Mother recently told
me about a childhood friend,
A boy I’d played Caped
Crusader with
Nearly everyday after
kindergarten.
I was Robin to his
Batman.
At his house we wore
towels for capes, and
Were actually
permitted to jump from
Sofa to coffee table
to chair in pursuit of
The Joker or, my
favorite, the Penguin.
At mine, our capes
were mimed as a
Backyard plum tree
provided the obstacle
To climb, dodge, and
drop from as we narrowly
Escaped injury in time
for PB&Js dunked in milk.
Our mothers kept in
touch through the years
As we moved about the
country,
She and her husband
still in that cozy northern
Ohio home a block or
two from our first house.
“Apparently he works
for the CIA now,” Mother said.
Since learning this
news, I’ve envied him. At first for
Becoming what I’d only
ever dreamed of. But as I grow older,
I am jealous he
can return home to a place he knows well.
My family continued to move, finally depositing me
In a New England college town like sediment left
Behind by an iceberg on its travels; the rest
Eventually migrated
to Southern California.
In the year before he
grew ill, Dad was accompanied
Everywhere he went by
a new security guard. Mother
Would complain that
the guard was eating with them
Again and
sleeping in their guest room again.
The guard even
traveled with Dad to his new
Destination of China
and places around the region.
We wondered why Mother
was no longer invited
To journey with him as
she had so many times while
He visited the English
plants that he managed from
This side of the pond,
the German manufacturers with
Which he often did
business, and his Italian relatives
With whom he was
pleased to finally become acquainted.
None of us knew why he
was suddenly sending us selfies
From the Great Wall and
Tiananmen Square, yet saying
Little about his new Far East
adventures other than they
Were equipment-purchasing
forays from retired mills.
In an office desk
drawer, which Mother thought
Was jammed as, upon
his death she cleaned out
His personal effects, and
which my brother
Successfully jimmied
open, was a handgun.
“He was a decent
shot,” said the guard who
Suddenly darkened the
threshold, there
To retrieve the weapon.
But we knew
Dad could not possibly
have been. After all,
We’d seen him shoot
his 22, balancing the butt of
The gun in his armpit
as he used a hand to cover
His eye and the other to
pull the trigger because
He couldn’t blink. How
could he possibly sight a pistol?
Apparently he’d been
trained to work around his
Odd handicap. He’d had
to learn for his own
Protection. Not even
an undercover CIA operative
Posing as the new head
of security could protect
My father twenty-four-seven
from the
Hit that had been placed upon his
head
By a foreign government. Perhaps all his
Training had been for naught after all.
When he suddenly fell
ill with stage-four
Cancer—dying five months later—he
often
Said cryptically that it probably wasn’t
Natural causes that got him in the end.
Dad had been spying
for Congress. Foreign steel had
Flooded the
marketplace, purchased illegally by unscrupulous
Businessmen who dared
blame their shady dealings on legal
Loopholes that allowed
them the luxury to shun domestic steel.
A contingent from a country south of north had allegedly taken a
Contract out on my
father. Either they or natural causes—
Or perhaps all those
chemicals he’d been exposed to over
The years—got him
before he could deliver his expert testimony.
He’d spent many more
than Malcolm Gladwell’s ten
Thousand hours earning
his reputation for greatness
In the wire mills of
the world, and could easily identify shifty
From legal, frugal
from dangerous, and strong from fragile.
He also knew how to
recognize working mills from
Reportedly retired
ones, which may have been the
Final nail in his
coffin—
Or cancerous tumor in
his spine.
My father had worked
undercover with the CIA
As a super-secret
agent for our government,
Giving me yet another
reason to admire him.
I wondered if he and
my kindergarten Batman
Ever worked together,
feeling a sudden pang of
Jealousy if they had.
But as time continues on,
What I most envy is
that my childhood friend is
Still able to return home and visit with his father.
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