My father was a sexual predator.
Drunk at social events, he draped himself across neighborhood women. He was cited twice for shoplifting as he became less quick-handed.
Smashed, he left his car in gear on the sloping driveway. It rolled down to break his ankle. His screams scattered neighborhood children too fearful of the ogre to bring help.
When Alzheimer’s first groped him, he was asked if he wanted to live in Virginia again. “I can’t because of the rape charges.”
For me, his nastiest crimes were against my mother, who finally rejected his philandering, dishonesty and addictions. They divorced when I was 10.
I carried a torch for him for decades. Not even his utter indifference easily repelled me.
I flew in the morning after he died. I cremated him immediately – no other family. No homilies. No obituary. Just me photographing his death mask at the mortuary. Without tears.
We looked much alike. I still carry his name. And I echo his consuming self-involvement. Mostly, I shoulder a son’s grief for taking such petty revenge on his dead father.
