How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  My fantasy is to get out there and knock a hard-pointed finger, the end of my cane even, into their chests. You should be ashamed at yourselves, I’d say. Who do you think you are? You’re nothing, you’re worse than nothing. Yeah, you little fuckers, I’ll show you a thing or two. I would frighten them with the rumble of my authoritative anger, send them running away in tears. They would relive me in their nightmares. Their parents might feel a bit ashamed too. Yes, that would be a good thing.

  Or they would ignore me, dismiss me, laugh at me.

  I’m seething but I make an effort to slow down, take small sips of the margarita, savour the taste that the sweet strawberries have absorbed. These killer margaritas could kill me.

  The skateboarders jump onto the next bus after rustling their way through the line. They are the future college generation, their parents pushing them to get a degree in something, anything, in the hope that their offspring will have a better chance in life than they did. My current students are their role models, the ones who are sitting in my lectures, in the back rows of a crowded hall wearing headphones plugged into their expensive laptops. They are multi-tasking, apparently, an admired skill in which they will claim great expertise on their CVs. While supposedly listening to me rattle on about postmodernism they’re watching YouTube videos of cats walking on their hind legs on tightropes, the latest instalment of Keeping up with the Kardashians, or maybe something more intellectually challenging like Breaking Bad.

  ‘Hey Jo,’ says a voice, and in a moment I’ve forgotten all about my students.

  Dave seems happy enough to see me. He knows the bartender, a cute brunette called Amber who has admirably muscular arms, probably from shaking all those fancy cocktails. ‘Hey Amber, this is my sister Jo, from London, the one I told you about. She’s a professor, you know. Can you believe it? I got a sister who’s a professor.’ He play-strikes my shoulder with a bit too much force.

  Amber tells me she’s heard all about me, yes, only good things, of course, although I notice she locks her eyes into a stare, half smiling, which makes me feel uneasy.

  ‘Don’t believe what he tells you. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ I say, feeling the heat of embarrassment. Over here anyone with a PhD who stands in front of a classroom gets called a professor, but across the waters in the UK that title is reserved for the top-flying few. And I’m not one of them.

  ‘Wow,’ says Amber. ‘I’d love to go to London. See the palace and check out all those pubs. Love the accent. My friend’s mother is English and when she comes over she’s always saying, cheerio, cheerio. It’s so cute. I love it.’

  ‘You get so used to it working and living there.’

  ‘I can hear you got a bit of the accent too. Oh my God, that’s so cute.’

  Dave orders himself a traditional margarita. ‘You taste more of the triple sec that way,’ he tells me in his serious voice.

  He takes our drinks and I lead the way back to the table I found that overlooks the street. There’s the usual small talk and then he throws in something about how good he thinks I’m looking. ‘Have you lost some weight since last time?’

  ‘Hah. That’s funny. No. If anything I’ve probably gained. Comfort eating and all that.’

  ‘No? Sorry, but you have, you’re definitely not as big as you were last time,’ says Dave, appraising me.

  He was never very good at compliments, and this sort of comment convinces me he has never been sincere with them. I’ve always had the sense that there’s an agenda behind them, although maybe this is just his weird way of trying his best.

  ‘You know stress can do that. With Ma dying and everything. But your eyes look pretty tired, Jo. Do you use concealer? That might help.’

  It hasn’t been long since the last visit but there is something different about my brother’s appearance and it’s not his weight. He always keeps his hair in fashion, not just a standard barber’s job, but an expensive styled cut, which is noticeable. In spite of his widening middle-age spread, he’s managed to keep a good head of hair, only showing a slight receding line at the front. That’s when I notice he now has golden highlights, probably to cover some of the grey. We talk a bit about grooming, the latest celebration of letting yourself go grey at our age, how it works for some but not all. Finally after trying to figure out what else is different with his face, it dawns on me that his teeth are so white it looks as though they’re almost popping out of his mouth.

