Gertrude Stein's quote always comes to mind when I think of my dad. 

I know she meant it differently, but to me it captures the feeling that my dad, who is still alive and mostly well, does not really exist. 

His core shifts with the wind, his story changes with the hour.  He may seem to be right there in front of you, but he is not there at all.  There is no him, there is no there, at least as far as anyone can see.

My father lies, cheats, steals and kills. 

He is a con man and a (retired) Chicago police officer.  His liquid nature served him well in each of these careers.  But it strains relationships.

The lying makes it difficult to talk.  It is constant and includes all subjects--big & small, and all details--important and meaningless.  Even our most casual conversations leave me baffled.

From other family members, I know that my dad came of age as a rookie cop at the infamous 1968 Democratic Convention.  

It was the summer that I was born. He wanted to be a pro basketball player, not a cop.  But after experiencing a shotgun wedding and a new father in-law with city connections, he found himself on the strong end of a billy club chasing teenagers his same age.  

And so he is a cop.  I don't think I have ever seen my father without at least one gun at the ready.   

He is a big man, 6’5 and wide too, with a fuzzy beard, curly hair and tiny pale blue eyes.  He calls me “baby” in his deep voice and I feel myself shrinking smaller and smaller until he can hold me in the palm of his hand. He is my daddy.      

When I was about 13, my daddy drove me on a guided tour of all the places where he had killed people. 

“I shot someone on that corner there.”  

“Oh, and inside that building over here.”  

The pinnacle of the trip was the place where he killed someone with his bare hands.  He repeated that phrase over and over, “killed him with my bare hands.”  He said he was the only one on the force to do so.  Only one.  He wasn’t trying to scare me.  I’m not sure what his intention was, but at the time it seemed like he was unburdening himself.    

A lot of unusual and scary things happened in my childhood, impossible to go into all of it here. 

But what was real and what was not?  Who were the villains?  I know from the newspaper that our phones had been tapped.  I remember people calling with death threats.  Sometimes our household was under surveillance, with different officers ringing the bell every few hours.   But were they protecting us from the bad guys or were they checking up on my father?  I don't know, I have stories pointing in all directions. 

When I was away at college, I had no idea that I was under 24-hour protection. Hearing this sure cast a new light on all the unfortunate drug arrests in my student apartment.

My dad can be a great dad.

Christmas mornings when I was a kid, he turned into a little boy: grinning, jumping out of bed, racing to the tree to pick out the best presents for me open first.  

When I was a teenager, he got me out of quite a few jams.  

When I was 20 he got me a government job, and at the staff parties we would drink and dance and laugh together. 

But then, things changed and in the past 20 years, I have seen my dad maybe 3 or 4 times. We've talked on the phone once every couple of years or so.  

There are occasional holiday cards from him, sometimes with a check for $50 that sometimes bounces.  

In my 30th birthday card he inserted a photograph of his recently amputated foot.  He was trying to inspire sympathy from me.  At the very least, I can credit him for my dark sense of humor because you just have to laugh when your birthday present from your father is a photo of his green and bloated severed foot. 

I know that my dad loves me.  When people hear that he and I are mostly estranged, they often assume it has something to do with my being gay.  In fact, my dad knew I was a lesbian before I did.  He has keen observational skills, what with being a detective and all.  When I finally came out I didn't want to tell him because I didn't want to hear "I told you so."  I finally did though, and he made it clear it didn't matter to him, he loves me.  

This love makes me sad, because I know in my gut that the air around him is simply not safe for me to breathe.

A psychic once told me that my dad is a lost soul.  "I hardly ever see this,” she said.   “We each live many lifetimes and we choose each life to teach us a new lesson.  But your father is different.  He goes from lifetime to lifetime never learning anything."