“We’re gonna go shoot!”

Dad leaned over the woman standing nearby and made a motion with his empty hands, as if he were clutching and then hurling an object over his head. His smile bulged from his face and his eyes glowed.

The woman drew away and pulled one of her earbuds out. Her eyes darted from Dad to Mom and then back to me. We were all stuck standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change. I tightened my grip on Chloe’s stroller. Before I could intervene, Dad closed the gap between himself and the woman and repeated the gesture with his hands. “We’re gonna go shoot!”

“Oh, okay.” Her lips half-smiled but the rest of her bristled.

Across the street, the red LED of a hand palm-out went black and the white silhouette of a man beckoned us forward.

“C’mon, Dad. Let’s cross. Mom?” Then turning to the woman whose bubble Dad had burst, I mouthed an apology. She repeated the half smile and shrugged as if to say she understood. But as Mom clasped Dad’s arm and I pushed Chloe’s stroller across Broadway towards Amsterdam, I couldn’t help but notice the woman dart across to the other side of 100^th Street before continuing in the same direction as us.

There was a time when these little interactions bothered me — like the time Dad stooped to pet a dog and then stood up to pat the dog’s owner on the head too — but that time had long passed.

“Watch out for the dog poopie,” Chloe admonished me in her high but forceful little voice, and I swerved the stroller just in time.

“Thanks sweetheart. C’mon, Dad, it’s just across the next street.”

It was the day before Mother’s Day. My wife Jess wanted to spend the holiday with her mother, so my in-laws were set to arrive that afternoon. They’d check into their hotel in midtown and make their way up to our place in the evening after my parents hit the road. Dad sometimes flared up around people he wasn’t comfortable with. It’s better to limit the number variables when possible.

Though Dad’s visits had become something of a crapshoot, the previous one had a tinge of normality to it. My parents had gifted a soccer ball to Chloe. We brought it with us to the Douglass playground a few block from home. At one point I grabbed the ball and shot it at one of the basketball hoops. Dad wanted to try; he missed wide and short and he grunted. I chased down the ball and tossed it to him, told him it was okay, try again.

He shot and missed, shot and missed. I told him to aim higher, try to arc his shot instead of shooting straight at the rim. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him this engaged. “I don’t wanna leave til I make one,” he chuckled. His furrow loosened and every time he hit the rim or backboard we cheered the small victory.

By the time we left the playground, he had indeed sunk a few buckets. His face was a broad grin and his eyes had a spark in them as we strolled back home for lunch.

We were on our way back to the Douglass playground. I wanted to repeat my parent’s previous visit, shoot hoops with Dad and give Mom a break to play with Chloe. Mom was with him twenty-four hours a day and we couldn’t afford in-home care. This visit was going to top the last one. I was prepared. I had bought a real basketball the day before.

We reached the end of the block and waited for our turn to cross Amsterdam. There were no strangers for Dad to bother. The playground loomed across the street.

#

I helped Chloe out of the stroller. “Alright, sweetie, go have fun with Gramma.”

“Wet’s go!” She grabbed Gramma’s hand and led her to the jungle gym.

“Let’s shoot. I wanna shoot.”

“Got the real thing this time, Dad.” I dug the basketball out of the stroller’s undercarriage and bounced it his way.

While he mulled over a shot, I glanced at Mom and Chloe. Mom was on her way down the slide. Chloe shouted encouragement from the ground.

“Oh!” Dad groaned.

I turned in time to watch the ball rolling away and ran to fetch it.

“It’s okay, Dad.” I handed him the ball. “Just remember, aim higher, try to arc it.”

When they arrived at my apartment, Mom had to tell him several times to walk through the door, to say hello to his granddaughter. As he stared out the window on his own, I asked Mom how he was doing that morning and she shrugged and sighed and said, “Oh, you know.” I knew, but I also knew that I had the antidote and all I had to do was get him to swallow it.

He shot and missed again.

“I just can’t get the…” He trailed off, pursed his lips and hurled the ball, missing again. It didn’t matter; he seemed relaxed, focused, alert, enjoying himself. I’d been right.

