HENRY H. ROTH
411
Recently I saw my father walking along Madison Avenue. He walked
briskly, never delaying half a step to admire a store window display or an
attractive woman. He was, as usual, on a specific mission, and there was
never time for stray considerations.
On a whim, I followed him. Then I noticed father was preoccupied;
he didn't try to beat the light. He studied the faultless blue sky for a
moment and patiently waited for the light to change again. He kept
looking at his watch, but was daydreaming. He kept patting at his sports
jacket as if reassuring himself he still had a heart. I called over to him. He
walked swiftly away, pretending he hadn't heard me. Something was
awry. Perhaps he was meeting another elderly woman. Deceit and be–
trayal had been added to his baggage. I was the child suddenly being
granted insight and power that were always there for the taking. I kept
calling out.
Finally, my father stopped. He was a little confused. I almost expected
him
to throw his hands up in the air.
"What's the big hurry?" I challenged.
He suddenly smiled. Since it was an unnatural grimace, it seemed to
pain him. Still, he smiled again. Startled, I was sorry I'd pestered him.
"Well," my father confessed, "you're right. I'm running late for
class." He coughed nervously.
"Class?"
"Yeah," he said sharply.
"What class?" I asked, in sudden annoyance.
"Fiction writing," he said.
"You're writing fiction," I almost shouted.
"I don't like the essay form," my amazing father declared.
"Oh," I said dumbly.
"Fiction is so much more open-ended," he insisted. "We read a lot of
Chekhov and Babel. What great writers!"
I nodded sadly.
"I've written a story," he confessed. "I'm bringing it in today to
class."
He patted the jacket again and reaching inside it pulled out a folder.
Then he delicately hid the work again. I waited as I often have, all my
life.
"The class is over today," he blurted out. "The teacher is very pro–
fessional. We're all beginners. He reads all our work out loud and we dis–
cuss it in class. Today my story'll be discussed."
He rubbed his dry lips.
"Congratulations." I tried to shake his hand but he pulled it away.
"Not yet," my father cautioned. "I want you to read the story. Invite
