Free Riding Barranca by Laura Chester

reason it all away—“This often happens to older men. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was with a more attractive person.” But of course she felt betrayed. Meanwhile, we all basically turned our heads and blocked her out, immune to her outbursts, unless we were all having dinner upstairs in the carriage house apartment and she rode by on her electric golf cart, stopping down below to announce, “We haven’t made love in twelve years! How do you like that?”
    I think that if she had been married to a more masculine, dominant man, one who didn’t encourage her dark side, she might have been a happier, more loving person. But no one was questioning our father’s behavior any more than they were trying to understand hers.
    I was the scapegoat, sacrificed on the altar of their misalliance. My presence kept her eyes off of other targets of warranted jealousy. While I knew that he loved our mother and the four of us immeasurably, what he kept locked in the closet of his brain was the most exciting thing!
    For some reason it was easy for me to forgive my father. I was more connected to him. When he was recovering from his esophageal cancer operation, Mom left for Arizona, and I was called in to look after him.
    When I arrived at Milwaukee’s Columbia Hospital, he looked amazingly good, not like death warmed over, as I had expected. His color and humor were excellent. But he was distressed by the tube that ran into his nose and down his throat. He had an IV in his arm, but this nose tube was most disturbing, especially when he tried to talk. But talk he did, for a good two hours, until I realized that I had worn him out. The next day he had a sore throat.

    Popi Rides Again
    While I was there in the hospital room, Mom called from Scottsdale. It was hard to believe that she had left two days after his cancer surgery. But now I realized that my father had probably urged her to go, knowing that it would make things easier on them both. He was happy to talk to her long distance, and I overheard him telling her that he loved her. This made me feel good, just as it had when I was a little girl and he told me that he loved me very much, but that he loved my mother most. I wished she had believed that.
    The last time Reverend Lee showed up at the hospital, Popi told him that he should just pray for him, he didn’t need to visit, but here Reverend Lee was again. I found him to be a very likable young man. He seemed particularly open and nonjudgmental.
    Popi said he believed that heaven was a spiritual longing common to all people, the idea more important than the fact. “I think heaven is probably on some cloud,” he continued, “but I’m not sure which one. I go to Church to support your mother, unless the horses need exercise. Am I damned?”
    My father claimed to be an agnostic (not atheist). “I try to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ, but I tend to believe that when a flower dies, its petals are simply blown away—that’s the end of it.”
    The next morning Popi was ready to get that damn tube out of his nose and throat. The nurse had promised him, and he was getting frantic about it. He had held on up to this point and it had tested his patience right up to the end, but now he threatened to pull it out himself if someone didn’t come immediately and do it for him. I had rarely seen him so agitated.
    I got on the phone, and a nurse rushed in. One simple yank and the deed was done. What a relief. He was so grateful. Popihad not eaten any food for a week, receiving all of his nourishment through the tube that fed into his stomach.
    When Reverend Lee arrived, I put a sign on the door—Do Not Disturb—and my father called the nurse’s station and said, “No phone calls now. I’m receiving Extreme Unction!”
    Reverend Lee read several blessings from the Book of Common Prayer. Then he took some holy oil and marked my father’s