when I poured rubbing alcohol on the wound. Because of all his hair, I
had no way to put on a bandage, and I told Dad I should shave the area
around the cut. "Hell, honey, that would ruin my image," he said. "A
fellow in my position's got to look presentable."
Dad studied the gash on his forearm. He tightened a tourniquet around
his upper arm and told me to fetch Mom's sewing box. He fumbled
around in it for silk thread but, unable to find any, decided that cotton
would be fine. He threaded a needle with black thread, handed it to me,
and pointed at the gash. "Sew it up," he said.
"Dad! I can't do that."
"Oh, go ahead, honey," he said. "I'd do it myself, except I can't do diddly
with my left hand." He smiled. "Don't worry about me. I'm so thoroughly
pickled, I won't feel a thing." Dad lit a cigarette and placed his arm on
the table. "Go ahead," he said.
I pressed the needle up against Dad's skin and shuddered.
"Go ahead," he said again.
I pushed the needle and felt a slight tug when it pierced the skin. I
wanted to close my eyes, but I needed to see. I pushed a little harder and
felt the resistance of Dad's flesh. It was like sewing meat. It was sewing
meat.
"I can't, Dad, I'm sorry, I just can't do it," I said.
"We'll do it together," Dad said.
Using his left hand, he guided my fingers as they pushed the needle all
the way in through his skin and out the other side. A few droplets of
blood appeared. I pulled the needle out and then gave the thread a gentle