Although only an hour or so to go, the drive home to Columbus, Ohio from my speaking engagement in Springfield already seemed too long.
I made every attempt to make this drive like countless others, as interesting as possible by taking notice and enjoying the smallest things … birds, deer peering from the woods and the scent of flowers and grass in the air (laced of course with the occasional road kill). Being off the beaten path, alone with your thoughts seemed to increase the odds of having those experiences. And indeed, what's not to like about less traffic, a slower pace and a sightseeing tour of the road-less-traveled.
I hoped to eventually catch up to the black cloud of birds in the distance. Their shape shifted and jerked to the right and the left and up and down with no particular semblance of pattern or rehearsal. The warmth of the mid-afternoon sun was just right to drive with the windows down and the radio off with no distractions, save for a cool breeze on a warmer than usual October day.
There is always something to see if you pay attention. As a boy, my dad taught me that looking is not the same as seeing. Small and seemingly unimportant little discernments make time spent alone on road trips more gratifying. The exercise of seeing, observing all things was a learned practice that I was good at and enjoyed. As I will soon learn however, putting the past well behind us is a task I have yet to conquer.
My trip home was soon coming to an end and aside from a few smile-provoking little joys along the way there was no satisfying justification to have added the extra thirty minutes to the trip. I tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm of the white center lines as they passed in a blur, when without the least bit of warning the sky directly in front of me was nearly obscured by a remarkable number of butterflies descending from above the car. There were so many! Never have I been treated to such a surprising and delightful sight and I certainly will have a story to tell when I arrive home.
I hadn't seen birds in the distance at all – I said "thank you" aloud to the heavens as I often do for creating and sharing such a thing.
It was a great day for them to fly and for me to cross their path. They covered the landscape bouncing gently up and down on fields of dandelions and daisies getting nourishment for their long journey to Mexico or wherever it is they go.
They paid little attention to me and was indifferent to a ton and a half of steel and glass traveling at 50 miles per hour. Their flight was so close I feared for them. No matter how labored and ungraceful their flight appeared to me I knew that most of them would indeed make the very long trek for reasons only God was aware of.
To my disappointment, as suddenly as they arrived, they dispersed out of sight above the moving car. I took every effort searching the sky through the windshield to see just one more glimpse to no avail.
The noise of gravel hitting the underside of the car made me realize I had driven off the road on to the narrow shoulder. A shot of adrenaline brought my reflexes to action as the wheel of the car was jerked sharply to realign with the white line on the edge of the pavement. It was then just behind me in the rearview mirror did I notice a man hitchhiking. How did I not run him over?
"Jesus!" I said, not so much because he could have been bowled over like picking up a spare in a game of bowling, but because to my surprise he looked much like my father. So much so, I did a double take to get a really good look. The irony is my father was hit by a car while crossing the street and died as a result. More than seven years had been lived since his passing – I was now married and had two young boys he had never met.
I waved the traveler to the car, hurriedly adjusted the rearview mirror and watched him through intentionally narrowed slits of my eyelids to focus on his approach through the faint dust of gravel as it settled.
The sound of crunching rocks could be heard as his steps drew nearer. The resemblance was uncanny and a bit frightening. Not wanting to rely on the mirror's reverse image, I turned around in the seat to see him first hand.
"Dad?" It was understandable that I said that out loud. Thankfully it was before he was within earshot. In an immeasurable amount of a fraction of a second, I was aware he was an absolute double of my father.
To the item, the man (dare it be suggested he was anything but – a man) dressed in the same clothes I was accustomed to seeing my father wear all too often – khaki pants that were in need of being pressed and white crew socks that had lost all but a part of their elasticity. His white T-shirt was tucked into pants drawn snug by a thin brown leather belt. Had anyone known the route I chose for my trip home I would have thought this was in some form or fashion, a sick joke.
He was lean, tanned and rugged and his face was nonetheless aged by years of alcohol consumption as was my father's. But no mistake about it, this pensive face was my father's face. A small wisp of wavy chestnut hair hung on his forehead like Superman. I was mesmerized and smiled nonetheless offering my gratitude to the forces of good with a sideways smirk for this vision.
The man walked toward the car in long purposeful strides, opened the door and smoothly slid onto the seat. I didn't pick up hitch hikers often enough to know what the proper protocol was when you're sharing a ride with a spirit or when one loses his mind such as I had. There was a dream-like, slow motion quality to time.
He sat erect and stared ahead, his hands relaxed in his lap. I stared at him momentarily and I'm sure my mouth was open indicating the state of bewilderment I was in. Imagine seeing your dead father getting into the car with you.
Was he a ghost? An angel? For certain it was not my imagination, nor hallucinations brought on by an empty stomach.
