by Kate Mulgrew
The douche was rigorously employed until such time as both Genevieve and Russell understood that their marriage was unlikely to produce either passion or camaraderie, so it may as well produce children. The birth of my father in November 1920 undoubtedly gave my grandmother a modicum of satisfaction, if not unalloyed joy, because at last she had a purpose other than pleasing her husband. The baby would engage her, the baby would need her and, most important, the baby would serve as the only acceptable excuse for abandoning the connubial chamber.
My father, Thomas James Mulgrew II, was soon joined by a sister, Jane, and a younger brother, Robert. The children grew up in relative luxury on an estate called Wartburg Place, located on the outskirts of town. Russell had come into a very nice inheritance, and for many years the family money sustained him. My grandfather provided his wife with servants, and the house bustled with activity as the maid did the laundry, the cook prepared the meals, and the nanny, on whom my grandmother soon developed a dependency, looked after the rosy-cheeked, handsome children.
Presently, Genevieve became a sought-after young matron and, while a certain coolness prevented her from becoming inordinately popular, her extraordinary beauty, her innate good taste, and her husband’s money raised her to a position of midwestern prominence, which many found enviable. The social demands made on my grandmother were not, in the main, very sophisticated, but they served the important purpose of getting her out of the house and into the company of the local gentry, for whom, adorned in a salmon-pink Worth suit, pearls draped around her swan-like neck, elegant legs sheathed in silk stockings, she could be the undisputed center of attention.
While my grandmother was playing euchre and nibbling on melba crackers at the Dubuque Golf & Country Club, my grandfather was at his favorite speakeasy downtown, getting plastered. Drinking was a habit my grandfather had acquired shortly before marrying my grandmother, and one that did not appear to pose a threat to his equilibrium, particularly since his own father, my great-grandfather, was a confirmed teetotaler. Having had this habit well in check for some time, my grandfather was unsettled to find that it was beginning to get the better of him. One night he stumbled home only to find his alluring wife fast asleep, her bed separated from his by Genevieve’s imported Italian prie-dieu, an amenity she had considered, bought, and situated with great care as a reminder to her husband that God alone was her Master. Thus rejected, Russell would descend to the parlor below and begin crashing about in an inebriated search for ice, decanter, and glass. Invariably, this disturbed my grandmother, who slipped out of bed and, covering herself with a robe, crept slowly down the stairs to see if she could prevent her husband from waking the entire household.
Years later, well into his cups, my father told me how, in his bedroom at the top of the stairs, he would awaken to raised voices, the sound of glass shattering, his mother’s quiet, insistent pleas. He would lie there for some time, frozen with fear, until the commotion passed. One night, when the noises had subsided, and the house had been restored to order, my father got out of bed and tiptoed into the corridor, where he hid behind a pillar, from which vantage point he had an unobscured view into the parlor downstairs. He could see the figures of his parents quite clearly, and saw that they were standing close to each other, their faces only inches apart, but he was too far away to make out what they were saying. Suddenly, my grandmother turned on her heel and began to run toward the staircase, where she was intercepted by my grandfather, who grabbed her by the arm and, dropping his drink to the floor so that the glass splintered everywhere, slapped her hard across the face.
My father, not yet twelve years old, did not stir from his hiding place behind the pillar. He wanted more than anything to run down to his mother, to defend her, to shout at his father to stop, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, and more disturbing than the fear he felt toward his father was his own inability to go to his mother’s side. Even at eleven, my father possessed a strong sense of right and wrong, his character was spoken of as exceptional, and he was often asked to intervene when an argument threatened to erupt in the classroom, or when there were harsh words exchanged on the playing field. It was a well-known fact that his mother had always been his greatest champion, that she admired and worshipped him, that it was she who was the first to say, “Oh, just ask Thos, he’ll know what to do.” By attaching to her young son the moniker of a much older and worldlier man, she had unwittingly endowed him with a wisdom and sophistication well beyond his years. In the moment of betrayal, however, when he had witnessed his father deliberately break his sacred bond to his mother, when he had ceased to honor and protect her, when in fact he had assaulted her, in this moment the character of my father shrank to the size appropriate to the circumstances at hand, and he was reduced to nothing more than a very young, very frightened boy, who had abruptly lost his place in a world that, until then, had been impregnable. This single slap changed everything, and never again would my father feel, as he had felt during all the years of his childhood, an uncomplicated affection for his parents.
