My Father's Footprints Read Online Free

is as amenable to crass bargaining as any other human activity.
    “I want to watch the Super Bowl tonight,” I tell my mother. “I want to put in my hours this morning and this afternoon. By
     nightfall, I want to be replaced by paid health aides, hospice volunteers, or those guards in
The Wizard of Oz
who march wearing busbies and appear to be singing ‘Oreo.’ I am determined to watch the Super Bowl in an undisturbed setting
     where I can concentrate, yell, whoop, weep. Where I can be in the presence of similarly dedicated NFL fans and not people
     who are checkingtheir watches and demanding to know why anybody cares about all this organized savagery.”
    Even as I speak these words, I am dimly aware that I am tempting the gods to gainsay me. I work with hospice to line up extra
     coverage and try to batten down every hatch that might fly open during the game.
    And what happens? My father suddenly takes a turn for the worse, so much so that he cannot be left alone with my mother anymore.
     All of the coverage vanishes into the Mists of Healthcare.
    Joey and I find ourselves waiting for kick-off in my parents’ apartment, very possibly the worst place I can be, because (a)
     I may have to attend to my dad or take him to the bathroom at any moment; and (b) My mother disapproves of football and, during
     my childhood, would not allow us to watch it in the house because it led to excited yelling, which she also did not allow.
    So Joey and I are watching, hunching down, and trying to be very quiet and dignified, although I am wearing a foam rubber
     Cheesehead.
    From a spot somewhere behind us I hear my mother say, flatly, emphatically, to no one, “I hate Super Bowl.”
    Jeez.

    He always claimed to be an atheist, but he was way too engaged for that. He secretly wanted to be a heretic.
    But it’s time-consuming. And you have to go to meetings and listen to doctrine. I think my father wanted to be a heretic,
     not in some church, but right in God’s face. I think he wanted to hang around God’s office and argue with God about important
     stuff and get on God’s nerves.
    Sean Kennelly, a former Catholic priest, late of Ireland, one parish over from Donnybrook, shows up at my parents’ apartment.
    He has been phoning. He’s a hospice pastoral counselor. He had to give up the priest thing so he could get married. He is
     a holy man but also full of the devil, in a nice way. My mother won’t let him anywhere near Dad, but I can’t make out whom
     she’s protecting: Kennelly from my father’s blasphemies or my father from any sense that this is last rites. Now Sean has
     decided to beard the lion in its den.
    “Mrs. McEnroe, will you not let me up?” he says on the intercom.
    “No, I’m afraid now is not a good time.”
    “That’s what you always say. I’ll only stay just a minute and say hello.”
    Such is Sean’s charm that it works even on a squawk box. He gets in somehow. He and my father have a few talks, which they
     both seem to enjoy.
    “I’ve seen the type before. ‘I’m an atheist, praise be to God,’” Sean confides to me in his brogue.

    My father’s moments of clarity come less often.
    I bring over a videotape to watch with him.
Primal Fear
with Richard Gere. We watch three minutes; he nods off. I stop the tape. He wakes up. We watch ten minutes. He dozes. I stop
     the tape. He perks. We watch. Snooze. Stop. Wake. Watch. Now he is deeply, deeply asleep. I stop the tape and grab something
     to read. It seems wrong to watch without him.
    Suddenly he stirs, shakes his head.
    “What happened to Bang Bang Fuck You?” he demands.
    “What?” I must be hearing things.
    “Bang Bang Fuck You.”
    I stare at him.
    “
The movie!
” he says, exasperated.
    I start it up again, but now I can’t stop giggling. Now I’m laughing so hard my eyes are watering.
    I’m picturing the Oscars. “Accepting the Best Picture award for
Bang Bang Fuck You
is its producer, Leonard T. Salink.”
    Or the video