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Looking Across

Jim Woessner

    The morning after Peter arrived, he walked onto the screened-in porch with a cup of coffee, looked out, and saw his father standing ankle-deep in the river. He put on a jacket and walked outside to the riverbank.
    “What are you doing, Dad?”
    Walter looked up with a scowl. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
    “Honestly? It looks like you’re freezing your ass off.”
    “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Walter yelled. “I’m freezing my goddam ass off.”
    Walter waded back to the bank, carefully stepping across the rocky bottom, his trousers soaked to the knees. He slipped on a pair of rubber shoes at the water’s edge, climbed the steep bank, and looked at his son as though expecting Peter to say something. He didn’t. This was going to be a short visit, just three days. Peter had promised himself to make it as pleasant as possible, which meant that he’d have to keep most of his thoughts to himself.
    The two spent the rest of the day talking only when necessary. In the afternoon, they motored up river to a favorite fishing spot. Peter asked his father questions about his friends, his church, his activities. Walter responded with short answers and never asked his son any questions. Back at the dock, Walter cleaned the three fish they’d caught and Peter drove off to buy a bottle of wine, since Walter didn’t drink wine and didn’t keep any in the house. Later that evening Walter watched TV while Peter read a Zane Grey novel he’d found in his father’s bookcase.
    The next morning Peter fixed breakfast. Over eggs and toast, Peter asked his father if he’d like to walk with him to the top of Lost Hill on the other side of the valley. Peter was curious to see the Indian grave where he’d played as a boy. Walter told Peter to go without him. He said he’d done more than his share of hiking. So Peter went on his own. When he returned he found his father once again standing in the cold river, up to his knees and looking at the forest on the other side.
    Suddenly the older man cried out, “Eleanor!”
    Peter called to him, but Walter didn’t turn around. Either he didn’t hear his son or he ignored him. Peter watched as his father looked at the water swirling around his legs. Finally he turned and waded back, put on his shoes, and climbed the bank. When he was near the top, Peter put out his hand, but Walter didn’t take it.
    “Don’t need your help,” he said.
    “Seems you’ve taken to wading in the river these days.”
    Walter glared at him.
    “What’s that about?” Peter asked.
    “What’s that you say?”
    “Wading. It’s November, Dad. The water’s cold.”
    “You think I don’t know it? Any damn fool can see that it’s cold.”
    Peter took a breath. “Why were you calling her name?”
    Walter looked down at the ground, said nothing, and walked into the house.
    Early in the evening, Peter gathered firewood and built a fire in the rock-lined pit at the top of the riverbank. He retrieved a couple of beers and asked Walter to join him. They sat by the fire in silence and watched the river until it was too dark to see.
    After half an hour, Walter suddenly spoke. “Good memories come from sitting by a fire.”
    “What memories would those be?” Peter asked.
    Walter didn’t answer right away. After a few minutes he asked Peter if he remembered the summer when they built the house. He mentioned how hot it had been and how often they’d taken fishing breaks. Peter said it was the best summer of his life. The two men watched the red-orange embers fly into the ever-deepening darkness.
    “You remember Mom taking off across the river on those mushroom hunts?” Peter asked.
    Walter looked at his hands and flexed his arthritic fingers.
    “Morels, chanterelles, portabellas,” Peter said. “She was something with mushrooms.”
    Walter stared at the fire.
    “What’s it been now?” Peter asked. “Twenty years since she passed? I think that’s right.”
    The next morning as Peter washed the breakfast dishes, he heard Walter leave the house. Peter packed his suitcase, took it to the rental car, then looked for his father. Once again he saw Walter standing knee-deep in the water, but farther out than before. The older man looked as if he was struggling to keep his balance in the cold current, swaying back and forth with his arms outstretched, and looking toward the opposite bank.
    “Are you okay?” Peter called.
    Walter hesitated before answering. “Don’t I look okay?”
    “Hard to say, Dad. You’re standing in the middle of the river making like a crucifix.”
    Walter kept his gaze on the forest across the river.
    “You see something, Dad? Expecting someone?”
    The older man didn’t answer. He put his thin, white arms down to his side. Peter felt shaken by how frail his father looked. In his memory, the man had always been a giant. He’d watched his father build the house with only the help of a teenage boy. Once during a storm his father had carried a sixteen-foot, aluminum jon boat with its motor still attached up the riverbank.
    “Dad, I have to go. I’ve a plane to catch.”
    “Go,” Walter said, without looking up.
    “I’m serious. I have to go.”
    “I’m not keeping you,” Walter called back.
    “Why don’t you come up here so I can... I don’t know... give you a hug... or something.”
    “You go on,” Walter said. “No need for sentiment. I’ll catch up with you later.”
    “Aren’t you even going to say ‘goodbye’?” Peter asked, his voice cracking.
    “Goodbye,” Walter yelled, then took a step further into the river.

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