The Russell Mulgrews carried on as usual, the children swam and played tennis at the country club, they learned to ride in the fields abutting Wartburg Place, and my father soon became an accomplished equestrian, winning blue ribbons at county shows, sitting elegantly atop his horse with a ramrod-straight spine and an expression not unlike his mother’s, which is to say, inscrutable. It is impossible to know whether that single event in the life of mother and son, the slap, justified their respective retreats behind expressions that no longer conveyed emotion, neither sadness nor joy, or whether they had simply gone to bed that night and made up their minds that Russell would never again know them as he once had. The fact that they did this individually might speak to the strength of the mother-son bond, were it not for the fact that my father removed himself from his mother as well. Gently, and with the utmost courtesy, young Thos disengaged himself from his adoring mother, who could only wonder how it happened that the fond embrace had shifted to a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, and greetings, once affectionate, had transmogrified into formal acknowledgments that now bookended the day: good morning, Mother, good night, Mother.
Russell, dimly aware of the awkward distance between himself and his son, but unwilling and unable to ascertain its genesis, nonetheless attempted a rapprochement by insisting that he buy young Thomas James, whom he pointedly addressed as Tom, his first beer at one of his favorite haunts. Now, whether it was my father’s first beer or merely the first beer bought and authorized by my grandfather is not a matter of public record, but I think it is safe to say that the strict enforcement of laws concerning alcohol consumption today in no way resemble the regulations imposed in 1935, and that no objections were raised when my fifteen-year-old father slid onto a barstool in a dingy tavern on the wrong side of town and, accepting the glass of frothy lager, looked steadily at my grandfather and said, “Here’s mud in your eye.” Russell laughed at his son’s precocity, as did the motley crew of inveterate drinkers running the length of the counter, and soon Russell felt that any ill will had been dispelled, and that relations between father and son had been restored to their rightful normalcy.
Meanwhile, back at Wartburg Place, Genevieve nursed a bourbon on the rocks and wondered where her elder son had disappeared to. She didn’t have to worry about Janie, who, at thirteen, was short and stocky, square-faced and curious, often referred to by her clique as a “good egg.” Robert, taciturn and surly, spent most of his free time in the stables, grooming his horses, whose company he found immeasurably preferable to that of human beings. Genevieve, while continually nurturing a grievance against her husband, whom she considered a bully and a boor and for whom she had developed a visceral abhorrence, at the same time missed the closeness she had once shared with her elder son with an almost palpable sadness. Were it not for an inherent sense of discipline, a trait instilled in her by her father, and a deep, cool pride that she had cultivated because of her celebrated beau
ty and what she perceived to be her exceptional intelligence, she very likely would have slipped into despondency or what is better known today as depression. Genevieve Meysembourg had been born in tougher times, however, when even the trifecta of beauty, brains, and privilege did not entitle one to undue self-involvement. Instead, my grandmother tapped into the very core of who she was and found there a German hussar of the truest stripe. She transformed her grief into stoicism, and from that time forward it was almost impossible to calculate Genevieve’s emotions, hidden as they were beneath a veneer of perfect, imperturbable calm.
Genevieve’s detachment, while having no discernible effect on her children, enraged her husband who, after all, had won her fair and square, had courted her assiduously like the hunter he was, bringing gifts of chocolates and, later, gifts of jewelry, had sat on the porch of the Meysembourg house and sipped tea, for Christ’s sake, while his future father-in-law bored the bejesus out of him with his talk of progress and industry. Herr Meysembourg, while not possessing any of my grandfather’s showmanship, had instead acquired over his lifetime a quiet, dignified reserve from which vantage point he studied others, and as he observed young Russell Mulgrew over the six-month-long courtship of his daughter, he reviewed his options. He had done everything he could to shape his daughter into a creature of uncommon desirability. Nature and superior genetics had endowed her with beauty and health and, although Herr Meysembourg was not a betting man, he had laid down good money on the prospect of a higher education lifting his daughter to a different level of society, and this conviction, combined with Genevieve’s discipline, talent, and ambition, had served to produce a young woman any man would covet, and even though it was clear to Herr Meysembourg that Russell’s desire for his daughter was essentially superficial, this reality did not in any way alter Herr Meysembourg’s opinion of the situation. No other young man of the appropriate class and credentials had come forward, neither during Genevieve’s time at Northwestern University nor afterward at home, and he was immovable in his resistance to his daughter’s ambition to travel abroad. The girl could do no better, he reasoned, and she was running out of time. No one would want her after she turned twenty-five.
