THE SHADOW MAN

by Mark Paxson of King Midget Ramblings

The man could talk. I’m sure of it. When he needed to, he spoke. Briefly. With a minimal amount of energy. “Quiet,” my father would say to the four of us, his voice rising almost to a shout and the word stretched into an odd three syllable contortion. Occasionally, he would pound his fist on the table as the word passed the threshold of his lips. There would be no explanation of why we needed to be quiet or of what we had done that had disturbed him. He would simply state the order and then return to the world he lived in. The one that the rambunctious noises of his four kids had interfered with.

There were other times when he intervened as well. Typically, when his recalcitrant daughter was raising objections to the expectations of her parents, explained in patient detail by Mom. Eventually, Dad would tire of the argument, get up from his chair, stomp into the kitchen to state his position, and then return to his solitude.

I sat next to him at the dinner table. To my left, my older brother, permanently annoyed at the thought of a little brother. On the right, at the table’s end, sat Dad. Eyebrows twitching, brow rising and falling, grimaces forming and melting. It was as though, given his silence, the only person he could talk to was himself. The expressions on his face gave away the conversation of his mind.

Occasionally, I watched the expressions on my father’s face and asked myself what is he thinking? is he talking to himself in his head? what is going on in there? Now, looking back, I wonder if my own eyebrows were twitching while I engaged in my own internal conversation. But, at the time, all I wanted to do was knock on his forehead and ask whatever gremlin was occupying the space in there to come out and talk. To share his thoughts with the rest of us.

I have memories of a time when he was more involved, more social. There are these freeze frames of my father rising from the table and thanking Mom for a great meal. He would approach her end of the table, make a big show of “rolling” up her sleeve, kissing her arm, and calling her whatever pet name he had for her that day. Buttercup. Griselda. He told her that she could sleep in his wigwam forever.

But, then there is a void. Other than that memory of him, almost all of my other memories are of a man in the background. For so many years it seems that my father occupied the shadows of our lives. He was in the driver’s seat of the car that took us to where we needed to go. But, he didn’t talk or interact other than to threaten us with pulling the car over when things got too out of control. When we arrived at our destination, where did he go? In my memory, he wasn’t there. He was in the background.

There is nothing I want to do more now than watch my own son play baseball and to have the opportunity to play catch with him. I have no doubt that I played catch with my own father. But I have no memory of it. There are two clear memories I have of interaction with him.

When I was seven, as our family journeyed across the United States, pulling a trailer and stopping at campgrounds along the 10,000 mile route we took, we stopped in Sault Ste. Marie. At a campground along the banks of a big river, my father and I sat on the grass and watched the ships go by. I have no recollection to confirm this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, as we sat there side by side, my father didn’t say a word. Even with that gap, though, it is one of the few warm and fuzzy memories I have of the two of us.

My second memory of real interaction with Dad was a result of his taking up bicycle riding, something he did well into his 70s. When we were kids, we would go for bike rides as a family, orange flags flapping in the wind behind the kids’ bikes to alert cars to our presence. But, again, there are no memories of conversations. It’s impossible to talk while riding and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was frustrated at having to drag us along with him.

That’s it. The sum total of my memories of my father. Kissing his wife’s arm and letting her know he appreciated her cooking. Watching ships go by one lazy afternoon in the middle of summer, thousands of miles away from home. Yelling at us to be “Qo-i-et.” Bicycling in silence. I have no recollection of a game of catch. No memory of him helping with homework. There is no picture in my mind of my Dad sitting at the dinner table and asking his children how their day was.

In most of my memories, he is the shadow man. There, but not really there. Sitting in his chair in the family room, while the rest of us finished our meal or played a game. Safely ensconced in his office at the other end of the house, working on something while we ran amuck. What was he working on? What was he thinking? Who knows? He never shared those things with us.

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