I turn around and call to Mack, "Get an appointment with Dr. Fish, first thing Monday, okay? He'll fix that hand for you!"
Mack waves the bad hand at me, as if he's agreeing to subject it to whatever rigors are necessary.
The sky has clouded over with the thick, overstuffed purple clouds of an evening thunderstorm and the wind has moved in with some significance. I turn and wave to my hosts one more time and then get into my car. I beam a smile. The thunder is loud enough to be unsettling; the lightning is certainly near.
My mood often darkens at the first rumble of thunder. I suppose that throughout human history, certain weather events, particularly storms, have made people sad—think of how many of our primitive ancestors perished in violent weather; in some way, my grief links me to a long, primal tradition. Valerie's death, in a storm, for instance, such a pure and elemental way to die, links me to this great and open past. (See GMHI Book Discussion Series #12: The Weather as Divinity in World Literature.)
When we were boys, Cougar was very afraid of thunderstorms. I had always loved them. It was the one thing Cougar seemed to fear as a child; in general, he was brave to the point of insanity. Heights, spiders, wild animals, or bullies—none of these things frightened him in the least, while most everything frightened me. But the first roll of thunder that moved in on a spring or summer evening was enough to send him scurrying under the bed, and I would stand brazenly near the window, awestruck, thrilled not only by the magnificence of the storm, but by the stunning and rare feeling of actually being braver than my brother. I believe that something magical dictates the weather; I do not know the scientific reasons behind thunderstorms—though I am sure they are easy enough to grasp, at least in basic principle—but I prefer they remain somewhat mysterious to me. This is sort of the approach many Republicans take to global warming or poverty: they know there's more to learn, but it would too greatly disturb their worldview to find everything out. I understand, with great compassion, the impulse that makes people turn off their brains to any sort of information that may rattle their spiritual and intellectual core. The more we know, the more we risk opening ourselves up to this American unhappiness that I speak of; conversely, the more we try to understand, change, or manipulate the political views of our fellow citizens, the more unhappy and weary we become.
Lightning illuminates the darkening horizon as I drive, and, for brief, green moments, I can see the hills of the rolling countryside that surrounds Madison. I think of Cougar in his final days, afraid of thunder, somewhere in Iraq, maybe in the middle of a sandstorm, maybe with shrapnel slicing open his skin. Do sandstorms come with thunder and lightning? I don't even know.
Thinking of storms, Republicans, and my brother, I find myself, tonight, parked outside of my boyhood home on the north side of Madison. I roll down the window, staring at my old front yard, and take a deep breath.
There's enough of a wind that you can smell the aroma of curing lunchmeat from the Oscar Mayer plant's lone smokestack. On windy days, the neighborhood smells like my father used to smell when he came home from work, as if my father's exploded heart flew off into the atmosphere and remains heavy above us like a nitraterich smog.
My father worked at the plant until his heart exploded inside of him after working a double shift making hot dogs. Cougar had been trying to get a union job at the meatpacking plant but had not had any luck. Times were tight. Quickly, the idea of pursuing vengeful justice became more interesting and important than the processing of cured meats. I don't blame him. I might have done the same thing in his position, had not literature and the humanities given me a sense of calling and purpose. He always seemed to equate the terrorist attacks on 9/11 with our father's untimely death. As if my father had been so wounded by them and the violence done to his beloved nation and had dropped out of the game, grief-stricken. It was as if Cougar went to war to avenge my father's death from a massive heart attack. I wonder, in truth, how many of the men and women in the current war are seeking vengeance for something completely distant from American foreign policy and homeland security—a ruined football career, a failed marriage, or a bankrupt farm. I do not say this out of a lack of respect for their courage or bravery, mind you, but because I think the depth of our nation's collective unhappiness is part of what propels us so easily and dutifully into war after war.
When my father died, the funeral was so sparsely attended that I was almost embarrassed for my father when Cougar told me about the head count. My mother said that the tragedy of the same week had overshadowed my father's death. People were so emotionally overwhelmed they couldn't bear to think of attending a funeral. But I think that my father simply had very few friends. He was an only child, a Greek immigrant who renounced Greece the moment he arrived in this country and embraced all things American. He never stayed in touch with his cousins in Greece, and he worked all day long. Maybe a dozen or so of the men from the plant showed up at the funeral, plus a couple of managers and a few of my mother's co-workers and three of our neighbors.
I didn't want to go. I hate funerals, as I've said. I also hate the Catholic Church, if you must know, and that was where the funeral Mass had taken place. (My father had converted to Catholicism when he married my mother; after his death my mother left the Catholic Church and opted for nondenominational, Jesus-baseds self-help.) Because I was a little vague internally, frankly, about my own reasons for detesting funerals so much, I lied and said that I couldn't, in good conscience, attend any sort of service at the Catholic Church. That was my excuse.
Cougar said I was a coward. Cougar said I was a selfish asshole. Cougar said I thought about everything so goddamn much simply because I was too much of a pussy to do anything else but think and think all day long.