And so it was that Herr Meysembourg delivered his daughter into the hands of Russell Mulgrew, a man he neither knew nor wanted to know. Despite his bluster and a certain coarseness Herr Meysembourg chose to ignore, Russell was a man of means, and that, as far as Herr Meysembourg was concerned, was all that mattered. As it turned out, it was all that mattered to Genevieve, as well. Bloodlines will reveal themselves in choices made, and it was in Genevieve’s blood to improve her station in life, whatever the cost.
Certain bloodlines, while undoubtedly advancing superior genes, also foster secrets. In my father’s childhood home, and running through his veins, was a coolness that settled like a fine mist over other, more troubling emotions. While alcohol transformed my grandfather into a brutish, mendacious man, unpredictable and often wildly inappropriate, it had the opposite effect on my father. He found that several beers, and perhaps a whiskey or two, steadied him, and quietly flipped a switch that enabled him to lift himself out of his essential aloofness, to abandon his shyness, and enter into a world completely foreign to the one he knew at Wartburg Place.
Everyone in the family drank, but seldom did they drink together. Genevieve, fiercely guarding her reputation, allowed herself two bourbons after six, no more, no less. Robert, a loner, gathered with other loners in bars where there would be no inquiries, and no conversation. He acquired a taste for rum, and this spirit he would imbibe for as long as it took to get good and oiled, so that driving home and then finding his way through the front door and up the stairs to his bedroom was no longer a prospect to be dreaded, but simply a matter of course. Janie sipped cocktails with her friends at the club, but in so doing she was not seeking relief; she was, instead, seeking a permanent way out. In due course, she found it, and left Dubuque to settle in London, where she worked in high-end retail and entertained friends on a modest level in her cozy flat on Dunraven Street. She never married and, whereas this inspired Genevieve’s sympathy on one level, on another it thrilled her. There was an extra bedroom in the flat on Dunraven Street, and Genevieve told anyone who would listen that whereas Janie was doing very well in her life abroad, she sorely missed her mother, and that it was therefore her duty to visit her daughter as often as was reasonable.
Russell continued to drink with abandon, and with impunity. The town chose to look the other way as my grandfather indulged his vices, digging his way further and further into debt. He grew fat, and developed a considerable paunch wherein lodged his unfortunate liver which, by this time, showed all the trademarks of the disease that would ultimately be his undoing. His contempt for his wife deepened over the years, and by mutual silent agreement they kept their distance from one another, although this wasn’t always convenient.
One summer’s night, my grandfather happened to come home early. He wanted to change out of his hunting gear and into his evening clothes and, to ease this transition, he needed a drink. Without removing his jacket and with his rifle still in hand, he walked into the parlor and was surprised to find his wife sitting in an armchair, a book in one hand and a bourbon in the other. Not having encountered each other in this way for some time, my grandparents were caught off guard. My grandfather said something to my grandmother that offended her so deeply she sprang to her feet and, with all the vigor of one who has harbored resentment, rage, and disgust for far too long, hurled her drink across the room and watched as it missed her husband’s head by inches and sailed into the foyer, where it landed with a resounding crash on the black-and-white tiled floor.
My grandfather started toward my grandmother when suddenly young Thos appeared in the doorway and, looking directly at his father, very quietly said, “If you lay a hand on her, I’ll kill you.”
Soon after, my father enlisted in the Army Air Corps. I’ve often imagined the moment when his train pulled into the East Dubuque station and, turning to the woman who loved him like none other ever would, my father hoisted his standard-issue duffel bag onto his shoulder, then leaned down and, brushing her cool, powdered cheek with his lips said, simply, “Good-bye, Mother.”
Chapter Four
On the appointed day, I clung to the armrests of my tiny seat in the American Eagle aircraft as it made its descent into the Dubuque Regional Airport, revealing a quilt of fields below, dark and fallow in the bleak winter of 2004. Arriving in my hometown, I marveled, as I always did, that nothing much seemed to have changed, with one glaring exception. No one was there to meet me. This had been agreed on, of course, due to the covert nature of the mission, and the fact that Joe did not want to alarm Dad by notifying him of my visit any sooner than was necessary.
