behind and ask for a ticket. There was no question in my mind that a discussion of his other half would be inevitable.
The look in my father’s face gave it away, and I knew that if anything productive were to come of the impending conversation, it had better start soon. I began feeling uneasy at about Lynbrook, 15 minutes before my father and I would part ways, he for work and I for Washington.
“How’s Mom been?” I asked, a loaded question if there ever was one.
I knew the answer, and my father understood that, but that didn’t stop him from saying what came next.
“You know, I just don’t know what to do,” my dad replied. The helplessness was apparent in his face and his voice. Finally, after what felt like 20 years later, he shrugged his shoulders in resignation and looked at me, his youngest son.
“I mean, what do I do?”
I still recall fondly one day when I was around 14 years old. My dad and I were sitting and watching college basketball in mid-February, and I started to tell him about some problems I had been having. By the end of the game, I had successfully gotten out what I needed to say, and as we sat in silence for a few moments, my Dad looked over at me.
“You know, I love you, but I’m actually starting to like you.”
I’d never really considered the importance of that moment until sitting on the train next to my father. Wondering what to say to his wife, my mother, the only person he could think to ask for advice was me.
Beyond being flattered, I was educated. As much as it meant to me to have my Dad solicit my advice, I was more shocked by the realization that our relationship had transcended filial boundaries. There was no question in my mind that I was still his son, but there was an inescapable feeling that, on some level, my father viewed me as a trusted friend, our water as thick as blood.
At the time, it never dawned on me that it was the next step in my relationship with my father. We had gone far beyond the days when I used to lament my catching skills and he taught me how to make the throw to second base to catch a stealing runner. Now, he was lamenting his marriage and his life, and I was being called upon to teach him the throw to second.