My mother wept as Cougar berated, but I still didn't go. I refused. It was a rather Joycean moment, like Stephen Dedalus refusing to pray with his sick mother, and I regret that so many key moments in my life remind me of something a purely fictional character once said or did.
The next day, I went and sat by the grave by myself, tracing my finger absent-mindedly in the fresh patch of still-black earth covered in hay. I stayed there a long time. I don't know how long, but it was dark when Cougar and my mother came and found me there, kneeling in the dirt. They helped me to the car. Cougar actually had to carry me. My legs seemed to have stopped working.
My father, a strange man, had an almost maniacal aversion to the past. He seldom talked about his boyhood in Greece, had never gone back to visit, and vigorously protected us from anything having to do with Hellenic culture—language, religion, or place. I am not sure what happened to him back in the homeland; I do know that Cougar and I were raised to be American boys through and through, with absurdly non-Greek Old Testament names (Jeremiah and Ezekiel!), and other than an occasional leg of lamb, or the liberal use of oregano in my mother's cooking, or our ability to tan, we were anything but Greek.
The evening after my father's funeral, I went inside the house and wandered around and found my way to the basement, to my father's workshop, where he kept his intricately labeled jars of bolts and screws, his pristine and well-organized pegboards. Everything sat untouched. I was not, and still am not, good with tools. I do very little with my hands, though this is where I used to like to go to think as a teenager. Standing there after my father's death, I realized that I was amid the only legacy my father left behind: a perfect workshop, well lighted, clean, organized. I moved from tool to tool, my fingers caressing the cold metal, the smooth wood. This was it. Here was the paternal legacy, the exquisite tool collection that I could not use. I couldn't saw my way out of a cardboard box. All of this was for Cougar, if he wanted it—and he never came home.
I stay parked outside the house for a while, in the darkness, the storm passing over and fading from the sky. I am trying to think of the last real conversation my father and I had, the last time we actually sat down and talked about something. I can't think of anything. He was alive for the firs
t two and a half decades of my life, for nearly two of those decades we lived under the same roof, in the same small house, but I think that, for all of those years, we basically just stayed out of each other's way. We just made small talk.
After I moved out of the house, it was even harder for us to communicate. In recent years, I've admitted something difficult to myself: my father didn't like me. He thought I was an asshole, and he had thought so for a long time, maybe ever since I turned twelve. Maybe he was jealous of me for some reason; maybe he thought I had it too easy. I don't know. He didn't like many people. He complained about other people all the time—coworkers, neighbors, cousins, everybody. People were too dumb, too fat, too dirty, too arrogant, too liberal, et cetera. It was almost a bit surreal to realize that I had become one of the people whom my father vigorously disliked, who annoyed him simply by existing.
10. Zeke Pappas says, "I will."
WHEN I COME HOME that evening, my mother comes downstairs. Despite our many differences, when she sees me, she always has that instant of brightness that parents get when they see their children, unexpectedly.
"What are you doing up so late?" I say. "It's nice to see you."
"Waiting for you, actually," she says. "How are your friends?"
"Fine, thanks. How are the girls?"
"Exhausted," she says. "We went swimming at the YMCA after school."
"Nice. I bet they're getting good."
"A couple of fish," my mother says.
Some thunder rumbles outside. The storm renews itself.
"Anyway, sorry I'm so late," I say. "Just driving around."
"Not the best weather to be driving around in, honey."
"I know. Um, I was thinking."
"Oh, Zeke, have you been crying?"
"No!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm very sure."
"I have some tea in a thermos," my mother says. "Come into the kitchen."
My mother pours two cups of chamomile tea, adds a spoonful of honey to each, and then we go to the dining room and sit. There is a small box on the dining room table.
"I have something for you," she says.
"What?"
"Your grandmother's engagement ring."
"Wow."
"I know," she says. "It's sort of pushy. It's just, I mean, if you do have someone in mind, well, when the time comes, you can offer her this."
I take the ring and look at it, a simple gold band with five tiny diamonds.
"Things were less flashy back then," she says. "But it's a very elegant ring."
"I know," I say.
"Are you mad?"
"No. No, in fact, Mom, I think you're right. I think I should get married. And sooner rather than later."
My mother and I sit in silence for a while.
Finally, she reaches across the table and touches my hand.
"Do you want some chicken tenders? I brought some home from work the other night and the girls don't want them. We had pizza after we went swimming."
"No, thanks. You go ahead though."
"Not me," she says.
"Did you eat?" I ask.
"I did," she says.
"I think you're losing weight," I say. "Are you?"
"Heavens, no. Don't I wish," she says. "So, who is the lucky lady going to be?"
"I have no idea," I say.
My mother gets up from the table, walks to the small desk in the living room, and returns with an envelope and a pen. She takes the Simply You article from the envelope.
"This is when we make a prospect list," she says. She slides the article over to me, along with the pen.
The article seems aimed at female readers, as most of Simply You is, but the described predicament is one I am all too familiar with: Does it seem like you're ready for marriage, but you don't have any prospects on the horizon? Well, just like any good business executive knows the importance of cultivating contacts and nurturing networks, any woman who wants to find Mr. Right knows that she must do the same thing. Follow these simple steps, and you might just be head over heels (or engaged!) by the end of the summer.
