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“Tell him it’s his son.”
The woman was silent for a moment, astonished. “Ah … excuse me?”
“I’m his son,” I repeated.
“Oh. I didn’t realize that … um. Sorry. Please hold.”
I listened to a Muzak version of “Rocky Mountain High,” and then the opening strains of “Tie A Yellow Ribbon” were cut off abruptly.
“Who the hell is this?” said a gruff, suspicious voice.
Intense emotion shivered through me at the familiar voice. “Dad. It’s me. Liam.”
Dad made an audible swallowing sound. “Liam, eh?”
“Yeah. It’s really me.”
We waited for a moment, awkward and silent. I suddenly regretted my impulse. It had been stupid to embarrass my dad after all these years. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. I was racking my brains for some slick way to get the hell off the phone and release the both of us from this agony when my father spoke again.
“It’s, ah, good to hear your voice. It’s deeper than I remember.”
I stifled a snort. “Ah, yeah. That happens.”
“I’ve thought about you a lot, these twenty-some years.”
“Twenty-five,” I corrected.
Dad harrumphed. “Oh. Twenty-five, is it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “On June twenty-third.”
“Ah.” My father cleared his throat. “Long time.”
“It is,” I agreed.
There was another agonizing pause, and Dad spoke again, haltingly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call when your mother died. Don’t know why I didn’t. I guess I thought you’d slam the phone down on me.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I said, wondering if it were true.
Frank Knightly sighed. “I guess you wouldn’t have. Well, what’s done is done.”
“That’s true.” I took a deep breath, and went for it. “Dad. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about what I said before you left.”
There was a long silence. “Don’t give it a thought, son.” My father’s voice was gentler than I had ever heard it. “God knows, I deserved every word.”
“Maybe you did, but I’m sorry anyhow.”
Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, too. About all of it. So, ah … what made you decide to call?”
A strange impulse propelled the words out of my mouth. “I’m, uh, thinking about getting married,” I heard myself say.
“Is that so.” Dad’s voice was wondering. “Hard to imagine that you’re old enough for that sort of thing.”
“I’m thirty-six,” I reminded him.
“My word,” my father said.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I just wanted to know … that is, if it works out, if I should send you an invitation.”