by Robert Riche
My daughter thinks I am funny, and when I stretch my neck slightly to catch a glimpse of her in the mirror, she has anticipated me, and stretches her neck exaggeratedly in mimicry. My son observes the interplay, but turns away from it, indicating that he is above this kind of silliness, although it was he who first initiated the routine just a year ago.
I don’t concern myself about my daughter very much. This could be male chauvinism, I have considered it. But I think I am being truthful when I tell myself that I am leaving her alone because of a favorite maxim: If it works, don’t fix it.
I would die for my daughter. Laura. Her bright and cheerful demeanor, her general easiness with the world, are precious to me, the most precious things in my life. Nevertheless, precisely for the reason that I feel so comfortable with her, I tend to take her for granted. The way, for example, that I take the country of Canada for granted, even though, I must say, Canada is not precious to me, nor would I die for Canada. Still, there is value in the image. As with Canada, I feel comfortable with her. I am glad she is nearby. Her reasonableness, her willingness to tolerate, even find amusement in, my assertiveness and dominance, I cherish, even though I spend very little time attending to her. I understand that she is a growing and vital young lady, with underlying growth pains that are her own, and separate, and having very little to do with me. Although she can be critical, she is not challenging me; she is not punishing me for my dominant position. She is not a terrorist, for Christ sake. She doesn’t want my balls. She probably will be happy to grow up to marry someone just like me (What better choice could she make?) and lead a wonderful civilized and upwardly mobile existence, with our two families living in fairly close proximity, visiting occasionally on weekends, respecting each other’s privacy, and helping one another whenever possible. Is that too much to ask?
This is a point of view that any self-respecting radical feminist would probably label chauvinistic. Am I a male chauvinist? My wife is a pretty good judge of these matters. If I were to pose the question to her directly, in front of other people, she would feel obliged out of self-respect to say that I am; but with a look of amusement that, if not totally belying, would forgive all. If I should try to argue and defend, in front of other people, she would feel pressed to harden her position, and we would then find ourselves in a good half-hour heated exchange about who does the dishes, the cooking, the cleaning, the breadwinning, etc., etc., ad nauseum, which would ony be half serious, and change nothing. It would, however, make us both feel, and the people with us feel, that we are engaged in serious conversation about serious contemporary matters.
In private, the subject, as such, would never come up. Rather, on some weekday night, as I most likely would be watching the seven o’clock news on the TV in our “country kitchen/family area” while my wife was preparing dinner, I might be made aware that she was setting dishes on the kitchen dining table with more than the usual gusto. This is a tacit signal of hers that she is pissed off, that she feels she is working too hard, doing all the dirty work, being taken advantage of, and is tired of being a house slave to the lord and master; that she has creative projects of her own, too, you know (photography), and she can’t take photos, spend the whole day in the darkroom, and then do the laundry, the shopping, cook the dinner, and all the rest of it, while I sit with a drink in hand, eyes glued to the day’s ravages on TV while she has to step around my feet to set the table.
Fifty years ago she would have borne it silently, or committed suicide. Today, they slam down dishes, and when you ask what the trouble is, because you can only ignore it up to a point without being ridiculous, she tells you. And then, if you give a damn, which I do, you get up off your ass, and try to help out. Sometimes it has already gone too far, and merely helping out for the moment will not do. In our case, invariably this means the initiation of a discussion, the initiating coming from me, since my wife, too angry by this point to discuss anything, would prefer to sulk for a day or two, which she knows is the worst punishment she can inflict on me. Passive-aggressive behavior they call it, I read that somewhere, probably in the dentist’s waiting room. But from long experience, I have learned that she can stay angry only for a certain period of time; goodwill and patience and a willingness on my part to put up with her passive-aggressive abuse finally break through to the point. Male chauvinism then is discussed—not like at the party—the words themselves are never raised, and we forge out a new set of demands, most of them made on me. And, in truth, most of them reasonable. And thus, another new step forward for women has been taken. Until the next lapse, when we go through it again.
