Chapter 20 - The Reality of Thomas Hale
On Monday, Daniel entered my office carrying a thin folder.
He closed the door.
I knew immediately.
“You found him.”
“I found records.”
“Is he alive?”
Daniel sat.
“Yes.”
The word landed quietly.
No thunder.
No dramatic revelation.
Just yes.
My father was alive.
I stared at the desk.
“How old?”
“Seventy-eight.”
“Where?”
“About three hours north.”
That surprised me.
“Three hours?”
“He moved back to the state twelve years ago.”
“Family?”
Daniel hesitated.
“A wife. She died six years ago.”
“Children?”
“One stepson.”
I nodded slowly.
“What does he do?”
“Retired. Worked as a machinist most of his life.”
Of course.
“Anything else?”
Daniel slid a page toward me.
“He lives in a small town called Fairmont.”
I knew it.
I had driven through it.
Maybe twenty times.
Without knowing my father was there.
“Does he know about me?”
“I didn’t contact him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I found something public.”
Daniel tapped the page.
A local newspaper article.
A community college had honored several retired tradesmen who volunteered in a technical program.
There was a photograph.
My father stood at the end of a row of men.
Older.
White-haired.
Thin.
But unmistakably him.
Even after all those years.
I recognized the eyes.
Mine.
Or rather, his.
I read the short profile beneath the photograph.
Thomas Hale, retired machinist, has volunteered with the program for nine years. Students describe him as patient, exacting, and unwilling to let anyone quit on a difficult project.
I almost laughed at that.
Then I saw a sentence near the bottom.
When asked why he volunteers, Hale said he believes young people sometimes need one dependable adult who keeps showing up.
My chest tightened.
Daniel waited.
Finally he said, “Do you want his address?”
I looked at the folder.
Then out the window.
For decades, my father had been easier to manage as an absence.
An absence never contradicted you.
Never explained itself.
Never asked anything.
A living person was different.
A living person could disappoint me again.
Or I could disappoint him.
I thought of my mother’s letter.
He needs certainty more than apologies.
She had written that about me.
Maybe it was still true.
“I need time,” I said.
Daniel nodded.
May you like
“No problem.”
“But leave the folder.”