He looked over his shoulder and said to no one in particular, “Hey, you can play with us if you want.”

“Dad, I don’t think anyone’s there.”

For a moment he appeared lost at sea. Then his gaze drifted, bobbed in the current, gradually returned to shore. He bounced the ball, aimed, and shot wide again.

#

Two kids stood at the edge of the court and watched us. When the older one and I caught each other’s eyes, he approached and in a heavily accented voice said, “We play?” He couldn’t have been more than ten.

This was not ideal. I wanted to say no. “Dad, you mind if they shoot with us?”

“I don’t care,” he snorted a laugh. “If they—I don’t…”

I shrugged and turned to the kids. “Okay.”

Dad hit the rim and one of the kids grabbed the rebound. He  shouted “gōl!” as he chucked up an airball.

The kids were a blur of energy. We all took turns taking shots. When I told the kids to give him space, they left him alone to shoot, then one of them grabbed the rebound and ran and shoot his own shot. I let them try to defend me as I dribbled, then passed it to Dad. They were laughing and I was laughing and even Dad was laughing. Chloe and Mom came back over to the court I hoisted her to my shoulders for an attempt. Eventually the two kids said something to each other in Spanish and wandered away. The sun arced its way across the sky and reached its apex. Shadows withdrew. Dad hit a shot and we all cheered.

#

“Hurry up, Papa!”

“Just be patient, sweetie. Papa’s taking his turn.”

We’d been at it for some time now. I glanced at my watch. Well past lunch time. We should probably call it soon.

I caught a peripheral glimpse of a person standing at the edge of the court. I glanced up; it was the younger of the two kids who had joined us earlier. I waved him over but he stood still. Dad’s shot hit the rim and the ball bounced toward the kid, who let it pass. I chased after it.

His eyes were wide and he fidgeted about with his hands and feet. He looked up at me and mumbled, “Family left me.”

“What?”

He repeated himself, looked behind him to the adjacent soccer field, and shrugged.

I scanned the playground. There was no sign of the older kid, no unaccompanied adults on benches.

Shit.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

He shook his head and took a step back from me.

“Okay, one second. Uno momento.”

I walked back over to Mom and told her what the kid had said.

“Oh!” She peeked over at Dad. “Why don’t you call the cops?”

My mind flashed through a series of images: the kid’s parents being arrested, the family splintered, the brothers in foster care. What if they were immigrants? Undocumented? Could they be deported?

“I’m not gonna call the cops. Give me a second.”

I went back to the kid.

“Do you know where your parents are? Tu madre? Tu padre?”

He shook his head.

“Tu hermano?”

He said something in Spanish I didn’t understand, looked back at the soccer field again, and then in English added, “Gone.”

“Do you know… tu madre o tu padre uh… numero de teléfono?”

He shook his head and skipped back another few steps. I took one step towards him and he winced.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave this kid to his own devices. I surveyed the playground, as if searching for someone to come rescue me. Mom had her hand on Dad’s arm. He said something I couldn’t hear and pulled it away. Chloe whined. Mom gestured towards me and I held up a finger as if to say, give me a minute and inhaled a steadying breath.

I overheard another dad a few feet away say something to his son in Spanish. I held up one finger to the lost kid and approached the other dad.

“Excuse me. Habla inglés?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh thank God. This kid over there,” I pointed, “said his family left him here, but I don’t speak enough Spanish to help him. Can you translate?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

The kid scrutinized these two strange men hovering over him. The other dad said something in Spanish. The kid hid his face behind his hands and said something back. They exchanged a few more words.

The other dad looked at me and said, “I don’t understand a word he’s saying. He’s speaking in like some African dialect.”

There are African dialects of Spanish? I was out of my depth.

“I’d just call the cops, man.”

“I don’t wanna call the cops on him.”

The other dad shrugged and resumed playing with his kid. My heart pounded against my chest.