If I take my daughter for granted, as, I say, I take Canada, I would have to add that I take my wife for granted, too, but differently, probably more along the lines of the way I would take Great Britain. I don’t mean to say that my wife is British, or in any way like the English. She is, in fact, descended from Austrian and Czechoslovak peasants. But I think of her the way I think of Great Britain. It is as if none of us would be here without her. Annie. She is the mother country; handsome, though somewhat worn; just and fair in most matters (except when threatened directly, at which point her judgment is no better than anybody else’s); dignified, to the extent that she does not involve herself in petty matters such as gossip and squabbles; and proud, deep-down proud, and therefore impossible to take advantage of for any extended period of time. She is patient, and somewhat wise, and when she tells you that you are wrong, and behaving badly, most of the time you had better listen. She is, in fact, my right arm, as the expression goes. And maybe more.
At this moment she is seated next to me in the front seat of the Pontiac, gazing placidly out the open window. It is a beautiful day, with sunshine glinting off the rippling current of the nearby Housatonic, even as it brightens fields of goldenrod spreading out in the distance, and throws deep dappled shadowing onto the highway through the overhanging trees. The foliage is just beginning to turn to fall coloring now, with small patches of brilliant red, orange and yellow showing up here and there amidst the thick summer greenery.
She is wearing a gray flannel suit, very stylish, with a beige blouse. Frank should see this family now. Me, in control, behind the wheel of the new Pontiac station wagon, wearing a regimental striped tie and a brown Harris tweed jacket (that is too damned hot). When I drive, I sit erect, so that all nearly six feet of me is on view to the passing world. Strong features, smooth-shaven, graying temples, with hair razor-trimmed stylishly long. My wife, trim and small, beside me. Daughter in the back seat, wide-eyed, alert, bright, in a summery dress, with black patent leather shoes, the heel raised about an inch. And my son, peering out the tailgate, feet forcibly stuffed into real shoes (instead of sneakers), wearing corduroy pants, a shirt and tie (which I tied for him). A jacket that he has yet to put on is draped over the back seat. He has refused to wear it during our passage through any part of western Connecticut for fear that someone he knows might see him.
For sure, the gang he has begun to hang out with back home would not win any sartorial awards. A motley bunch, who do not come to the house, but, rather, loiter about in the nearby vicinity of the Grand Union shopping center. These are kids of high school age, some still in school, some who have dropped out, who gather each afternoon, rain or shine, and mill about aimlessly and sort of camp out on the edge of the parking lot under the trees near the town public park. When you park your car to do your shopping you see them in the shadows imbibing from bottles barely concealed in paper bags, and generally acting like Bowery bums. My son will not, or cannot, explain what he sees in these kids, but there is no doubt that there is an attraction to them. And we are scared shitless.
Dressed somewhat like rebels of the ’60s, from my distant vantage point they seem to be the last remnants of that tattered rebellious army of radical hippies, but arrayed not so much now against any cultural organizations or systems of life, as against life itself. I cannot be sure, but from what I can gather from my son’s new empathetic f
eelings toward them, they seem to have no convictions about anything, except sadness, and death. Images of the human skull dominate their drawings, their music, and probably their dreams. A straw of hope is that their raggle-taggle performance in the parking lot could be a last desperate, if pathetic, effort to act out their sadness in life rather than to succumb to suicidal impulses as so many of their more straightlaced contemporaries seem to be doing. What is the rate of suicide among the young? It seems to be rising every year to alarming proportions. Or is that just another media hype? I know that my son is sad; that in his sadness he has turned from his cheerful sister with whom he was always so very close, and from us, as if whatever cheerfulness we manage now to summon up and project to the world is a fraud, and unworthy of his attention, not to mention his love.
