The shape of a man appears through the screen door outlined by fireworks. Mom jumps, grabbing the butter knife beside her plate. I reach for my army knife in my pocket.

“I smell lemons,” a man says. “You eating pie?”

He laughs. For a second, Mom’s lip twitches the way it does when she thinks something is funny. But then her eyes find me and fill with tears.

“Daniel, you can’t be here,” she says.

Daniel. Who is Daniel?

“I brought my son a present,” he says. “Can I give it to him?”

I suck in my breath and study him. I’ve never seen a picture before. I’d always imagined he’d have curls like mine. And black hair, not blonde. He’s not tough-looking. He’s not tall. He’s not holding a skateboard or a fishing pole. Or a rabbit. When I was really small, I thought he might be a magician, that maybe he’d done a magic trick and disappeared instead of walking out on Mom when she was pregnant with me. I only have one thing of his, the army knife in my pocket that I’d thought I’d have to kill him with if he tried to hurt us.

“No,” Mom says shakily. “You can’t.”

She shuts the door and returns to the table. She stabs a piece of pork with her fork and stuffs it in her mouth. She cries while she eats. Does this mean my dad lives nearby? Has she seen him in the area? I’m too nervous to ask. I don’t want to make Mom more upset. Once while she was getting a haircut, I looked inside her drawers and closets, searching for clues about my dad, but there was nothing. My mom never dated anyone else.

Grandma says Mom’s standards are too high, and that’s why she’s stayed single. Men are always opening doors for Mom or talking too long to her when they take our order at a restaurant. One Sunday, during the gratitude time at church, a man went to the microphone and thanked Jesus for blessing the congregation with a woman as lovely as my mom. We never went back.

If she had a boyfriend, she probably wouldn’t be so obsessed with me getting perfect grades or waking up at seven and making the bed and doing push-ups. We never go to the beach, even though we can smell the salt air from our backyard. Mom and I stick to routines. We only laugh when we’re watching reruns of The Office. Maybe I would have a fun life with my dad.

Last month I heard her on the phone with Eliza, her best friend. They were talking on speaker.

“You need to get laid, Maria,” Eliza said.

“I need for my boy to turn out to be a good man,” Mom said. “The opposite of the man who made him. That’s my priority. Not getting laid.”

I wanted to know why my dad was bad. When I asked Grandma, she said I should ask my mom, and when I did, Mom got mad that I’d listened in on one of her phone conversations.

“It’s a gift I’m not telling you anything about him,” she said.

But it doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like a punishment.

Fireworks go off for hours and I lie in bed. I wonder if my dad left the present for me on the porch and I wonder what it could be. A catcher’s mitt? A baseball? What do fathers give sons? Maybe my dad isn’t a bad man anymore. Maybe he’s the president of a company and he could buy me and my mom a house or a new car. Maybe he’d bring Mom pink flowers on Easter. Maybe he’d teach me how to drive. I wish Mom would give him another chance.

It’s just after midnight when I hear her bedroom door click shut.

I wait thirty minutes and then I tiptoe into the hallway. My palms are sweating. A part of me wonders if he might still be outside, that maybe catching a glimpse of me has made him desperate to finally meet me and so he decided to wait on the porch in case I come out. If he’s there, we’ll have to walk away to talk so Mom won’t know we’re together. I don’t like keeping secrets from my mom, but it’s what I’ll have to do to know my dad. I creep out the front door.

The porch is empty. The wind chime twists in the breeze, makes a soft sound. I move Mom’s potted geraniums and the umbrella stand. There’s nothing on the mat, or on the steps. My dad’s done a disappearing act again. I wipe my teary eyes. A burst of fireworks makes the porch glow pink and red and blue. I feel stupid for thinking he might be there. I take off for the beach, pops of colored light exploding all around me.

Jennifer Dickinson

is a graduate of Hollins University. Since 2015, she has worked as a book coach and writing teacher for women in Los Angeles. Her fiction has appeared in Blackbird, The Florida Review, Isele Magazine, JMWW, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Her nonfiction has appeared in The Linden Review and Poets & Writers Magazine. She is the recipient of a Hedgebrook residency and a grant from the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund.

Author’s website: https://jenniferdickinsonwrites.com/