The Mexico of My Father’s Body

At times, I awaken to find myself eleven years old once more.

When I was a child, my father was convinced my mother doubted his name was Stewart. He became fixated on the idea that she had imagined an alternative life for him, one that he supposedly concealed.

To dispel her doubts, he developed a routine that he believed would affirm his identity — a life she could trust as unequivocally HIS.

Every morning at five-forty-five, he would lay beside her in bed, his face nestled close to her ear, whispering softly that he was sorry but needed to rise and prepare for work. It mattered little to him whether she was awake; this ritual was constant.

After ensuring his slippers were perfectly positioned the night before, he would swing his legs out of bed and slip them on.

As his son, I didn't share his reverence for how he managed his relationship with my mother, which may explain the tension that existed between us and the way he viewed me both as his child and as an individual.

Seeing your face this morning made me consider how I might have looked had I encountered my father's unshaven visage, blushing and trying not to wake my mother. There was no joy, no humor, nor any warmth in your gaze as I faced my own chaotic thoughts. I reached for the milk in the fridge, intending to drink it, but instead pressed the carton against my forehead, ignoring your presence.

You expressed that you no longer believed in my identity. In response, I mentally retreated to a solitary space, illuminated only by the refrigerator light, where you departed, leaving me in silence.

It was daylight when I next envisioned myself as my father, with no smile present, no time for one, as words, feelings, and actions that could connect me to those I cared for seemed absent.

During a late-night walk, I noticed two boys sharing a bicycle — one pedaling while the other sat behind, legs dangling. I pondered what their parents thought about them being out so late. They appeared no older than ten or eleven and had wild expressions. It was chilly, and they wore no coats. I thought about offering mine but hesitated, knowing I only had one, and how could I stop them to retrieve it?

Once, unbeknownst to my father, I witnessed him confronting a boy reminiscent of those late-night wanderers, taking his name and phone number. He raised his voice, and I could hear him from my hiding spot. He warned the boy about the consequences of being out at that hour. It instilled such fear in me that I ran home, missing the thrill of seeing Jane Diviss emerge from the bath, wrapped in a soft pink towel, revealing just enough to spark my youthful imagination.

How could I ever evade my father's questioning if he discovered my late-night escapades?

I envisioned myself caught in shrubs, knees dirty from crawling through flower beds, with my father standing outside, calmly asking, “Theodore, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” A swift swat to the back of my head would send me home.

I often wonder if he ever glanced at Jane’s window, wishing for something beyond my mother, perhaps yearning for more than the small paperbacks tucked away in his drawer.

How could I justify intervening with those boys?

How could I defend my inaction? I felt like mere lard in the fridge, while those boys were on a mission. They had purpose, while I found myself in stasis — not moving, not deciding. Were they as discontent with their journey as I was?

If I cannot find satisfaction in my path, perhaps my past experiences could at least quell my sense of aimlessness.

Numbers provide a sense of certainty. The number twelve-oh-two has accompanied me throughout my life. I refer to it as 1202, though it represents something else entirely. Because of my attachment to it, I’ve utilized it for bank PINs, computer passwords, and even insisted on safe deposit boxes and phone numbers featuring this combination.

The origin of this recurring number is linked to the house at 1202 North Thirteenth, just off Vine Street in Kansas City, Missouri — a location often confused with Kansas City, Kansas.

1202 was a two-story condemned house adjacent to where I would establish my business and home in 1985. Nothing about that house felt like home, yet many memories lingered.

I recall the junkies who had occupied the space, their presence now vanished, save for a chicken that resided in the bathtub, a beautiful creature against the grimy backdrop.

Since then, 1202 has appeared on various items — pencils, ticket stubs, and even serial numbers on expensive camera gear. I discovered my memory boxes in the garage, which also bore the number 1202.

My father’s garage in Delafield lacked a street address but functioned as its own kingdom, governed by his rules.

After rain, the earthy scent reminiscent of the nightcrawlers my brother Randy and I would gather in the garden filled the air, our hands reeking of them as we picked them up.

I never acclimated to the slimy, transparent coating when we collected dozens in a coffee can, with my brother daring me to plunge my hand into the wriggling mass.

In the late afternoon sun, the rays danced over our green, paint-chipped rowboat tethered to wreckage off the island. That wormy scent clung to everything — the can, the boat, and my hands, which I desperately tried not to wipe on my face.

One summer Sunday after a rain, I stood at the garage entrance, the doors wide open to welcome a breeze against the sun's relentless heat.

As my root beer Popsicle melted, I watched my father work on a project, singing Frank Sinatra songs with a deep, captivating voice that made me see him as more than just my father. I lingered in the doorway, shadowed from the sun, watching him move, his arms a flurry of activity, transforming the cluttered table into a canvas of imagination.

His arms, robust and bare, bore the marks of labor, traces of welding sparks dotting his shirts.

I envisioned him in Mexico City, toiling in a factory that manufactured radiators, living a life similar to the one he had here, complete with a large family. After work, he'd stop by a cantina, discreetly selling stolen radiators, careful to hide the money beneath his car.

My mother would always have dinner waiting when he returned, sober and content, ready to unwind with his family. I never witnessed him intoxicated; he had set a standard for himself, though I could sense the cervesa on his breath and remember his tequila-dried lips. My mother remained blissfully unaware of his side ventures, believing his paycheck was all he earned, never questioning its adequacy.

When I turned sixteen, he revealed to me three of the twenty-one hiding spots for his extra money, marking them on a map of Mexico City, a coded secret for each of his seven children.

I wished these memories were true, standing there in the summer shade, contemplating my future after finishing that root beer Popsicle.

Sometimes, I awaken, finding myself once again as an eleven-year-old, desiring to anchor my covers to the bed, feeling trapped in place. I can lie still and hear the life bustling around me.

My feather pillows cradle my cheek, and as I wiggle against the soft sheets, I am enveloped by the scents of my humanity.

I feel that if I could remain there until adulthood, I would discover the dreams I hold.

A sanctuary awaits, one that embraces me securely. Perhaps a brother would be there, showcasing how well he had fared, presenting our home movies on a Daylab screen. These films would feature me, alive and vibrant, always introducing my mother and father as exemplary citizens of Delafield.

The movies my beloved brother would share would depict me awake, alert, and engaged, always anticipating the next moment around me. But too soon, I would find myself back beneath the covers, pinned down like a wound healing beneath a tight Band-aid.