This is why we have made the decision to send our son to this costly school that we are now approaching from the long gracefully winding gravel driveway toward the brick and white Georgian administration building at the top of the slope—not for him to develop expensive spring vacation travel habits, nor even to wear that goddamn blazer thrown over the back seat with such deliberate carelessness (which I am rather pleased with myself for not having commented on), but to—please, dear God—enable him to go on and see some glimmer of hope—even if he has to break his heart ultimately in a vain struggle to make it come out right and human in the end. That’s all we want, that he should hope, and strive, and survive. And therein perhaps is true dignity. Who knows?
There is a group of what I suppose are upper classmen awaiting our arrival outside the dorm entrance where my son is to live. My heart gives a joyful thump as they greet us with smiles and firm handshakes, and with offers to help lug my son’s gear up to the second floor of the building. They are the official greeters, and I note sneakily from a distance that they are engaged in easy exchanges of information with my son about his stereo, his BMX stunt bicycle, his set of barbells and weights, his skis and other teen-age paraphernalia that I had thought would be of no interest to anyone except the thugs in the Grand Union parking lot. (Where are the tennis racquets of yesteryear? The stacks of Fitzgerald and Hemingway books? At least Catcher in the Rye, for Christ sake?)
I love the roommate they have picked for my son, a nerd if ever there was one. Shy, awkward, wearing glasses, and in no way ever a candidate for admission to the parking lot fraternity. The school has matched sophomore roommates by computer (they are very proud to disclose to us), and here we have my son, the urban guerrilla terrorist, with Mr. Nerd. Thank God for computers and the errors that they are constantly spewing forth.
But, of course, a dark cloud quickly scuds across the horizon. My daughter, with the finely attuned antennae of a modern teen-ager herself, immediately notes that the new boy has several faded jean jackets on hooks in the closet, a suitcase full of tie-dyed shirts, a collection of rock music tapes even more outrageous than my son’s (“Hey, all right!” she exclaims. Which leads me to begin to wonder if she is going to turn on us, too), and an electric fan.
“So, what’s the deal about the fan?” I ask.
My daughter looks back at me with an expression of disbelief and something approaching contempt. For the first time in her life, I notice an ugly maturity is beginning to creep into her face. “Come on, Dad. That’s to blow smoke out of the room.”
“Smoke?! What do you mean, smoke?” I am all for going immediately to the headmaster, but my wife restrains me with the reassurance that she has already met the roommate’s mother who has relayed the information that her son suffers from asthma and hay fever. The fan is for the purpose of blowing out the window pollen seeds of goldenrod that abound in these parts.
“Yeah, Dad,” my daugher says. “Don’t worry so much.”
“Don’t tell me not to worry,” I snap at her. But almost immediately I realize that I am probably overreacting, and I manage to pull myself into a state resembling composure again. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re right. I’m a worry wart.”
We have transported everything up to my son’s room. Gasping slightly from the effort, I stand for a moment and look about. It is a bleak little cell. One small window. A bunk bed against one wall. Two square frame desks with straight-backed chairs. No rug. No drapes. No pictures on the wall. Only that goddamn fan on one of the two identical bureau dressers.
I put on my most jovial smile, and stick out a paw at my son. It is time to go. He takes my hand, and then looking up at me from under the mop of black hair that has fallen across his eyes, he smiles at me. For the first time in weeks. Maybe months. Instantly I feel my face falling apart, and involuntarily I let out a ridiculous indeterminate noise, and throw both arms about his shoulders. His own arms go about my waist. Only for a moment, and then we break.
“Keep your nose clean,” I say.
His mother takes both of his elbows in her hands, and draws him to her for a kiss on the mouth. He voluntarily hugs her. Encouraged, his sister goes for a kiss, too, but is repulsed with a stiff arm and a cry, “No way!” It comes out in a high little boy squeak which his voice occasionally still slips into, and it is funny enough so that even he laughs, and my daughter goes in for another try, giggling, but gets nowhere. But it doesn’t matter, because he is giggling with her, and she couldn’t have asked for more.
New kids from down the hall have moved into the doorway to check out my son. Quickly we slip through them to give them their shot.
“’Bye, hon,” his mother says.
“So long,” he says, and offers a small cheery wave.
