The Van Dad Drove to Church

Theda

Theda Moen was first, like always. Her street is all white houses with deep porches and big old elm trees that make a roof over the whole block in summer, and that morning the sun was coming through them clean and bright.

I pulled up to the curb in front of her house. Dad had his door open before I had it in park, and I said “Dad,” and he said “I’m fine,” and he was already on the sidewalk.

He did not go up the walk this time. He did not have the wind for it yet, and I think he knew that.

Instead he went to the side of the van and rolled the sliding door all the way open, and he stood there beside it.

Theda was already on her porch. She had been watching for us through the curtains, I would bet money.

She is a small woman, barely to Dad’s shoulder, with silver hair set every Saturday, and she wore her navy coat and her good navy hat with the little brim.

She came down off the porch one step at a time, one hand on the rail.

Dad stood at the open door of the white van in his black suit and his maroon tie, and he held out his arm for her, the way he had for 22 years.

From the driver’s seat, I watched her look at the van. Then at him. She came down the walk and took his arm, and she held on a little longer than she needed to.

“Clement Brandvold,” she said. “I heard you were done.”

“Not yet,” Dad said. “Watch that step, Theda.”

“New van?”

“Borrowed,” he said, which was true. He handed her up into the second row and made sure she was sitting before he let go.

Then he slid the door shut, gentle, and climbed back in beside me, breathing hard.

“Don’t say it,” he said to me, before I could.

I did not say it. I pulled away from the curb and we went on to the next house.