  ‘Had ‘em whitened. Totally worth it. Gets rid of all the years of discoloration from smoking, coffee, red wine. Just like new now,’ he says, then pauses to offer a wide smile. ‘I thought, hey, if I’m going to have it done, make them as white as they can, get my money’s worth. Otherwise, why bother, right? You should do it, Jo. You won’t regret it.’

  We talk more about smoking, how hard it is for Dave to give up completely, although he claims he’s cut back loads. He says he only smokes about five a day, but I’m suspicious. He stepped into the restaurant reeking of cigarettes, and by the end of dinner, he’s stepped outside twice.

  Dave says the same thing about his drinking.

  ‘It’s completely under control now, not like in the past. Those days are gone. Long gone with the drugs. I can handle the booze, have a few and be OK, and I stay away from drugs, Jo.’

  It’s funny how we can talk ourselves into such things; if we repeat the mantra, everything’s fine, I can handle this, we will believe it. It will become our reality. We hang on to that hope. I, too, have been guilty of this.

  ‘Look, Jo, this thing about Ma’s surprise money stash. OK, I’ve calmed down a bit but, still, you have to admit it isn’t fair. This yearly instalment idea isn’t going to give me anything close to enough to do anything with. I don’t know what she was thinking, that she was going to be doing me some kind of favour.’

  Of course I’ve prepared for this, so after Dave has ordered for both of us I try my best to emphasise the good.

  ‘Well, I’m sure if you combine this year’s sum with what you have in savings you can maybe put down a deposit for an apartment or a condo and then you wouldn’t have to be spending so much in rent.’

  I feel a tiny twinge of guilt for suggesting this as I assume he doesn’t have much in savings, if anything at all. OK, I don’t actually feel guilty, I want to make a subtle point, maybe throw a little jab, something to get him to think about how important it is that he should have saved something by this time in his life. My mother’s voice speaks through me. I can almost feel my jaw clenching. Since Amy turned eighteen he’s told himself he’s the only one he’s had to worry about financially.

  ‘No, buying a condo’s not a good investment, no. I’m thinking of something bigger, like business. And I don’t have enough. I need a bigger pot. I’m not sure yet, but I know I want to go that way, not the property way.’

  We oscillate around buying a place to live, how good, I stress, that would be for his security and stability, the best investment he can make. He rebounds that it takes away his freedom if he wants to leave Boston, no he wouldn’t want the headaches of renting it out.

  ‘You know, Jo, I’ve always wanted to have my own business. What’s wrong with that dream, why is Jo’s way always the right way, tell me that, go on, tell me?’ he says, slapping the table with his open hand.

  I notice the couple at the nearby table glancing our way. ‘Calm down,’ I whisper.

  ‘Oh, come on. Cut the condescending shit.’

  ‘OK. Dave, if you’re in business you’ll be bound by that too, you wouldn’t have the freedom to just leave whenever you want,’ I say.

  ‘So I could set up business somewhere else. Like you did. What’s wrong with that? You know,’ he says, leaning forward. ‘I’ve been going over all this with my therapist, and he agrees this deal with Ma’s money is just wrong, worse than all the other family shit. And he thinks you and Dad can show some goodwill by just sharing some of your lump sums now, and I can pay you back when I get the future instalme
nts and we all get the same amount in the end. It would be a way for me to have enough to do something solid. That’s the fairer way. And to be honest, Jo, it’s not your business what I do with it, I’m not asking you what you do with your life.’

  By this time my nerves are unsteady. I’m tiptoeing on a narrow bridge with a long drop below.

  ‘Well, that’s nice of him to throw that out. At the end of the day this is the way Ma wanted it for you, Dave. To protect you, I’m sorry, from yourself. She was thinking about what’s best for you. She only had good intentions.’

  ‘But it’s not what’s best for me and you know it. It’s easy for you and Dad to say that from where you’re standing, the ones with all the money and the houses by the way. Dad has the city house, then the cottage to have his fun in and you have your nice place, your nice job, your nice life in London with Jon. And I have shit,’ says a sturdier, colder Dave.

  ‘But that’s why buying property’s a good investment. Property always goes up in value. And by the way, it’s not all so wonderful for me. Remember I’m part-time now, so, no, I’m not a high earner, it costs a fortune to live anywhere in London and I have to think about retirement too.’