For certain, there was a man in my car, and even more he was a double of Bill Smith. The only thing missing to this scene was the Twilight Zone theme song. For the record, I have never, ever longed to see my father to settle old disputes or grievances of any kind, real or imagined. He was dead and that was that. In addition, I have never seen a ghost, been abducted by aliens or attempted to put a spell on anyone.
This was not imagination. For the last time, I assured myself, he was dead, and dead is dead. But I began to doubt that assertion.
I put the car in drive and slowly gained speed. It seemed the thing to do. Next, a hand shake was in order so I extended my hand and introduced myself. My name apparently meant nothing to him, or I just met a man I don't ever want to play poker with.
He returned the gesture in extending his hand. I knew it! My eyes were drawn down to see his fingers, those long fingers and calloused palms from years of laboring at one physical job after another. The hand was also quite noticeably warm. His left-hand ring finger showed a tan line where a wedding ring had been. I finally let go realizing he was not to say his name.
"How far are you going?"
"Not far," he calmly said. "I may be closer than I thought."
As best my memory would allow his was my father's voice. Nat King Cole said thirty-five years of smoking will distinguish a voice – I can now confirm it.
My throat swallowed hard, and silently God was petitioned for an answer to a simple question ... Who is this?
His likeness was far beyond similar. I was intrigued and felt pangs of joy to be in the presence of someone that looked so much like the man that only in the last couple of years had I discovered how much I missed.
Admittedly at the same time I felt quite stupid for stammering and acting so awkwardly because of his presence. I can't imagine what he was thinking – whatever it was would be understandable given my fascination with his dead-on (no pun intended) likeness of my dad and I'm quite sure my attempts to examine him without being noticed was indeed obvious.
This is not my father, this is not my father, was a mantra now being repeated in my head. I tried to convince myself he is just a middle-aged man hitchhiking and had the unfortunate circumstance of being picked up by me.
Gain your composure, I kept silently reciting. Breathing through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I managed to speak again in a stammering Jimmy Stewart kind of way to ask where he was going.
His answer was direct. "To visit with my son. He needs me."
"Your Son" I said in a loud and surprised almost unbelieving kind of way. "Well, where is he?"
"Not far, he'll come along." The man turned his head and our eyes met and he offered a half smile almost apologetically for not having more information to provide. The hair stood up on my neck and I nearly cried. His expression was kind, loving and calming. It was a smile I longed for as a child to be directed at me, just once.
"How far are you going, where do you need to be let off?"
"This will be fine."
"There is nothing here. Is he coming to pick you up … we passed a road a little ways back."
"He's somewhere – he'll be along, I'll find him or he'll find me."
I couldn't make out if he was patronizing me or if he was keeping a secret. Although he was quite sure of himself in knowing what his mission was, he certainly seemed lost though and as nearly confused as me. He looked around and about, from side to side as though in addition to finding his son he was also trying to recognize landmarks and fix his location.
So, I pulled over to the shoulder and rolled to a stop. It was not in me to tell him what fantastic thing I thought was occurring and wanted to plead with him not to go. But of course, I didn't, knowing nothing could be said that sounded the least bit sane.
I still could not discern if what or whom for that matter I was looking at was my father or just a stranger on a two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere – and why is it we have been the only ones on the road, not a single car passed in either direction? What happened to the breeze, the butterflies?
As he got out, I asked for his son's name. He didn't look at me. The man stepped out and stood next to the door with his body facing and touching the car. All I could see through the open window was his waist.
He did not reply to my question and stayed in that position for a second or two. He took a deep breath and exhaled (isn't it odd to notice that – at least I know he breathes). He lowered his head in order to be seen through the window, revealing again a little smile with those imperfect nicotine-stained teeth.
"Thank you." That's all he said. He tapped the door a couple of times, turned and walked away into and then across a field of green and leafy late harvest soy beans.
I sat in my car for the longest time trying my best to understand where he was going. I hoped he would look back just once. He didn't.
Where was he going? A huge barn and a few out buildings were just a short distance away across the field but were not in the direction he was walking. I had an insatiable desire to turn around and find him, to follow him and wanted desperately to see what his son looked like.
Diverting my attention to finally pulling the lever to drive away and made one last glance through the window to see him, but the man was gone.
A light gust of wind blew through the car. The butterflies reappeared in the near distance as though they had never left me and time seemed to tick at a normal pace.
I pulled over to the side of the road once more, parked, stared ahead for a moment through a dirty bug splashed windshield and adjusted the rear-view mirror to study my face.
"You want to see his son?"
I didn't know where he was going, nor did I know his name. Or, perhaps I knew all of these things.
**Story notes: William "Bill" Smith, was hit by a car a few days before Christmas in 1971. I was twenty-one years old. The events in the story take place in 1978 and the original story was written in 1991.
Published previously in Angel Letters, by Sophie Burnham in 1991 (Random House Publishing).
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