after Mickey died, Dad stopped going altogether.
Most days Dad makes it clear that sharing a house doesnât mean we have to share a conversation. So last year when he invited me out for a pizza and we found ourselves at the comic store, it was kind of a big deal. That night, Monica was working, there was no game on, and Dad wanted company. Sure, he spent most of the evening draining a pitcher of beer, ranting about how the Pats werenât gonna be able to take it all the way to the Super Bowl, and checking out the boobs on our waitress, but it was progress. He didnât ask me a single question about myself, but I was glad to be there with him. Heâs pretty much all Iâve got.
On the way home, we passed Metropolis Comics. They were getting ready to close, and Victor, the old guy who owns the place, waved at me as we walked by.
âWho the hell is that?â my dad asked with a belch.
I waved back. âThatâs Victor.â
My dad leaned in to me and grabbed the inside of my arm near the elbow, steadying himself. âHe a friend of yours?â
âKinda.â
He snickered and added, âAinât he a little old for you, Hank? Whatâs a guy his age interested in some young kid for?â
âDad, he owns the comic book store. I come here a lot. He knows me.â Probably better than you do , Iâd thought.
Dad stopped in his tracks and eyed the neon sign as if he was noticing the store for the first time. âMetropolis Comics, eh? I used to like comics when I was a kid. Whoâs your favorite?â
I tried to play it cool. âThatâs a tough call. So many great ones, but Iâm going to have to go with the Silver Surfer.â
He raised his eyebrows. âYeah? That the guy on a skateboard?â
âSurfboard, actually. Thatâs why they call him the Silver Surfer.â Dad had shared so little of himself with me, and now that we were finally speaking the same language, I didnât want to mess it up. âWho was your favorite?â I asked him.
âJeez, it was so long ago. I was about your age, maybe younger.â Dad shook his head.
I tried to imagine my dad as a teenager. I saw a photo once a long time ago. He actually looked a lot like I do now. Itâs as if his life was divided into before and after Mom and Mickey died. Everything that came before was put in a box and closed up tight like the door to Mickeyâs room. Itâs different for me. I like to think about my mom and brother, to imagine the things theyâd say or do if they were still here. It comforts me in a way I canât fully explain. But for Dad, I guess the memories are too painful to revisit.
âI used to love the classics. You know: Hulk, Wolverine, Iron Man, Spider-Man.â
âSo youâre a Marvel guy then?â Who knew?
âAbsolutely. Superman and Batman were all right, but DC lost me with Aquaman. I always thought, how can you take someone seriously who rides a sea horse?â
We shared a laugh, and I felt excited, hopeful. Neither of us was yelling. We were having fun. I wondered what heâd think about Freeze Frame . Iâd never shown it to him, but for the first time, I thought that maybe I could. Iâd always been too worried heâd discount it the way he had the drawings Iâd made as a kid.
âYou like Captain America? That guy was wicked cool.â
âI do. Heâs one of my favorites.â He grinned and slapped me on the back, saying, âLet me buy you a Captain America comic.â
âThat would be awesome!â It was big. I remember thinking that maybe, maybe heâd forgiven me a little bit. I wasnât even nervous that heâd upset a display or talk too loudly.
We spent about a half hour there, sifting through comics together and talking. Ultimately, the one he bought me set him back about fourteen bucks. I wondered if heâd even remember it in the morning. More likely,