第四章 有一种真情叫关爱（3）（2/2）
《世界上最温情的故事》作者：吴文智 2017-04-14 12:57
ver had a father. Gradually, Adolf took on a kind of fatherly importance to me. I talked about my job and college courses, which I attended at night.
Adolf warmed to the role of counselor. While discussing a disagreement I’d had with a supervisor, I told my new friend, “I think I’ve had it with him.”
“What’s the rush?” Adolf cautioned. “Let things cool down. When you get as old as I am, you find out that time takes care of a lot. If things get worse, then you can talk to him.”
There was a long silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I am talking to you just the way I’d talk to a boy of my own. I always wanted a f***ly—and children. You’re too young to know how that feels.”
No, I wasn’t. I’d always wanted a f***ly—and a father. But I didn’t say anything, afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold back the hurt I’d felt for so long.
One evening, Adolf mentioned his 89th birthday was coming up. After buying a piece of fiberboard, I designed a 2” × 5” greeting card with a cake and 89 candles on it. I asked all the cops and my Office Commissioner to sign it. I gathered nearly a hundred signatures. Adolf would get a kick out of this, I knew.
We’d been talking on the phone for four months now, and I thought this would be a good time to meet face to face. So I decided to deliver the card by hand.
I didn’t tell Adolf I was coming; I just drove to his address one morning and parked the car up the street from his apartment house. A postman was sorting mail in the hallway when I entered the building. He nodded as I checked the mailboxes for Adolf’s name. There it was. Apartment 1H, some 20 feet from where I stood.
My heart pounded with excitement. Would we have the same chemistry in person that we had on the phone? I felt the first stab of doubt. Maybe he would reject me the way my father rejected me when he went out of my life. I tapped on Adolf’s door. When there was no answer, I knocked harder.
The postman looked up from his sorting. “No one’s there,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little foolish. “If he answered his door the way he answers his phone, this may take all day.”
“Are you a relative or something?”
“No, just a friend.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said quietly, “but Mr. Meth died the day before yesterday.”
Adolf warmed to the role of counselor. While discussing a disagreement I’d had with a supervisor, I told my new friend, “I think I’ve had it with him.”
“What’s the rush?” Adolf cautioned. “Let things cool down. When you get as old as I am, you find out that time takes care of a lot. If things get worse, then you can talk to him.”
There was a long silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I am talking to you just the way I’d talk to a boy of my own. I always wanted a f***ly—and children. You’re too young to know how that feels.”
No, I wasn’t. I’d always wanted a f***ly—and a father. But I didn’t say anything, afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold back the hurt I’d felt for so long.
One evening, Adolf mentioned his 89th birthday was coming up. After buying a piece of fiberboard, I designed a 2” × 5” greeting card with a cake and 89 candles on it. I asked all the cops and my Office Commissioner to sign it. I gathered nearly a hundred signatures. Adolf would get a kick out of this, I knew.
We’d been talking on the phone for four months now, and I thought this would be a good time to meet face to face. So I decided to deliver the card by hand.
I didn’t tell Adolf I was coming; I just drove to his address one morning and parked the car up the street from his apartment house. A postman was sorting mail in the hallway when I entered the building. He nodded as I checked the mailboxes for Adolf’s name. There it was. Apartment 1H, some 20 feet from where I stood.
My heart pounded with excitement. Would we have the same chemistry in person that we had on the phone? I felt the first stab of doubt. Maybe he would reject me the way my father rejected me when he went out of my life. I tapped on Adolf’s door. When there was no answer, I knocked harder.
The postman looked up from his sorting. “No one’s there,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little foolish. “If he answered his door the way he answers his phone, this may take all day.”
“Are you a relative or something?”
“No, just a friend.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said quietly, “but Mr. Meth died the day before yesterday.”