My father, though cold and distant with his family, was quite amiable around others. In retrospect, this may seem strange, but as a child I never thought to question the drastic change in personality that overtook him at the hardware store, the bank, the municipal dump, when he encountered perfect strangers. I accompanied him on these errands for many years, and distinctly recall the tense silence that enveloped the truck as we drove. My father’s back never seemed to touch the seat—he leaned forward, his chin out over the steering wheel his bony fingers gripped, his jaw tight, his eyes darting across his field of vision. Any attempt on my part to speak was met with a terse “Quiet,” and so I sat in nervous boredom, my body rigid, waiting for the journey to end.But when we reached our destination and climbed down from the truck, my father changed into a different person. His compact frame loosened, his forehead smoothed, his hooded eyes grew wide. When he encountered a familiar face, he initiated a handshake from ten feet away, striding forth with a confident gait and a broad smile.