  Dave pauses a minute to order another drink. He continues but the volume of his voice begins to rise again. ‘But you have your high-earner hubby and no kids, and you guys will always be fine. OK, so you got this thing with your health and that’s not great. I’m sorry you got that, but you’re OK at the moment, right? A day at a time with that. Right?’

  ‘Can you just keep your voice down, Dave.’

  ‘I ain’t fucking shouting, Jo. If you want to hear me shout, I can shout.’ He looks around, pulls his shoulders back and breathes in. ‘Look, you work hard, that’s fine, but I do too. I work hard in a tough physical job that’s not going to ever pay any better, and I’m not so young and strong either. I want to look bigger. Other people do it, right? I can dream, why can’t I be allowed to dream? I can have ambition, can’t I?’

  ‘It’s not that, Dave. It’s also about managing your life. I have to manage mine, right? Well, you have to manage all your stuff. You said it before. You wanted to do things before too, back to school, the degree, but all the other shit got in the way. That’s what Ma was worried about and I am too. So is Dad.’

  ‘Hah, that’s a lie, Dad doesn’t worry about anyone but himself and you know it. Look, just think about what I’ve said and talk to Dad. Plus, what are you going to do with all that money? Are you going to let it just sit in the bank or what? I know what you’re like.’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I can pay the mortgage off now,’ I lie. We paid off the mortgage five years ago. ‘All this talk about Ma’s money, it makes me uncomfortable, it’s not right. It was her money, we didn’t earn it. I wish it didn’t happen. We could’ve just ended up with the inheritance split evenly between us after Dad goes, whenever that will be.’

  ‘Hah,’ Dave laughs. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  I’m saved by the interruption of Dave’s phone, and it’s all, ‘Oh, hi, honey, sweetie, gorgeous, whatever you say, oh no, not too late, babe.’

  It appears there’s a new girlfriend now, someone about ten years younger than him, divorced, two older kids still living with her but one’s in college in Boston, and she happens to also tend bar here where they make the killer margaritas and she does nails and pedicures at discounted prices from her apartment. He was going to introduce me to her tonight, this Karen person, the one to whom he referred previously as the ‘friend with benefits’, but her plans changed and she ended up going out with her daughter somewhere.

  We order coffee. He has his with a Sambuca shot on the side. It seems he’s fallen for this one.

  ‘At first it was just sex,’ he says in his noticeably rapid excited speech. ‘Oh my God, and what great sex it is. I still have it in me, Jo.’ He sits back, taps his extended stomach. ‘But, you know, we’ve gotten to know each other now and she’s good. Sensible. No dramas. Keeps me in my place. And she’s worked in the restaurant business a long time, really knows the ins and outs. She’s got a good head for business. She does good, you know, makes good money.’

  I can already see where this is going and feel my heart racing again. He’s smiling, telling me how cute she is, how the other day she surprised him with a homemade meal at her place when her kids were out for the night, and then she slipped into this sexy new lingerie she bought just for him.

  ‘And she’s in amazing shape, Jo. Works out at the gym, really looks after herself. And she’s cut back on smoking too. And her breasts. Oh my God, they’re just the right size. They don’t sag like other women that age. So sexy. And her talent in the bedroom,’ he whispers, moving in closer. ‘The other night…I didn’t think I could still do it, you know, sometimes these meds really do a job on me, it takes me longer. And with my age too.’

  This is where I try to stop him, laugh it off, deflect the conversation in the way I’ve always had to do with him, in such a way that won’t trigger an argument.

  ‘OK, enough Dave, I’m happy for you, you don’t need to go into the details.’

  He stares at me with a half-open mouth. ‘You know, there’s nothing wrong with talking about sex, Jo. It’s only society’s taboos around it that hold us back. I’m only trying to share a bit. I’m only trying to be honest about being happy. It wouldn’t cost you anything to be happy for me.’

  We don’t say much after that, just eat and drink and glance at the other diners. None of them look like they have a problem.