Mom called my name. The kid glanced over his shoulder again and skipped backward a few steps. I tried asking him once more in Spanish if he knew either of his parents’ telephone numbers, but he shook his head and skittered further away, looking back over his shoulder. I asked him in English where he lived. Finally, he turned and jogged over to the soccer field. A few other children were chasing after a ball. For a moment, I assumed he was going to join them, but he continued on past the field, around the corner, and out of sight. Bewildered, I returned to my family.

#

“Yes. Yes. I know him. He’s a bad guy. I see him every day. He lives twenty dollars up the road. No good. No. No.” Dad pulled away from Mom as he ranted. The color had drained from his face. Mom glared at me.

“We should get out of here,” I said.

“I don’t wanna go,” Chloe protested. “I wanna pway!”

Dad stood still, staring across the playground. Pointing at no one in particular, he said, “He’s a bad guy.”

“No, Hon. No one here is a bad guy. They’re just people playing with their kids.”

“No. No,” he shook his head. “That guy… bad.”

“Okay. C’mon Chloe, get in the stroller, sweetheart.”

“No, I don’t wanna go!” She squirmed in my arms.

“Ok Dad, we’re gonna leave. The exit is over there.” I pointed. We were catty-corner from the exit and would have to cross the entire playground to get out.

“No, no. Not going over—no. He’s a bad guy. I know him. He hurt—”

“I think it’s because I said to call the cops,” Mom said.

I shook my head. “Chloe, please get in the stroller. Mom, can you help her? Dad,” I struggled to lower my voice as I pointed to the exit, ”That’s the only way out. We’re all just gonna walk—”

“No. He said he was gonna… no. We—this way.” He pointed towards the fence, which towered above our heads.

“Dad, we can’t get through that fence. We have to go around to the exit.”

“No. I come here every day. I live here. That guy, he—gonna—bad stuff…”

“No one here wants to hurt you. You’re with me and Mom and Chloe. You’re very safe. No one is going to bother us.”

“No. Not going—not going that way. This way.”

“Honey, look. Look. It’s a fence. We can’t walk through there. We have to go around. Look. We. Have. To. Go. Around.”

“C’mon Dad, I’m right here with you. Mom’s right here with you. No one is going to hurt you. It’s just a few feet across the playground and then we’ll head right home.”

Mom held his arm. I pushed Chloe’s stroller beside them. He took small, halting steps.

“They’re bad. Bad. He’s a bad guy.”

“Stop it. Just stop,” Mom said. “They’re just other people. I’m right here. It’s okay.”

We cleared the playground. Dad continued his invective as he trudged along the sidewalk. I slowed down and allowed Mom and Dad to get ahead. Their voices faded into the ambient noise.

“Why we have to weave da pwaygwound?” Chloe asked.

“Papa’s not feeling good.”

“Why?”

“I think he’s just tired.”

#

“They’re gonna break in!”

“No one’s going to break in, Dad.”

“Yes. Yes. They come every night. I live here. They come every night and they bang on the door.”

“Hon, this is Jason’s home, not ours. Jason’s. Your son’s. You do not live here.”

“Yes. Yes. This is—they come every—they bang…”

“No, Dad. Mom’s right. This is my place and—”

“I said no!”

Dad paced the living room, muttering to himself.

“Hon, why don’t you come sit down and—”

Dad jerked his arm free. “No!”

“Come here Chloe. Let’s go into your room.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just go play in your room.”

I picked her up and closed the door behind me. Inside, I turned on her white noise machine that we used to help her sleep and grabbed the first toy I saw that made noise, which happened to be a talking pink teapot. Dad had picked it out for her about two years ago, when he still had some of his old self left.

“Let’s have a tea party,” I said, sitting down on the floor next to her.

The teapot whistled. “Time to have a spot of tea. Won’t you come and play with me?”

“I don’t wanna pway tea party.”

Shouts seeped in from the other room. I raised my voice.

“Okay, what do you want to play?”

“What’s Papa doing?”

“Papa’s not feeling well. Hey, do you want to do a puzzle?”

“No.”

She wandered over to the door and reached for the knob. The door slammed open and hit her, knocking her down. Dad poked his head into the door.

