the painted face of the clown with the outstretched hand read. For a long time we weren’t. We’d stand in line and the ticket taker would shake his head, nudging us away, but then suddenly we were. If we stood on tippy toes and stretched our legs, we were just above the thumb of the clown. That was the go-ahead. In the summers on Friday nights or whenever we could coax one of our parents—some parent who wasn’t drinking or too tired from commuting all week or working late or cavorting or had the lawn to mow or the taxes to figure out or the bills to pay or just wasn’t too sick and tired of the kids—to drive us to Riverview, we’d go. Often my father would be the one. He’d be back from his week of traveling, but right away he’d want to leave again. He’d drive us to Riverview, then wait in the car. He never went to movies or to the swim club or into Riverview. He just sat in the car. As I swam with my friends or watched monsters arrive from outerspace or kissed my first boy, I knew that my father was outside, waiting for me.