In the station wagon on the way down the long winding gravel driveway, past other station wagons and sedans parked alongside on the grass, our daughter, I observe in the rearview mirror, is looking back.
“It’s nice,” she muses approvingly.
Out of the corner of my eye I glance over at my wife. She is not looking back. She is directing her eyes straight ahead at the road, as I do now, too.
CHAPTER III
Monday morning, 7:45, and a long way away from the events of yesterday and the trip up to my son’s boarding school. It promises to be another lovely Indian Summer September day, as I look out at the tarmac landing strip at La Guardia airport through a window of the Boeing 747 in which I am seated, next to a heavily made-up beefy-faced lady who is wearing what looks like a red fright wig and glasses with ribbon dangling from the temples. She is chewing on and periodically snapping an enormous cud of Juicy Fruit gum (I can tell from the smell that it is Juicy Fruit) and chatting gaily with her husband seated on the other side of her, a diminutive man who appears to be about half her size, who is wearing a suit that is too large for him and whose mostly balding head is afflicted with sores. He talks to her across the back of his hand, in a hoarse whisper, as though he might have been gassed in a war. We are all waiting to take off for Las Vegas, my two traveling companions looking forward to five days of gambling, it turns out, and I to two days of working at a convention that my company—using the word “my” loosely, of course—is participating in out there at the Las Vegas Convention Center.
“Welcome aboard flight 516 direct to Las Vegas, ladies and gentleman,” comes a comforting familiar voice over the loud speaker. “I’m Captain Dowd”—oh, my God!—“and our flight crew today consists of Second Captain Irwin Brown and Flight Engineer Jamie Hopewell. The bad news, folks, is we’ve got a few fellas ahead of us this morning—about 18—so it’ll be a little while before we get off the ground. I can only suggest, just sit back and relax, and we should be cleared for departure in about 36 minutes.”
I’m ravenously hungry, having gotten out of bed at 4:30 this morning and skipped even coffee to catch the 5:30 limo to La Guardia, (I could have ridden in with Chet in his Jeep Wagoneer), so as to get to the airport one hour ahead of the scheduled departure of flight 516, which according to the travel bureau itinerary in my pocket promises to serve a “full breakfast.” I wouldn’t mind catching a bit more sleep while we wait, but sleep is out of the question, sinc
e the entire cabin of the plane is filled with shouting revellers on some kind of club excursion to Caesar’s Palace, and my adjacent traveling companion knows them all, and between snaps of her gum, keeps up a regular barrage of witticisms flying across my head.
“Aggie! Aggie! Better wawdjout! I’ll tell Augie!” Which provokes a crescendo of laughter, rejoined by, “Nevuh mind! How abowjew?”
Talk about dignity, in the presence of this kind of raucousness, invariably I find myself adopting the mannerisms and demeanor of the Prime Minister of England. But I have no luck. I seem to be one of those people who, when I withdraw into frosty isolation from others, only provoke them into peering intently into my face, garlic breath hot on my eyeballs, as if to check out if I am all right, or perhaps to see if there is a real person present inside the crusty shell.
“Hiya,” says the beefy lady next to me. “Goyna Vegas?”
“I beg your pardon.” Neville Chamberlain without the umbrella.
Undaunted, she pushes right on. “Me and Aldo gowout coupla timesa year.”
“I see.”
“We ewjly make enough to payfa the trip and a coupla weeks in Hawaii.”
“You do?”
I’m sitting here, feeling smug and superior, on my way to this terrible business convention, while this lady next to me is whooping and hollering with her friends, and having the best time of her life, and will continue to have a great time for another five days, before returning home with all her expenses paid and enough extra change in her pockets to go off with Aldo for two more weeks to Hawaii. If Chet Dowd loses control of the plane and we go down over Indianapolis, who has had the better life—me in my Brooks Brothers flannels and navy blazer and dignified manner, or Mrs. Gumsnap and Aldo and their crowd who are right now shouting and twisting and turning like dervishes and tormenting me with tantalizing stories of riches they expect to make beyond imagining?