flight to freedom

How odd it was that he’d chosen the backdoor. Probably it was just easier that way. It raised less questions than leaving out the front. You don’t really have to ask a man where he’s going when he goes out the backdoor; he’s going into the yard. Except that my father wasn’t planning to stay in the yard. He must have hopped over our fence and then snuck through a few back yards to the boulevard that ran about a hundred yards south of our house. From there it’s anyone’s guess. We never heard from him again. The image of him hurdling over those fences is something I used to like to think about. It was his escape, with each picket fence he cleared he was that much further away from us, that much nearer his freedom. I know this and still that image pleases me. I like to wonder if he would have got a running start and hurdled over it, or, more likely considering the shape he was in, he would have had to put his hands on the fence, hefted one foot over, balanced his weight, lifted the other and kind of spilled himself into the next yard. It’s not a graceful image, but I like to think of it sometimes—the old man still in his lousy brown suit, tie loosened, hopping fences in suburban darkness, running for his life.