“Dad, get out! Mom, get him out! Are you okay, Chloe?” I picked her up and she sobbed into my chest.

“You can’t just slam the door open. You hurt her,” Mom said as she pulled Dad back into the hallway.

“She’s fine, she’s fine,” I said as she continued to wail.

I sat down on the floor with her in my lap. She was startled but appeared uninjured. I held her tight and told her it was going to be okay. When her tears had subsided I set her down on her bed and whispered, “I’ll be right back, sweetie, I just need to talk to Gramma.”

I closed the door behind me. Dad stood in front of the full length mirror, ranting under his breath and gesticulating to his reflection.

I looked at Mom and threw my palms up in inquiry.

“He does that sometimes. Just talks to himself in the mirror. I think it calms him down.”

“He can’t do this in front of Chloe. He cannot be here like this. You guys need to leave.”

“Ok,” she said, blinking back tears, voice shaking, and then, “Hon, did you hear Jason? It’s time for us to go.”

“No. No. This is my—no. I live—no.”

“I need to check on her,” I said, and closed Chloe’s door behind me.

“You alright?”

Chloe clutched onto her favorite stuffed animal, a giant black and white puppy dog. She didn’t respond. I sat down next to her.

“Hey sweetie, it’s gonna be okay. Papa’s not feeling well. He and Gramma are gonna leave soon.”

She remained silent.

“Do you want to play? Read a book?”

“Book. I want miwky.”

I told her I would be right back and left the room.

“Stop it. Stop it. You cannot behave like this here. You are scaring Chloe. Go. Over. To. The door. And put. Your. Shoes. On.”

“No—I’m not—no. They’re—break in…”

I poured milk into a sippy cup.

“No one is trying to break in. Go put your shoes on.”

“Mom. Why don’t you go read Chloe a book.” I handed the sippy cup to her. “Dad, c’mere,” I affected the calmest tone of voice I could muster and sat down at the dining table. “It’s okay. C’mere. Let’s talk.”

He glared at me for several moments. I thought he might yell again, but then he came and sat down across from me.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re gonna— they try— break in— night— bad people. Bad. Yes.”

“No Dad. No one’s trying to break in. No one tries to break into your house and no one is breaking in here.”

His face reddened. “Yes. Yes. Banging on the door… bad people.”

I held my hand in my face and decided to try another tack. “Okay. Even if there are bad people who want to break in, you are safe. You’re here with me, your son, who loves you; Mom, your wife, who loves you; Chloe, your granddaughter, who loves you. No one else is here. You are safe.” I repeated variations of this refrain. After a few minutes I saw the knots in his face uncoil.

“You’re safe here. We all love you. You’re safe.”

“Yes. Yes. I know. Yes.”

Mom emerged from Chloe’s room carrying the sippy cup. “She fell asleep drinking the milk,” she said in a whisper.

I repeated what I’d been saying to Dad, and she sat down next to him and joined in, rubbing his back, her voice hushed and warm. Eventually, Dad stood up, wandered over to the mirror, and resumed his conversation with his reflection. This time it seemed to be a more civil discussion.

Mom shook her head. “It seems to calm him down.”

#

Grace and Brian — Jess’s parents — arrived shortly after Mom and Dad left. Grace asked how my parents were doing and I told her they were fine, thanks for asking.

Jess came home and we ordered Ethiopian takeout. Brian flipped the TV on to a basketball game. At a commercial break, he shifted his attention from the television to me and said he was worried about income inequality and in his estimation we needed a good conservative Democrat in the Oval Office to fix it. I didn’t respond. Everything seemed far away and I felt foolish for trying to grasp onto any of it. I considered my plate of Doro Wat for several moments before lifting a piece to my mouth. The spices should have bit into my tongue, but it was like trying to taste through a sock.

About an hour later, my phone vibrated with a text from Mom. It read, “Just got home. Thanks for everything today. Dad is much calmer now. He said he had a good day and he’s already asking when we can come back and visit you guys again. Love you!”

I responded with a heart emoji and put my phone back in my pocket. I guess this is what constitutes a good day these days.

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