* * *
THE ONCOLOGY UNIT at Finley Hospital was long and narrow, modestly appointed and dimly lit. As I approached the nurses’ station, a young girl in a pink uniform, which had been tightly fastened across her chest and bore the name SAM on the label affixed to her pocket, looked up and, smiling brightly, asked, “May I help you?”
“You may,” I replied, smiling in turn. At that moment, the girl’s expression changed, and I knew that she had recognized me. The unspoken plan that Joe and I had hatched appeared to be working, and I was gratified. It could easily have gone another way, I knew, and was grateful that serendipity had placed this girl behind the nurses’ desk.
“I’m looking for my father, Tom Mulgrew, and my brother Joe. Do you know if they’re here?” I asked, lowering my voice so as not to disturb the climate of perfect calm that pervaded the corridors of the unit.
“Oh, sure! I saw ’em come in about a half hour ago,” the young girl said, her face brightening. I looked about the place uncertainly, until Sam registered my confusion and said, “They’re just down the way—I can take ya there, if ya want.”
“Thanks, that would be great,” I replied. “I’ve never been here before.
”
Sam chuckled and said, “Why would ya be? Oh look, there’s yer dad just down the way!”
She pointed straight ahead, to a room situated at the very end of the corridor. In this room, under a muted overhead light, I made out the figure of a small, old man sitting on a metal stool. A nurse was leaning over this man, doing something to his head. The white head of the old man was slightly bent, as was his back, and I could see that there was no conversation of any kind taking place between the old man and the middle-aged woman attending him. It could have been a scene out of a science fiction movie, so out of place were the woman’s ministrations as she applied herself to her task, so detached was the old man, and so bizarre were the surroundings. And yet, curiously, both the man and the woman seemed resigned to their actions, as if sitting on a metal stool under a dim white light in the middle of the day having one’s head taped and marked as if in preparation for an elaborate game were ordinary, even perhaps a little dreary, and were it not for Sam’s hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me forward, I think I may have stood there indefinitely, trying to work out the puzzle of the small room at the end of the corridor, and the middle-aged woman and old man within it.
“There’s yer dad, don’t ya see him?” she asked, too loudly.
Startled, I jumped. I did not want Sam’s bright voice to disturb the image in front of me, and so I whispered “Thank you” and, moving away from her, found a place against the wall where I could stand, unseen.
Was that my father? Diminutive, slouched, lost, his thinning white hair clipped short, I might not have recognized him were it not for the uniform, familiar to me now for many years. He wore a white T-shirt under a dark blue V-neck sweater, khaki pants, penny loafers, and black rayon socks. He had not deviated from this ensemble in decades, and I had to cast my mind back to my childhood if I wanted to recapture the father who had taken my breath away, a father who had bounded up the stairs two at a time, already pulling off his jacket, calling down to where I stood at the bottom of the staircase, “Kitten, bring me a scotch on the rocks, will you, sugar?” And oh, the privilege of it, and the confident march into the kitchen, where I pulled up a stool so as to retrieve the glass, and leaned over the counter until I could hardly breathe to grasp the bottle of J & B, and carefully poured in the scotch, and then made my way to the refrigerator, where I gathered the ice and watched vigilantly as I released the cubes into the drink, because this required logic and I needed to remember that he liked it cold but not too cold, and when I was satisfied with my labors, the measured, happy walk through the dining room, the glass clasped tightly between my hands, and the deliberate, proud mounting of the stairs, one by one, until I arrived at the top landing, where my father, clad only in blue boxers, stood over the sink in the open bathroom, applying shaving cream to his face and, upon seeing me, shouted, “Atta girl! Now you’re talking my lingo!” and how my heart leapt with joy, for I knew I would now be rewarded and would be allowed to sit on the closed toilet seat and watch my handsome young father as he drew the razor over his cheeks, magically making the cream disappear, and splashed his face with warm water and, finally, looking over at me and winking, shook the Old Spice into his hands and patted it, hard and fast, all over his face, and then, as if to punctuate the entire movement, took a big, satisfying sip of his drink and exclaimed, loudly, “Ahhhhh!”