by P J Scanland

Created on: July 28, 2009   Last Updated: July 29, 2009

Wait! I told you. Don't get out yet!

That was the last thing I heard dad say as I stepped out of the front of the aluminum boat. I turned around and watched it lift up and dump its meaty cargo then come down empty. I was frozen in place standing on the splintered boards listening to the boat clank against the heavy dock post.

Finally, dad's head bobbed up. His thinning hair crisscrossed his scalp and spilled down his forehead. His sunglasses were missing, lost no doubt in the muck on the lake bottom. His shoulders and upper back floated in the water as he did his signature combination dog paddle and breast stroke. My tears of terror turned into tears of relief then dried with new panic.

What was the punishment for nearly drowning dad? Most of our parent's rules had known consequences. For instance, lights on in the upstairs bedroom after bedtime had mom banging on the handrail with the stern words, go to sleep. Talking back when you were told to do something earned you a solo stay in your bedroom. And if you were singing at the dinner table it was stopped effectively by two words from dad - "pipe down."

Nearly drowning your father was not a predictable event and the punishment was a mystery to me. The women's prison near downtown had shoebox-shaped brick buildings crammed behind two rows of razor wire fence. I wondered which building was made for little girls like me. As the image of me in a chain gang had reached the point of pants wetting perfection, I saw dad stand up in the water with a silly grin on his face. He was still quite a distance from the beach but the water was only knee high on him. I had been so busy imagining my fate I had not noticed how shallow the lake was. But, he knew.

I walked up the creaking dock and reached dry land at about the same time he did. I faced the dripping man without eye contact. Shivering in the humid heat I braced myself for the verbal blow that was sure to come. Maybe he would even deliver a physical blow. If so, it would be the first one he ever used on me.

Heh, heh, heh." Dad laughed.

It wasn't the hearty laugh that made his eyes squint completely shut when something, often his own joke, struck him particularly funny. It was the husky-throated chortle he used when he teased us or when he reached down to pet our cat that he pretended to hate.

I lifted my face and met his eyes.

I'm alright, he said and patted my head.

The relief nearly buckled my knees. I would have cried with joy except for one thing.

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>