The article suggests that possible life mates are all around us, and as my mother works on a crossword puzzle from the morning's paper, I study the magazine's plan of attack. The article suggests you make a list of four people that you might want to know better:
Make a list of four people whom you know, but don't know well.
Pick one person you see every day, like a classmate, coworker, or that cute lawyer in your Spinning class. Sometimes simple proximity can gradually lead to romance.
I write the name Minn (barista) in this space.
Pick one person you really admire, a sort of dream date. Why not aim high? Is there someone you have a lot in common with, somebody you just have to get to know better? Set your sights on this potential Mr. Right by taking in something you'll both love (and love to talk about over a bottle of wine): a breathtaking hike at sunset, an indie film, a play, or an art gallery.
Here I write the name Sofia Coppola, the noted film director. Hey, the article says to "aim high." And I have been sending Ms. Coppola an e-mail message each week for the past eighteen months, for professional reasons. I certainly consider her an outside possibility.
Next, the writer continues, pick one person you are curious about, somebody you sense might have a little crush on you. Find ways to be near this person. Flirt like mad.
There is a space there to write someone's name, and that's where I write the name Elizabeth Vandeweghe.
Finally, you need to think of the obvious. Who is somebody you should have dated a long time ago? Who is the coworker, classmate, or "buddy" who may be burying secret romantic feelings for you? Here I write the name Lara Callahan.
The article goes on to detail strategies for success, derived from the world of big business and corporate strategy:
Find an excuse to have face-to-face meetings. Every smart businesswoman knows that face-to-face contact with clients yields higher results than phone calls or e-mail. Find reasons to talk to your prospects and engage them in conversation whenever you have a chance.
Let them know you're open to a relationship. Nobody falls into a great new job without sending in a resumé. Your prospects need to know you're single and looking for love. Maybe let them know you go to the movies alone all the time, or how quiet your apartment seems in winter. Don't sound desperate, just independent and available.
Set a reasonable goal, both short-term and long-term. Pick a date when you'll reassess your list of prospects. Maybe pick a date for your desired engagement, too. Again, the trick is to visualize success. If you feel like a wanted woman, men will sense it.
In the margin, after this tip, I write the number "35" and the date 7.06.2009, my thirty-fifth birthday. Then I draw an engagement ring in the white space. And thus, my prospect list is born.
I slide the list across the table to my mother, who sets aside her crossword puzzle and begins to read.
"The coffee-shop girl?" she asks.
I nod.
"Who's Sofia Coppola?"
"Sort of a colleague," I say. The internationally acclaimed film director is certainly my loftiest prospect, but when I watch her films, I am convinced that she understands precisely what I am talking about when I talk about American unhappiness. I believe that if only I could get in touch with her, she would take a great interest, both personal and cinematic, in my Inventory of American Unhappiness. Maybe she would even turn the project into a film, her first full-length documentary. I write to her regularly in the hope that she, whom I consider the most beautiful woman in Hollywood (and yes, I am aware of how high that praise really is), will write or call or e-mail. Oh, what a day that would be, to log in to my account and see that name in my inbox. Sofia Coppola!
My mother continues to read.
"Elizabeth Vandeweghe?" she says. "Zeke, it's a bit soon for her to remarry, don't you think? There's a lot of unhappiness over there right no
w."
"You never know," I say.
"I suppose you don't," she says. "And Lara Callahan. Your assistant, right?"
I nod.
"Oh, Zeke," she says. "I'm so happy for you. This looks so encouraging." We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our tea. I look around at my house, full of tasteful furniture, original paintings, and hundreds of fine hardcover books. A pile of the girls' shoes is in a small wicker basket by the door. The coffee table in the living room is covered in Polly Pocket action figures and accessories. In one corner of the dining room, two Melissa & Doug art easels hold a collection of brushes and poster paints. The small side table that holds a bottle of fine single-malt Scotch and my favorite crystal tumblers also holds two American Girl dolls. My life has turned out in a way I have never imagined, and I make a comment like this to my mother and she nods.
"You know, Mom," I say, "I know we've had a lot of differences over the years. But you know, when I look around the house and see the girls' stuff everywhere, when I am safe in the knowledge that they are sleeping upstairs above us, clean, warm, well fed, and healthy, I have to say, Ma, we're doing this. We're making this work."
My mother smiles and she reaches across the table and takes my hand.
And then her smile turns to a grimace and her eyes begin to drown. Soon, she is weeping, shuddering at the table, and she lets go of my hand. She puts her palms flat on the surface in front of her.
"Mom," I say. "Mom?"
But she doesn't look up at me, and it's only then that I understand everything, what all of this talking has been about.
"My God," I say. "How long do you have?"
"Six months," she says. "Maybe less."
SUMMER 2008
11. Zeke Pappas is away from his desk.
THANK YOU FOR your response to An Inventory of American Unhappiness. Project director Zeke Pappas is out of the office on family medical leave and will return to the project in the fall. If you need immediate assistance, please contact Lara Callahan at [email protected].
My American Unhappiness Page 10