as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
My elderly father, who lives with my wife and I, has his own set of keys to our house, so he comes and goes on his walks as he pleases. I used to try to look out for him, but no matter what I suggested, he’d do the opposite.
"Pop," I'd tell him, "It's hot. Why don't you wait until it cools off?"
"It's not hot," my father would say on his way out. On his way back in, he'd say, "Man, was it hot. I should have waited until it cooled off."
"Pop, it’s cold."
"Pop, it's raining."
"Pop, it's getting dark."
I retired from a job I really enjoyed to become a weatherman for my father.
On this particular day, my father gets home feeling good. So good, in fact, that he decides to go on an afternoon walk. The problem is, he can't find his keys.
He walks into the kitchen and makes his way to the den, searching here and there, hither and yon, Siegfried and Roy. I’m watching him over the top of my newspaper. He's picking up pillows. He’s putting them back down. He's looking in front of things. He’s looking behind. On top of tables. And underneath.
I pick up my coffee and take a sip. Pretending not to, he spies in my direction from the corner of his eyes. I take another sip. I'm not ignoring my father. It's just better to wait him out. That way he's more open to suggestions. Not much, mind you, but a little.
I hear him mumble something about keys. Mumbling just loud enough for me to hear. He wants me to ask what he's doing. Instead, I continue reading. Finally, after ten minutes of what Mick Jagger can’t get--i.e. satisfaction--he goes back to his room. Thirty minutes after that, he walks back to the kitchen and tells me someone went into his room and took his keys.
"Someone took your keys?"
"Someone took my keys."
No one goes into his room. Not even his dog.
I don't want to ask any questions, because, to tell the truth, I just want to be left alone. Problems always come up when I'm trying to enjoy a good cup of coffee. Can't they come up after I'm done?
Again he tells me someone has been in his room.
"Who, pop?" I ask him.
"What?"
"Who went into your room?"
This stops him for a moment.
He pauses to think.
And then he thinks a little more.
After enough time goes by, I say, "Nobody goes into your room."
"But my keys are missing."
"Why do you think somebody took your keys?"
"Because I can't find them," he tells me. "I always put them in the same spot, and they're not there."
He insists someone’s been in his room.
"Nobody goes into your room."
"Somebody had to go into my room, because my keys are missing."
"Well," I say, taking a different tact, "is there anything else missing from your room?"
"I haven't looked for anything else."
"The TV is still there, isn't it?"
"Maybe," he says, carefully.
"I've been here all morning. You have, too, in fact. I haven't seen anybody go into your room but you."
"If someone wants to steal my keys, of course you’re not going to see them."
His logic would impress Mr. Spock.
"Pop, nobody's been in your room."
"Then why are my keys missing?"
Just before my brain explodes, my wife joins us. When I tell her my father's keys are missing, she asks a very obvious question. So obvious, in fact, I'm ashamed to admit I didn't think of it myself.
"Did you check the pants you wore on your walk this morning?" she says.
My father is stunned.
"Of course I checked them," he tells her, his eyes bugging out at the audacity of her question. "They're not there."
"Are you sure?"
It would seem that my wife is a very brave woman.
"Somebody took them," he says, stubbornly.
"Who do you think took your keys?"
My father's ready with an answer this time.
"The maid," he answers. "She took my keys."
My wife doesn't want to add to his confusion. My father used his keys this morning. The last time our maid was here was four days ago.
"Can I go into your room, dad, and look around?" my wife asks him.
"What for?" my father snorts, his nostrils beginning to flare.
To make a long story short, he agrees. My wife walks off with my father in the direction of his guesthouse. I'm still in the kitchen drinking my now cold cup of coffee.
No sooner do they walk out than they walk back in, my wife giving me The Look. She makes it her own by raising one eyebrow. Nice trick, if you can do it. Apparently, I’m the only one with normal eyes.
My father follows behind her laughing and shaking his head.
"Hee-hee," he admits, smacking his lips nervously. "We found them."
"Where were they?"
I was honestly curious.
"Uh, yeaaah…” he says, avoiding my wife’s eyes, “they were in the pants I wore this morning."
My wife later told me that she went straight to his pants, which were crumpled on the floor, reached into the pocket...
"I’ve already told you, they're not there."
...and pulled out his missing keys.
All's well that ends well, so I’m told.
I can always reheat my coffee in the microwave.
My wife has the Miss Marple-like satisfaction of a quick solution to the crime.
And my father has his keys.
"But I still don’t trust that maid," he jabs on his way out.
Find what you don’t even know you’re missing at JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, or @JimDuchene.
