The Papaya Summer

The nursing home smelled of antiseptic and forgotten things. Arthur stood beside the bed where his father lay wasting away, the old man's breathing shallow and irregular. In his hand, Arthur gripped a papaya—the fruit his father had spent forty years trying to grow in their backyard, despite living in a climate that made it impossible.

"Remember the baseball games?" his father wheezed, eyes milky with cataracts but somehow fixed on Arthur's face. "Summer of 'seventy-six. You hit that ball through the Petersons' window."

Arthur remembered. He also remembered the belt his father had used on him that night, the whiskey on his breath, the way his mother had stood in the doorway saying nothing. The violence had been seasonal as the sports they played together.

"I brought you something," Arthur said, setting the papaya on the bedside table. It was slightly overripe, the skin mottled with yellow spots like old bruises.

His father's fingers trembled as they closed around the fruit. "Your mother loved these. Said they tasted like the places she'd never see."

The unfairness of it made Arthur's chest tighten. His mother had died seventeen years ago, never having traveled farther than Atlantic City. His father had spent half that money on liquor, the other half on dog tracks. The last one, a mutt named Lucky, had run away the same week Arthur left for college.

"You should have gone swimming more," his father continued, as if reading his thoughts. "In the ocean. It's peaceful underwater. Nobody can hurt you there."

Arthur had learned to swim in the community pool, while his father sat in the bleachers drinking from a flask, timing his laps. The criticism had been constant. "Your form's sloppy. You'll never be a man with that soft stroke."

"I'm going now," Arthur said, surprised by the evenness of his voice. "The nurse says you can have the papaya."

His father's grip on his wrist was surprisingly strong. "Don't be like me. That's all any father really wants."

Arthur drove to the beach, stripping down to his boxers. The ocean was cold, shocking him awake. He swam until his muscles burned, until he couldn't feel anything except the salt water stinging his eyes. When he finally dragged himself onto the sand, he lay gasping under the gray sky.

A stray dog approached, sniffing at his clothes before settling beside him. Arthur buried his face in the animal's warm fur and finally let himself cry.