me looking at his trembling fingers and held them up. "Lack of liquor or
fear of God—don't know which is causing it," he said. "Maybe both."
"Promise you'll stay here until you get better," I said. "I don't want you
doing the skedaddle."
Dad burst into laughter that ended in another fit of coughing.
DAD STAYED IN THE hospital for six weeks. By then he'd not only
beaten back the TB, he'd been sober longer than any time since the
Phoenix detox. He knew that if he went back to the streets, he'd start
drinking again. One of the hospital administrators got him a job as a
maintenance man at an upstate resort, room and board included. He tried
to talk Mom into going with him, but she flatly refused. "Upstate's the
sticks," she said.
So Dad went alone. He called me from time to time, and it sounded like
he'd put together a life that worked for him. He had a one-room
apartment over a garage, enjoyed doing the repairs and upkeep on the old
lodge, loved being back within walking distance of untamed country, and
was staying sober. Dad worked at the resort through the summer and into
the fall. As it began to turn cold again, Mom called him and mentioned
how much easier it was for two people to stay warm during the winter,
and how much Tinkle the dog missed him. In November, after the first
hard frost, I got a call from Brian, who said that Mom had succeeded in
persuading Dad to quit his job and return to the city.
"Do you think he'll stay sober?" I asked.
"He's already back on the booze," Brian said.
A few weeks after Dad got back, I saw him at Lori's. He was sitting on