Letting Go Read Online Free PDF Page A

not laughing, but at least the worst was over; he was willing to tease himself.
    “Dad,” I said, “I don’t know what to tell you.”
    “That’s funny,” he said softly, “because I know just what to tell you.”
    “I don’t think I’d be a help.” I felt myself losing control.
    “I think you would. Look, what’s wrong with going back to Harvard? At least I’ll expect you Thanksgiving, huh?”
    I knew he was wrong; everything in my experience told me hewas wrong, and yet I said, “I’ll see about Thanksgiving. I can’t promise.”
    “I never asked for promises, Gabe. Just try. Just meet me halfway. I’ll send you a check for the plane.”
    “Why don’t you hold it off until I see—”
    “It’s only a check.”
    “I’ve got two checks I haven’t even cashed yet.”
    “Cash them. You want to foul up my bank statements?” he asked gaily.
    “I just don’t need all that money, that’s all. I’ve got the G.I. Bill. I’ve got Mother’s money—”
    “Will it kill you to cash them?” he asked. “I send them off, it makes me feel good. Will it kill you if I can balance up my account at the end of the month?”
    “No.”
    “You cash those checks. Is that too big a favor to ask?”
    I said no again, with as little conviction this time as before.
    “And I’ll see you Thanksgiving,” he said.
    “Please, Dad—please stop pushing me—about Thanksgiving—”
    “Who’s pushing? Let’s get it straight, are you coming Thanksgiving or aren’t you? You want me to have Millie buy a turkey or not?”
    “I don’t really see how I can make it, truly.”
    “You have time for other things, to eat dinner out—you have time to visit people—”
    “That was involved. I was doing somebody a favor.”
    “Well, that’s all I’m asking for.”
    “Please, stop pleading!”
    “Don’t shout at me!”
    “Well, don’t
beg
me!”
    “Tell me, tell me, how else does one get through to you?”
    “By making decent demands, that’s how.”
    “I don’t want to push your generosity too far.”
    “It’s not even generosity we’re dealing with.”
    “No, you’re right. It’s supposed to be love.”
    “I don’t think I deserve all this,” I said.
    “Nobody told you to run away.”
    “I didn’t run.”
    “Iowa. Why not Canada! That’s farther.”
    “That’s closer,” I said, but he wouldn’t laugh. “I don’t thinkeither of us wants to have these kind of conversations. I don’t think this is how either of us feels. Let’s relax.”
    “Gabe, I’m sitting here with a calendar in front of me. I count days. I know how many days between now and Thanksgiving, between now and Christmas, from now to
Easter.
Maybe I’m going nuts, I don’t know.”
    “You’re just lonely.”
    “Yeah,” he said, “some just.”
    “Please,” I said, “I do understand. I’ll do my best.”
    “All right, all right.” He sounded suddenly very tired.
    “You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?”
    He laughed. “Terrific.”
    “Maybe you should go to sleep.”
    “It’s all right, I’m watching a little television. Why aren’t you in bed? It’s midnight where you are. It’s like wearing two watches; whenever I think what time it is here, I think what time it is there. What are
you
doing so late?”
    “I’m going to study some Anglo-Saxon.”
    “That would impress your mother,” he said, wisecracking. “It doesn’t impress me.”
    “It doesn’t impress me either. It bores hell out of me.”
    “Then,” he began, “I don’t know why you do it—”
    “Let’s go to sleep,” I said.
    “Okay, okay,” he said, and when he yawned it was as though we were in the same room. “Take it easy, boy.”
    “Good night.”
    “See you Thanksgiving,” he said, and hung up before I could answer.
    When I finally got to bed that night, I found it impossible to get any solace from feeling sorry for myself. The irritation I generally felt toward my father—for things like hanging up as