  Later, we walk to Ma’s car in silence. He lights up again and I shock him into sharing his cigarette, throw in a cough here and there in between drags. I feel an odd sense of release. After the margarita, the whole challenge of the evening, I can’t hold back my temptation. Maybe I can stop there and remain intact. Those itty-bitty-triumphs.

  ‘So, JoJo,’ he says, avoiding my eyes. ‘I’m only asking you to seriously think about the money. It’s about doing the right thing.’

  ‘I’m still trying to get my head around Ma dying, you know. Anyway, do want a lift home?’

  ‘No, thanks. The night’s still young. Got people to see, things to do.’

  On these final words he extends a quick hug, his body stiffening upon contact, and a sadness fills me. He taps the hood twice with the palm of his hand, looks away with a tight smile. And it’s in this quick succession of movements that he becomes Dad. In spite of their physical differences, he is a younger version of the old man – a buffed-up option with silky hair and glow-in-the-dark teeth. All he needs is the toothpick.

  When Dad was feeling particularly generous, he would take Beth and me, and Dave, when he was around, for a day out fishing and sunbathing on the deck.

  Dave developed a passion for fishing after being lucky enough to be the one to catch the most: flounders, blue fish, even cod. After a while Beth and I turned in our poles, enjoyed working on our tans and plunging to cool ourselves in the deep dark waters. With Dave taking the role of master fisherman, I assumed my father would resent him and make excuses to not take him out, but I was wrong. The sea seemed to be the place where they both found peace. They were happy in silence together; the boat, fishing rods and equipment, the beers, providing them with points of connection. When the prize took the bait, the excitement and pure pleasure shared between father and son was like witnessing an unimaginable feat of nature. Like ball lightning or fish falling from the sky, it was the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence you may never see again, so when you do, you make sure you give it your full attention and awe. These were the only times I witnessed my father offer his son any praise.

  Yeah, you got it, that’s right, hold it steady, you’re doing just fine. Just be patient. No, no, no, not like that. It’s OK, don’t worry, you still got it, OK, take her in easy, that’s it. That’s it. Your brother, did you see that? He’s the best. One of the best fishermen I’ve ever seen.

  Back to shore and into the land of traffic jams, n
agging wives, humid kitchens, the impending start of another long, hard week of labour, mean bosses shouting, Get your ass in on time, or else, or, You wanna raise? Fuckin’ raise, my ass. All that was enough to undo the ocean’s magic. Business as usual.

  Shooting and hunting were my father’s other pleasures and he would take my brother out, not me, to teach him how to fire a gun. He showed him how to aim properly at the target, how to handle any recoil, how to rid himself of fear. The realm of men, rifles and journeys into the wilderness of New Hampshire, sometimes New Jersey, in search of non-suspecting innocent deer for a later feast dressed up in the name venison, were saved for the colder months. But this idyllic father-son dream was short-lived after young Dave fell, then rolled into a rocky ditch, ending up with a broken arm. The group had planned a full weekend away and weren’t happy at all when it looked like Dave messed up their schedule. They moved him along for a while, tried to convince him it was only a scratch, but the pain was so bad he cried he couldn’t continue. I heard my bone snap, Jo, that’s how bad it was.

  Dad drove him back home to Massachusetts that same afternoon, but left Dave with my mother to take him to the ER. I remember that Dad swore, ‘Never again. I tried and look where it got me.’

  He had a quick sandwich, then drove back up north that same evening to rejoin his friends at their lodge. That was the first and last of Dave’s manly father-son hunting adventures.

  Thirteen

  Late Sunday morning, I’m alone in the quiet of Beth’s kitchen with my first cup of coffee. Beth is out, if not on her usual run then maybe at Whole Foods grocery shopping again or driving Danielle somewhere. There’s another voice message from my father asking if I’ve seen my brother: Call me. I wanna know what’s happening. We need to set a time to see the lawyer and sign those papers.

  I call Dad and tell him Dave’s idea about the money and he’s against it, interrupting me straightaway, as if he guessed this was coming.