The Barn Owl

The barn stands alone in the field, forlorn, empty, waiting for the owl that lives in the loft. As if on cue, the owl screeches into the night. It reminds me of my father, clamoring for attention, flying off into the night, screeching to get the ladies to notice. And notice they did, when he was young, all the young Asian ladies noticed Rob. And he bragged about those nights, bragged to his young daughter.

And the owl screeches, and I consider again, my father. Who was he? A broken man, a toxic man, the kind of man who takes his daughter bar hopping in the Philippines when she is only six years old. The kind of father who keeps a stack of Hustler magazines in the corner of his room and looks through them idly with his young daughter right there, in the room. The way some men might scan the newspaper. As if it were any ordinary magazine, instead of the pornography that it was.

The wind picks up, leaves rattling against the roof of the house, branches dragging against the siding. I look out the window at the barn in the field, weathered boards seeming to shift with the breeze. But that’s an illusion. The barn looks weak, but it will probably stand another twenty years or more. It stood through the last big storm back in ’05—the one that took out the old Sandwich Bridge. They never did build that bridge back. Sometimes it’s better to build a new bridge somewhere else, to just abandon the old, broken one to rot into the ground. And I hear the owl again. He screeches into the dark of the night, and the sound carries to my ears. And I think of my father.

He was the kind of man who was always right. No matter what he said. It was right. Anyone who disagreed was wrong. I remember the first time he realized that I was actually right and he was, in fact, wrong. It was one of the few times that he dropped his guard slightly and quietly and vaguely admitted that I was intelligent. Possibly more intelligent than he. But then he quickly adjusted his perspective and remembered that this could only be a fluke. Because he was always right. Always knew the answer. Always knew what to do to get his way, to get what he wanted, to get over on the other person. Even if it was me, especially if it was me.

Rain started to ping against the windows, drowning out my thoughts, drowning my father’s voice in my head. The living room windows rattled, and I jumped, and the owl screeched again. The rain will drive him home to the barn if it gets any harder, and louder, I think. I welcome it, the rain. Rain drowning out the voice of my father is far better than silence. I can’t do silence tonight. Cannot stand the emptiness in the silence. Cannot stand thoughts of my father when he was not a disappointment, a terror, a tyrant. I’d rather remember his badness. I’d rather remember how he taught me that I was not enough and never would be.

And then there was silence, for a beat, and another, before the crash of thunder followed by the flash of lightning. I thought about the scene in the movie Poltergeist where the dad teaches his son how to count the seconds between the thunder and the lightning to find out how close the storm was. When the thunder rumbled again, the lightning was starting practically at the same time. And I thought of my father, and wondered if he had found a way to be lightning to strike me dead as I sat in my house, thinking about him and listening to the storm, listening for the owl.

I couldn’t help it, couldn’t shut it out. I thought about when I was little and he called me sweet pea and held me in his arms and took me on trips with him in the car to show me off to friends and coworkers. And I wondered when that stopped and when I became Con. Just Con. Short for Connie. Constance. Instead of Sweet Pea, I became Constance Anne. Sweet Pea was beloved, but Constance Anne was not. Is not. Never will be.

At least not by my father. Dead men don’t love anyone anymore. Thankfully, they don’t hate, they don’t abuse, they don’t manipulate, they don’t do anything else either. They have ceased to exist, ceased to have power, ceased to be able to exert influence and create heartbreak. Like breaking a daughter’s heart. Breaking the trust she had for you, her one and only Daddy. The thunder crashed again, and the lightning brightened the room like the middle of the day for a few seconds, and I saw the owl at the window, looking in at me, his beady eyes locking onto mine. He held my gaze in those few seconds, and I saw the universe and eternity in that gaze. And then it was dark again.

And I thought of my father, on the day my infant son died. “You should never have gotten pregnant at your age,” he had said, “it was only going to lead to something like this. You’re better off.” Better off with my baby dead. My father thought I was better off with my baby dead. Did he think he would have been better off if I had died? Did he wish he had never had a little girl who wore a brace on her leg until she was three? Did he wish he had only had a son, a strong, independent son who would never need him and find that he was not there.

And the owl screeched as the thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, and I looked out the window again to see the owl, screeching at me. It seemed to screech at me anyway. The screech went on and on, carried off by the wind, yet ringing in my ears. And I saw my father when I was twelve and he had already moved out so was trying to be a better dad than he had been for the last few years. So he gave me money. Every week. And I would spend it on food and books, because those were the two things that I enjoyed the most when I was twelve. I’d head to the shopping mall with my best friend after school and we’d get something to eat at Pizza Hut or Pioneer Chicken or Carl’s Jr., and then maybe a Matterhorn from Baskin-Robbins. Or else a trip to the old-fashioned candy shop in the other strip mall in our neighborhood. And then we’d spend an hour or so in the bookstore, and I’d buy something. My father taught me that money is sometimes the only substitute for love that you are going to get. So you take the money when it is offered, whenever it is offered, and you forget about needing anything else.

And the thunder boomed again, and then the lightning flashed, but a few seconds later than before. The storm was moving away. Maybe I can lie down now. Maybe sleep will find me. Maybe I can stop thinking of my father, stop hearing his voice. Stop hating him and then loving him, the two states hanging there together, fighting for the same space in my head, in my heart. And I remembered my father when he was sixty-two years old and had a heart attack, and I thought he would die, and I cried and I cried. Because I didn’t know then who he was, what he was, who he was yet to become. If he had died then, left the world back then, I may never have seen who he really was. I may never have recognized the evil in his heart. I may never have seen all the damage that he did to me. I may have lived my life never knowing that all men aren’t like him.

The thunder clapped more softly, getting further away, the lightning flashed many seconds later. The storm was receding, and with it my mind was settling. The branches of the tree scratched against the window, the thunder clapped, the lightning illuminated the owl, outside the window, watching me, its beady eyes locked onto mine, staring into my soul. Many cultures believe that owls are inhabited by the souls of the dead. My father said he would never let me be, never set me free, never let me live my life without his oppressive presence. And the owl screeched. And its eyes locked with mine. And it said, “Con-n-n-n-n-n-n,” as my breath caught in my throat and I gasped for air. And the owl kept looking at me, and even though the light was gone, and I should not be able to see him through the window in the dark, there he was. And he screeched. And I gasped. And the darkness came.