In those days, back when all her siblings still lived at home, Helena would wait out on the front steps for Padre to come home. As the youngest of five, she didn’t yet have chores; nothing she couldn’t ignore while she waited. She whistled while she sat there in the late afternoon sunlight, trying to sound like a bird. Listening for their response. When his old car rounded the corner onto their road, and the dust rose in billows behind, she would race to greet Padre at the gate. She would jump up and down before he even had a chance to get out of the car.
“Where have you been?” she’d say, still jumping.
“Among strangers!” he’d answer, always.
Padre was away most of the time. It had always been so, and it didn’t seem odd. He was doing important work in the world.
Each of Padre’s children were named after towns and cities where he plied his trade. Besides Helena, there were Martin, Joseph, Jordan, and Enid. He had special tales for each of them. In Enid, Oklahoma, he’d met their mother. In Joseph, Oregon, he’d won big, betting on a certain bull rider at the rodeo. And so on. Padre told Helena he was saving her story for later, when she was older. She couldn’t even imagine it.
Vacuum cleaners were Padre’s saving grace. He’d tried selling encyclopedias, cleaning supplies, spices and tonics; even bibles. But a vacuum cleaner—now that was the ticket! He had several models stashed in the trunk of his old Buick. He was a whiz with the demonstration, which he’d give to anyone who let him in the door. Poured dirt all over the floor from a bucket he carried with him, then vacuumed it right up. Those machines sold themselves, he always said. In fact, that’s how he got his name one day in dusty Ogallala, Nebraska. People there said he was preaching to the choir. He’d practice his pitch in their own living room at home between trips. Mama tolerated it, but only just. She hadn’t slaved all day just for him to throw dirt on her clean rugs.
On his homecoming nights, Padre told stories about the places he’d seen and the people he’d met. Mostly he talked about how people treated him—a stranger!—with kindness and generosity. He inspired that in people, Mama said. One time, a young man saw Padre lugging a pile of encyclopedias down the street in Winner, South Dakota. The fellow stopped to lighten his load, and accompanied him on his calls. He didn’t say anything to the customers, just held the books and nodded along with Padre’s pitch. He did that for hours. When they called it a day, Padre bought the man a beer. Another time, somewhere in Missouri, Padre had had a tough day. He hadn’t made one sale. He dragged himself into the diner and sat down at the counter to get some supper. The booths and tables were full of people on a Friday night, men and women laughing together and celebrating the end of their work week. Padre said he’d never been so homesick. Then a fellow came up to him and clapped him on the back. Salesman, he said, you work harder than the rest of us combined. Come join us.
After a story like this, Padre would look around the table at his family’s beautiful faces. “But it sure feels good to be home!” And then he’d ask Enid or Jordan to go fetch his satchel from beside the front door, and the distribution of presents would commence.
Mama died first, years after Enid, Jordan, Joseph, and Martin had all married and left home. Helena had a fellow, but couldn’t be sure about him. She didn’t want to jump the gun. So, she stayed to take care of Padre. By that time, he’d quit traveling. He spent his days inventing things, crazy things that nobody would want. Still, it kept him going. He filled the house with his tools and contraptions, sometimes working long into the night. And Helena stayed and stayed.
One summer evening, Padre and Helena relaxed together on the front porch after supper. She’d brought out tall glasses of lemonade, and they settled into the big wicker chairs, hoping for a breeze. “Helena,” Padre said, “I have a story for you. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, Padre. Tell me.”
Padre made himself more comfortable in his chair, and took another sip from his glass. He looked over at Helena, as if to gauge her mood. And then he began. Many years ago, back before Helena was born, Padre found himself in Helena, Montana, with a trunk full of bibles. Now, Helena was a rough little town then. Times were hard. The bibles were a tough sell. He was disappointed, but not yet discouraged–this was just his first day. He parked his car in the motel lot on the edge of town, and walked several blocks toward a diner to take his supper. On the way, he heard a strange noise coming from near the railroad tracks. It was dusk, and he couldn’t tell where the sound came from. He crept over to investigate, and found a woman curled up in a ball on the gravel not 10 feet from the crossing. She moaned and cried, and as Padre crept closer, he saw she was huge with child. He approached her, held out his hand and asked if he could help. She peered at him, her forehead slick with sweat, and shook her head. Padre had seen enough to know that she was in trouble, so he ran back for his car. He scooped the woman up and set her gently in the back seat. He drove to the hospital, where an orderly put her in a wheelchair at the curb and whisked her away.
Helena blinked at Padre. Was this her story, at last? No preamble, no warning? She leaned forward and held her breath.
Padre continued. He settled himself in the maternity waiting room, not quite sure what he was doing there, or what he should do next. Before long, a nurse came out to tell him he had a beautiful baby boy! The nurse led Padre back to a room where mother and baby waited. He was indeed a beautiful boy. The mother, however, looked wretched. She couldn’t stop crying, and hugged and hugged that baby. She told Padre that she couldn’t keep him. She didn’t have a home. She had no family, nobody. In fact, Padre was the closest thing she had to a friend, and she didn’t even know his name.
Padre stopped to wipe his eyes. He stole a look at Helena, not sure how much else to tell. But she pleaded with him. “Padre! Tell me the rest!”
So he did. He told her how the woman didn’t last the night, how she’d been so malnourished that she never recovered from the difficulties of birth. How, after looking at the baby in its little bassinet, asleep beside its poor, still mother, Padre signed off on the birth certificate as the father. And how he drove all night to get home so that Mama could help him figure out what to do. That boy was raised right here in town, by a couple who had tried for years to have their own child. His birth mother had named him Buck before she died, because it was Padre’s Buick that delivered her to safety, so that she could safely deliver her baby.
Helena stared at her father. “Buck?” she asked. “BUCK?”
“Well, I should have mentioned all this years ago.”
Helena laughed so hard she almost fell off her chair. Padre, relieved, laughed too. Buck! The fellow that Helena was never sure about, and who still pined away for her, even after all these years. Padre reached over and patted her knee. Helena rose from her chair and waltzed inside to make a call.
The following year, Padre began to misplace his keys. Then his wallet. One afternoon he couldn’t find his way home. Buck and Helena went to find him, frantic. In their small town, it didn’t take long. He was unconcerned, happy to see them. Did they want to get a beer? She hid his keys that night, this time for good.
On the day she realized that he no longer knew her, Helena sat on the front steps and cried. Buck sat beside her, his arm tight around her shoulder. She was 38 years old. Padre shuffled around the house these days, no longer interested in his inventions. Helena cooked for him, bathed him, helped him into his clothes. He stared, trying to place her. He often reached for her hands and held them in his own, searching her face. In these moments, Helena felt closer to her father than she ever had before. For now she knew what it was to be a stranger.