His father has been dead for two months, so Ike is surprised to see him on the train.
Ike looks down at his newspaper. He reads about taxes and new roads. When he looks up his father is still there. He's looking out the window, staring up the sky.
*****
In Ike's dreams his father flies. Better than a bird he climbs farther, faster. Ike knows this because his father tells him so, calling the words down.
"Come on!" he shouts when he's a dot against the sky. Ike looks down at his feet and waits to wake up.
*****
His father always wanted to fly. He was sure it could happen. He was sure all he needed was a pair of wings. He was always sure he was close to finding them.
He wanted Ike to fly with him. He talked about how wonderful it would be, the two of them and the sky.
"When you come with me," he'd say, "you'll have to be careful not to go too high."
Ike would nod, thoughts of the ground unfolding far below him squeezing his throat. His father never saw, had always turned away and gone back to work. He drew pictures for ads; containers of dish soap, tins of cat food. The rest of the time he drew wings, meticulous plans sketched on cocktail napkins or long sheets of paper. He said he was sure they would all work. He said he had to decide which one was best.
He never did.
*****
His father is on the train again. Ike reads an article about a car accident, bodies thrown clean. That's what the paper says. "Bodies thrown clean." When he looks up from the paper his father smiles at him, points up at the sky.
Ike has a window in his office. He moves his desk as soon as he gets to work. He makes sure all he can see are walls.
*****
It rained the day of his father's funeral.
"Great flying weather," someone said with a knowing laugh and then patted the coffin fondly. Ike brushed water out of his eyes with one hand and nodded. He pushed his feet deep into the muddy ground.
His father left him everything. A house, which Ike sold; a car, which he donated to charity; and box after box of sketches of wings. Ike said he would take them home but on the way there he could hear them rustling. All those wings trying to break free. He put them in storage. He said no, he didn't need a key.
*****
In Ike's dreams he is standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting. His father calls his name. Ike turns and his father is carrying wings. They are tall, as tall as he is, and roar like the wind.
"Now you're ready," his father says, and Ike wakes up shaking.
*****
Ike starts taking a different train. For two days he rides alone but on the third his father is there. Ike glances down at his newspaper. The front page has a picture of a politician gesturing, hands spanned open to show careful space between.
When he looks up his father is still there. He is not looking out the window. He is looking at Ike.
"I'm getting off at Patterson," Ike says and his father shakes his head, points up at the sky.
"Patterson," Ike repeats. The woman sitting next to Ike stiffens and then pushes herself into the far corner of her seat. Ike apologizes and tells her he's tired, he's stressed, his father just died. She says she's sorry. He says he is too.
*****
At Patterson Ike gets off the train. He holds his paper tight in one hand as he walks.
He is not alone. His father has followed him, falls into step beside him with both arms spread wide, open to the sky.
"I can't," Ike says. A man walking by looks at him strangely. Ike moves away from him, head bowed in apology and shame.
His father grabs his wrist. "But it's time," he says. "It's finally time."
*****
Ike sees his father's hand on his wrist. He sees his newspaper fall, drifting free. He sees the train platform, waits for it to blur into something far away. He waits for a roar of sound, waits to be wrapped in his father's wings.
There is no sound, nothing winding itself around him.
"I always had them," his father says. He is smiling. His arms are spread wide, his fingers on Ike's wrist the only connection between them. "They were with me all along."
Ike looks down. The wind is playing with his paper, lifting it up and then dropping it back down.
He never got a chance to read it.
Ike pushes. He pushes and feels his father's hand slip away from him. He pushes and feels himself fall. He sees his father's face, the round 'o' of his mouth. His empty hands. He sees his father drift up, up. He will never fly too high. The sky will always hold him.
Ike lies where he has fallen, feels the train platform solid beneath him. He watches the sky until there is nothing to see. Then he gets up, dusts himself off. He picks up his paper and goes to work.