Saturday's Storyteller: "Dad never wore a tie on a Sunday. Until one day, he did."

by Belinda Roddie

Dad never wore a tie on a Sunday. Until one day, he did. He came down the stairs with a frayed strip of tie dye zipping down his sternum, somehow working brilliantly with his stark white dress shirt, nearly catching the light of the ceiling lamp as he sat down for his weekend oatmeal.

"Um, honey..." Mom had stopped stirring her coffee. She stared silently at my father, who said nothing at first, until he noticed how rigid his wife's fingers were against the sterling silver spoon.

"If you don't stir your sugar enough, it'll settle on the bottom and make your coffee grainy," he commented, before picking up the Datebook section of the Chronicle.

I had just settled into my corner chair at the table, tearing the shell bit by bit off my hardboiled egg, and knew exactly what my father was up to. For the first time in three years, he was going to church. His older brother was in town after quite the hiatus, and the only way to trick Uncle Robert into eleven o'clock mimosas at the local diner was by sharing the presence of God in the tiny, near-dilapidated Methodist chapel on the corner of Nineteenth and Maple. While Uncle Robert was not a God-fearing, crucifix-tattooed, psalm-belching man, he did appreciate the idiosyncrasy of Sunday sermons. And he always reminded me of how disappointed he was that I didn't go to church with him and Dad.

"It's just that they don't have doughnuts after the service anymore," I pointed out to him. "The maple bars were the best part."

"A maple bar is temporary, Ames," my Uncle Robert had replied, using my awkward boyish nickname because he didn't like names that ended in the "ee" sound. "But God is forever."

"Yeah, and I bet God appreciates maple bars, too."

Dad didn't usually wear a necktie even during the rare times he went to church with Uncle Robert. In fact, the last time I remembered my uncle visiting, I was twenty pounds heavier and still in college, and my father didn't own a single tie. Instead, he wore a shirt as blue as the detergent that Mom used on the dishes and hoped that his accessory-deprived throat wouldn't be much of a bother. As it was, however, he had inherited some awkward clumps of clothing from his own father after his passing a year prior, and lo and behold, in the boxes upon boxes of flannel jackets and corduroy slacks, he found the tie dye necktie with loose threads dangling from its fraying tip. So I guess he figured it was appropriate.

"What do you say you go to church with me and Uncle Robert again, eh?" Dad asked me after I had finished dipping crumbly yolk into sea salt and polished off my paltry breakfast. "I'll grab you a maple old-fashioned once it's done."

"I like the maple bars, Dad," I told him. "And no, thanks. I'm not interested."

"Then swing by Lucky Lancaster's and have a mimosa with us. You're old enough to drink, right?"

"They go heavy on the Prosecco there, honey," Mom called out from the living room, where she had escaped with her most likely now cold coffee.

"That's even better," Dad chuckled. He turned his attention back to me. "Robert will love seeing you. You look a lot different since the last time he swung by. He'll like that you're working now, too."

I wrinkled my nose. "I'll think about it, Dad."

"That's the spirit," said Dad, "no religious pun intended. Maybe I'll see you."

With those hopeful parting words, he rose from his chair, pushed his gruel-stained bowl away without taking it to the dishwasher, and sauntered out of the room, the splashes of pink and purple and yellow noticeably glaring from his chest. I didn't mind the tie dye necktie on him at all. I more minded the the cheap attempt to get me to pray to a deity that I didn't believe in, and of course, the pandering to my uncle. It was obvious that I did not like Uncle Robert. I found him selfish, over-the-top, hypocritical, cantankerous, and utterly full of himself. I would have much rather taken an entire bottle of frozen champagne to the face than sip it lukewarm in orange juice at Lucky Lancaster's.

So, no. I didn't go to the diner to spend time with my uncle and father. Instead, I went to Quincy's apartment, which was a significant fifteen blocks away from the Methodist chapel, and as far away from the Lord's grace as humanly possible. But I knew why my father wanted me to sit with them in Lucky Lancaster's, ignoring the smell of overcooked roast beef while focusing on the bubbles rising in a citrus-y drink.

Dad didn't want to deal with Uncle Robert alone.

