“This old dog won’t hunt much longer,” my father said on that Friday evening I came home from the University of Texas to see him.
I knew exactly what he meant. “No, Daddy, that’s not true.” Tears flowed down my cheeks.
He lay propped up by pillows in bed, the sheet drawn up to his chest. He was thin, and his usual pink complexion was sallow. He looked 90 rather than only a few weeks shy of turning 70. “It is true, honey. Just remember there’s never been a day of your life that I haven’t loved you.”
“Ah, daddy,” I said, then squeezed his hand, warm and still fleshy, with fingernails that were curved rather than flat, just like mine.
I kissed my father good-bye on the day I returned to college, knowing that I most likely would never again see him alive. I remember him lying in his double bed up in the bedroom he shared with my mother. He smelled just like he always did: a combination of baby powder, Listerine, cigarette smoke, and Old Spice. His cheek was smooth – he had shaved that morning – and his eyes were bright. “I love you,” he called out as I left that day. “I love you, too,” I called back.
I have no memory of the five-hour drive back to Austin. I don’t recall if I was alone or with friends. I just remember the phone call I received from my brother two days later. As soon as I heard Jim’s voice I began to sob. “Daddy’s lapsed into a coma,” he finally said. I sobbed for a long time while Jim sat silent on the other end of the phone. “There’s no need to come home now,” my brother said after I stopped crying. “He will probably die tonight and we’ll have the funeral in two or three days.” Daddy died a few hours later, and I headed home the next day for the wake that was being held at our house with my father lying in his coffin on our dining room table.
I came into the front door of our house when I returned home. I never came in the front door, but the street was full of cars and I had to park almost a block away. I walked into a house-full of people milling about in the foyer, the living room, the family room. I glanced into the dining room and saw people standing around the open casket. I turned my head away and headed for the kitchen.
I hadn’t yet seen my mother. Instead, I saw Lorene, our housekeeper and my substitute mother for the past several years while my mother finished her doctoral degree. Lorene was placing plates of food on the kitchen table – potato salad, fried chicken, cole slaw, green bean casserole – dishes that people had brought to the house. She looked up and said, “Hi, baby. Did you go in and see your daddy yet?”
I shook my head.
She opened her arms, “Come here, child.”
I lay my head on her chest and she hugged me tight. I felt the warmth of her body, as warm as Daddy’s hands just a few days before. “I don’t want to see him,” I said.
She pulled away and gave me a stern look. “You go in there right now, Len Leatherwood. That is your daddy and you need to pay your respects.”
“I want to remember him alive, not dead.”
After a few seconds she said, “That’s just fine, then. You decide what is best for you.”
I don’t recall finding Mom at that point. I only remember all the people and that room with the coffin with an open lid. Later, two of my brothers, George and Jim, got drunk and had a fist fight right outside the dining room door. My mother appeared from upstairs and screamed out, “Stop that now! You will not be disrespectful to your father.” People pulled them apart and, still anger, they disappeared into different parts of the house. My mother looked overwhelmed, as if she had just realized that she had six children to deal with and our father would not be there to help. We were all off-balance, not knowing how to deal with this new configuration that did not include my father’s presence.
Forty-two years later, I’m still glad that I didn’t go in and see my father dead in his coffin. He looked small in that big bed of his that last time I saw him, but he was still daddy, lying there in his pajamas. My last memory of him is seeing his smile, feeling his warm hands and hearing him tell me that he loved me.
I am very fortunate that my dad had the courage to face his impending death head-on and offer me a few parting words. I hope I can be that brave when it comes my time to die. I’d like to be able to tell my children there hasn’t been a day they have been alive that I haven’t loved them. Could there be a better way to close the door on this life? I don’t think so.
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