The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

and father—in that small house weathering the hibernations and disappearances and outbursts, the empty fridge andthrown dishes, the visits from the police, the tears and rants and apologies, the endless sinister storms Clio would understand only when she was older and finally learned the truth.
    She reaches the museum steps and sits, hands deep in her pockets, her breath leaving white wisps of condensation in the air. From her perch, she spots a trio of pigeons near the curb. They peck at a twist of pretzel and this makes her think of her mother, who was always full of odd facts about Darwin. One such fact was that he studied pigeons, obtaining skins from around the world, tucking into pigeon treatises, befriending fellow fanciers and joining London pigeon clubs. Say hello hello to the pigeons, Eloise would say when they spoke on the phone.
    She dials. Her father answers on the second ring. She can picture his movements, his standing up from his TV chair and walking swiftly to the kitchen to the home’s only phone. On Sundays he watches football, something Eloise gave him flak for. She thought it was a brutal sport.
    â€œMarsh residence,” he says. The mere sound of his voice and tears prick her eyes. Guilt spreads within her, a gnawing feeling that she’s fallen woefully short as a daughter, that she’s betrayed him somehow by getting on with her life, a life that doesn’t really include him.
    â€œHey, Dad, it’s Clio,” she says, swallowing, a familiar lump forming in her throat.
    â€œSo you got back okay?”
    â€œYes,” she says. “Last night was the opening of Henry’s hotel. It went well.”
    â€œGood to hear,” he says, his voice distant.
    â€œI’d like for you to meet him at some point,” Clio surprises herself by saying, and waits.
    â€œI’d like that,” he says, his words perfunctory, trailing off and giving way to a heavy silence.
    The truth is that she’s not ready for her father to meet Henry. She’s never been ready to bring a man home. Not that there have been many men. Clio’s chalked it all up to choice; after having a front-row seat toher parents’ struggle, she hasn’t exactly been eager to commit. But now there is a man in the picture and she cares about him and, no, she’s not ready for any of this.
    The silence now doesn’t surprise her, but it does leave her crestfallen. When her mother died, she foolishly hoped that her relationship with her father would reset itself, that they’d learn to lean on each other, that they’d make efforts to get to know each other. Her hopes were high; she’d be dutiful about calling often, about checking in. She’d reach out several times a week even if only to talk about the banal details of their respective lives, her work with the birds, his construction jobs. It would be healthy for each of them to indulge in some of the normalcy they never had when her mother was around.
    She willed an optimism that felt flimsy at times, a deep wish that things would magically transform, that he would find his voice in the precarious aftermath, and she’d find hers too, that they’d take greater interest in each other’s lives, that they’d ask each other questions and make up for all those lost years.
    They didn’t. It hasn’t happened that way. Instead, more distance. More silence. Clio has rationalized it all, has worked hard to assuage her own blooming shame, soothing herself with stories likely fictive; maybe this is what her father prefers.
    He’s always been quiet, a man of few words, never one to examine or explore life too deeply, the strong silent type who never really seemed all that strong—though who is she to judge, there’s no saying she would have had more fortitude in his unfortunate spot of essentially babysitting a time bomb.
    He’s stayed in New Haven and she’s stayed here. They talk from time