When Dad saw me, he stopped talking and looked at me the way he did
every time I had to track him down in a bar. It was always an awkward
moment for us both. I didn't want to be fetching him any more than he
wanted his ragamuffin daughter summoning him home like a wayward
schoolboy. He looked at me in this cold, strange way for just a moment,
then broke into a hearty grin.
"Hey, Mountain Goat!" he shouted. "What the hell are you doing in this
dive?"
"Mom says you have to come home," I said.
"She does, does she?" He ordered a Coca-Cola for me and another shot of
whiskey for himself. I kept telling Dad it was time to go, but he kept
putting me off and ordering more shots, as if he had to gulp a whole
bunch of them down before he could face home. He staggered off to the
bathroom, came back, ordered one for the road, slammed the shot glass
down on the bar, and walked to the door. He lost his footing trying to
open it and sprawled on the floor. I tried to help him up, but he kept
falling over.
"Honey, you ain't getting him nowhere like that," a man behind me said.
"Here, let me give you a lift home."
"I'd appreciate that, sir," I said. "If it's not out of your way."
Some of the other regulars helped the man and me load Dad into the bay
of the man's pickup. We propped Dad up against a tool chest. It was late
afternoon in early spring, the light was beginning to fade, and people on
McDowell Street were locking up their shops and heading home. Dad
started singing one of his favorite songs.
Swing low, sweet chariot Coming for to carry me home.