The Silent Love of a Father　默默的父爱

　　◎ Bert Clompus

　　After Mom died, I began visiting Dad every morning before I went to work. He was frail¹ andmoved slowly, but he always had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the kitchen table forme, along with an unsigned note reading, “Drink your juice.” Such a gesture, I knew, was as far asDad had ever been able to go in expressing his love. In fact, I remember, as a kid I had questionedMom, “Why doesn’t Dad love me!” Mom frowned. “Who said he doesn’t love you!”“ Well, henever tells me.” I complained. “He never tells me either,” she said smiling, “but look how hard heworks to take care of us, to buy us food and clothes, and to pay for this house. That’s how yourfather tells us he loves us.” Then Mom held me by the shoulders and asked, “Do you understand!”

　　I nodded slowly. I understood in my head, but not in my heart. I still wanted my father to put hisarms around me and tell me he loved me. Dad owned and operated a small scrap² metal business,and after school I often hung around while he worked. I always hoped he’d ask me to help andthen praise me for what I did. He never asked. His tasks were too dangerous for a young boy toattempt, and Mom was already worried enough that he’d hurt himself. Dad hand fed scrap steelinto a device that chopped it as cleanly as a butcher chops a rack of ribs³. The machine looked likea giant pair of scissors, with blades thicker than my father’s body. If he didn’t feed those terrifyingblades just right, he risked serious injury.

　　“Why don’t you hire someone to do that for you?” Mom asked Dad one night as she bent⁴ over himand rubbed his aching shoulders with a strong smelling liniment. “Why don’t you hire a cook?”

　　Dad asked, giving her one of his rare smiles. Mom straightened and put her hands on her hips⁵.

　　“What’s the matter, Ike? Don’t you like my cooking?” “Sure I like your cooking. But if I couldafford a helper, then you could afford a cook.” Dad laughed, and for the first time I realized thatmy father had a sense of humor. The chopping machine wasn’t the only hazard in his business. Hehad an acetylene torch for cutting thick steel plates and beams. To my ears the torch hissed⁶ louderthan a steam locomotive, and when he used it to cut through steel, it blew off thousands of tinypieces of molten metal that swarmed⁷ around him like angry fireflies.

　　Many years later, during my first daily visit, after drinking the juice my father had squeezed forme, I walked over, hugged him and said, “I love you, Dad.” From then on I did this everymorning. My father never told me how he felt about my hugs, and there was never any expressionon his face when I gave them. Then one morning, pressed for time, I drank my juice and made forthe door.

　　Dad stepped in front of me and asked, “Well!” “Well what?” I asked, knowing exactly what.

　　“Well!” he repeated, crossing his arms and looking everywhere but at me. I hugged him extrahard. Now was the right time to say what I’d always wanted to. “I’m fifty years old, Dad, andyou’ve never told me you love me.” My father stepped away from me. He picked up the emptyjuice glass, washed it and put it away. “You’ve told other people you love me.” I said, “But I’venever heard it from you.” Dad looked uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. I moved closer to him.

　　“Dad, I want you to tell me you love me.” Dad took a step back, his lips pressed together. Heseemed about to speak, and then shook his head. “Tell me!” I shouted. “All right I love you!” Dadfinally blurted⁸, his hands fluttering like wounded birds. And in that instant something occurred thatI had never seen happen in my life. His eyes glistened⁹, and then overflowed¹⁰.

　　I stood before him, stunned¹¹ and silent. Finally, after all these years, my heart joined my head inunderstanding. My father loved me so much that just saying so made him weep, which wassomething he never, ever wanted to do, least of all in front of family. Mom had been right. Everyday of my life Dad had told me how much he loved me by what he did and what he gave. “I know,Da.,” I said. “I know.” And now at last I did.

　　妈妈去世之后，我开始在每天上班之前都去探望一下爸爸。他身体虚弱，行走缓慢，但是，他总是为我亲手榨好一杯鲜橙汁放在厨房桌子上，旁边有一张不签名的纸条，上边写着：“把橙汁喝了。”我知道，这是他表达他对我的爱的方式。事实上，至今我还记得，当我还是个孩子的时候，我问过妈妈：“为什么爸爸不爱我？”对此，妈妈皱起了眉头。“谁说他不爱你？”“可是，他从来没告诉过我。”我抱怨道。“他从来也没告诉过我，”她说，脸上露出笑容，“但是，你看他为了照顾我们，给我们买吃的、穿的，支付房款，干活多拼命呀。这就是你爸爸表达他爱我们的方式。”然后，妈妈抓着我的肩膀问道：“你明白了吗？”

　　我慢慢地点了点头。我脑子明白，可心里还是不明白。我仍然想要爸爸拥抱我，告诉我他爱我。爸爸拥有并经营一家小的废金属处理厂。放学后，在他工作时，我经常在他身边玩耍。我总希望他会叫我帮忙，然后称赞我做的事，可是，他从来不叫我。因为让一个小男孩去干他干的活实在太危险，妈妈为爸爸的安全已经够担心的了。爸爸用手把废金属塞进一个装置，这个装置像屠夫剁肋骨那样，利索地切割金属。这台机器看上去像一把巨大的剪刀，刀片比爸爸的身躯还要厚。伺候这台令人恐怖的机器太危险了，稍有不慎就会导致重伤。

　　“你为什么不雇一个人来替你干那活？”一天晚上，妈妈为爸爸涂气味强烈的搽剂，俯身为他按摩酸痛的肩膀时问道。“那你为什么不雇一名厨师？”爸爸反问道，难得地笑了一下。

　　妈妈直起身子，双手叉在腰上：“埃克，你怎么啦？难道你不喜欢我做的菜？”“我当然喜欢你做的饭菜啦！可是，如果我雇得起帮手，那你就雇得起厨师了呢！”爸爸大笑起来，这是我生平第一次感觉到爸爸的幽默感。不过，那台切割机不是他工厂里唯一的危险物。他还有一台乙炔炬，用来切割厚钢板和粗钢条。在我听来，那乙炔炬发出的切割声比蒸汽机火车头发出的声音还要大。当他用它切割钢材时，无数熔化了的金属的粉末状液滴喷射出来，在他周围飞溅，就像一群愤怒的萤火虫。

 

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