***

"So how long's your uncle sticking around this time?" my coworker asked, as I settled against the wall of his cubicle, cup of cooler water in hand. "Two weeks? A month?"

"Just a couple of days."

"That's a relief." My coworker laughed. "You know how much I had to deal with him when we used to live in the same town. Dumb fucker was the pickiest customer you could ever get at a sandwich shop. Glad he doesn't deal with our insurance."

I was inclined to agree. Then again, this soulless job wasn't exactly a blessing. It didn't matter, though; I had given my two weeks' notice five hours prior, and I had a game plan raging in my head.

"Dad put on a necktie for their church and mimosa outing this time around," I informed my other coworker, who had returned from a lunch break and still had mustard on the corner of his mouth.

"No shit. Really?"

"Yeah, and I'm surprised you care that much."

"Dude." My other coworker laughed. "I remember the last time I saw your dad and uncle at church three years ago, Amy. Your uncle left quite the impression."

"Did he, now."

"Yeah. When it got to the hymn, he sang about three steps out of key. Imagine that. Three. Steps."

I was tone-deaf. I didn't care.

"Hopefully, Quincy and I will be out of this town by the tenth," I informed my other other coworker. She was hovering against the sink in the break room, slapping hand sanitizer on her fingers because she was worried she would catch strep throat from our supervisor.

"That's good news," she remarked. "Good luck."

She left it at that. My other other coworker had never been that verbose.

I left work that day and walked to the nearest gas station for a candy bar. It had been a mere twenty-four or so hours since my uncle had settled into his cheap motel room, and I was already putting together a strategy for packing my bags, leaving my parents' house once and for all, and traveling. Quincy had suggested a cross-country trip in an RV. I had instead looked into some promising travelling gigs with an art exhibit. I didn't mind indulging in a few artists' alleged "postmodern abilities."

I grabbed a Snickers off the counter when I saw my Uncle Robert stomp in. He really did stomp because his boots left scuffs on the linoleum. He grabbed an overpriced six pack from the fridge and slammed it down in front of the cashier.

"Mimosas yesterday not enough?"

He whirled around to look at me. I smiled and waved with the hand that held the chocolate bar.

"You weren't at church with us," he commented, his voice flat and monotone. "Again."

I shrugged. "Still no boxes of Krispy Kremes waiting afterward. What's a girl to do?"

Uncle Robert didn't say anything about my work uniform, my weight loss, or my current condition as a human being. So much for Dad's encouragement. He forked twelve dollars over to the cashier and hoisted the beer cans under his arm.

"We waited at Lucky Lancaster's for you an extra half hour," he scolded. "You know what I could have done with those thirty minutes?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Spend quality time with either your brother or your right hand in your motel room?"

He shook my smile off like he was warding the sun out of his eyes and sulked away, booze in tow. I kept grinning lopsidedly until my cheeks started to hurt. Then I turned to the cashier and sifted through my pockets for the dollar nineteen I needed to sate my need for sweet-toothed calories.

"You're related to him," the cashier told me in a faint Irish brogue. "I can tell."

I arched an eyebrow. "How so?"

"You're trying in every way not to be like him."

I knew my father was the same way. It was no secret that Dad was trying desperately to find some good in Uncle Robert. He endured the random visits slithering out of the woodwork after so many lapses in years. He dealt with the backhanded comments and questions about his life choices. He wore a goddamn necktie to look presentable at a service for his older brother. I almost wondered if Uncle Robert had chastised him last time for not wearing one. Maybe after he was done mutilating the musical version of, "The Lord is my Shepherd."

It didn't matter what I thought about Uncle Robert. I enjoyed the fact that I barely saw him. And now, if all went according to Quincy's and my wishes, I'd never have to survive his visits again.

I went home that night and found my father watching television. Before I could even tell him the news of my two weeks' notice and imminent departure from his residence, I noticed something colorful spilling from the nearby wastebasket that my mother never bothered to hide under the sink. When I went to look, next to an orange peel and a sticky wad of tin foil was the tie dye necktie, the bottom quarter of it ripped clean away from the rest of its vibrant noose.

This week's prompt was provided by José García.