Free St. Patrick's Bed (Ashland, 3) by Terence M. Green

down time, let us move backward.
    They had traveled here with me, through Ohio, to Dayton. In my 1960 Chev.
     
    Dayton. Main Street.
    There it was again. Everywhere.
    It seemed as good a bet as any. I turned off.
    Left: downtown. Over the river. Stop at the traffic lights at Monument Avenue.
    Interstate Mortgage Company, Fifth Third Bank, National City Bank. I was in a financial district.
    The Dayton Convention Center at Fifth and Main.
    I pulled over in front of Otis Elevator to orient myself.
    I turned back, went east along Fifth.
    There it was: the red, white, and blue striped logo of the Greyhound Bus Station, from my dream.
    At St. Clair—another name from Toronto, from the past—I pulled into an Arby's parking lot, stayed in the car, pulled out my map of Dayton, saw where I was. Looking up through the windshield: Hauer Music Company. To the left, a building with the windows broken, slated for demolition. Slated into memory only. Like the Hacienda Hotel in Las Vegas.
    I reached into my shirt pocket, took out the address and phone number. I looked at it.
     
    Arby's didn't appeal. Not enough hunger yet. Where I wanted to go was south through the city. Southeast, actually. A suburb called Kettering.
    Past Miami Valley Hospital on Main, the road changed. Suddenly, for the first time in what seemed to be hundreds of miles, I saw hills, trees, and the landscape became small-town pretty. Oakwood: a bandstand—a gazebo—in a park at Shantz. The road wound upward. Somewhere Main had become Far Hills.
    Arrow Wine and Spirits. Lincoln Park Medical Center.
    Kettering City Schools Board of Education building.
    I was close.
    At Stroop Road, I pulled into the Town and Country Shopping Center. I was finally hungry. For lunch, I treated myself to New Orleans-style crabcakes and seafood chowder at the Peasant Stock Restaurant.
     
     
    III
     
    East along Stroop to Woodman, north to Dorothy Lane, then east again to Galewood. At the Midas Muffler on Dorothy, near the tail end of Woodlane Plaza, I pulled in, took the slip of paper from my pocket, read it: Bobby Swiss, 2926 Galewood Street , and the phone number.  
    It was 2 p.m.
    Midas advertised Lube & Oil, Brakes, Pipes, Mufflers, Shocks & Struts. Nobody came out, nobody bothered me.  
    I drove across Dorothy Lane, up Galewood.
     
    The address was a small, white, wooden bungalow on my right, with a door in the center. It probably had two bedrooms. I continued driving, mesmerized, till Ghent Avenue, turned left, another left at Acosta, then back along Galewood for another look. I did it again. And once more.  
         I was here, at last.
     
    A working-class neighborhood. Blue-collar. Neat, clean. Real estate had a name for homes like these: starter home, empty-nester.
    It was the middle of the afternoon. I parked down the block, pulled on my ivy cap and sunglasses, got out, wandered up the street. Opposite the house was a park set up for kids, backing onto a complex that included a Montessori School, Baptist Center, Ballet School.
    I found a bench in the park, behind a swing set and sandbox, sat down, stretched my arms along its back, pulled the cap down low over my eyes, let the sun beat down.
    I sat there for an hour, staring at the house, then I left.
     
    On 675 North, I drove until the usual signs appeared, near Fairborn: Holiday Inn, Fairfield Inn, Homewood Suites, Hampton Inn. Bob Evans, McDonald's, Arby's, Wendy's.
    I ate dinner at Chi-Chi's. I had the chimichangas and a beer. It had been good in Bowling Green, it was still good here.
    The Hampton Inn that I checked into was on Presidential Avenue, off John Glenn Parkway, right opposite Wright State University. Standing in my room, looking out the window, I pictured Adam going there, carrying his books across the broad campus, living in Dayton, with his father.
     
     

 
    TEN
     
     
    I
     
    I dreamed that night of my father flying in on a plane to meet me. At the airport, I told him that I didn't like looking after