As Michael walked around, looking at his father’s paintings through the dim glow of the antique heavy-lidded lamps in the hallway, he questioned what he would do when his mother passed away and he no longer had the delight of these simple excursions.
He got to the door of his father’s old room. His father had been a stoic man, with distinctive features, and even in his last years, when his face had been rumpled with lines, he had had features that were unique and dignified. In his final years, Howard would still receive phone calls from friends and relatives asking his advice on various matters. He was thoughtful and didn’t rush into speech, and when he did speak, he spoke the truth. When Michael had seen him in court, he had sat above the others in his black robe, considering the truth as he studied the men and women placed in front of him. He had listened to the lawyers prattle on, unmoved like a boulder, and when he had spoken, the room seemed to tremble. What would it be like to be that confident?
Michael occasionally felt a tinge of gratitude that his father was dead, for his life had been spent battling with the man in the subtlest of ways. Growing up, he had felt his father was constantly watching him, as if he were a criminal in his father’s courthouse, as if convinced that something was wrong with him. Then, when Michael had had his breakdown at the end of the first year of university, the worst year of his life in many ways, his father had seemed frightened of him. The breakdown had managed to confirm the suspicion that had always haunted their relationship—that Michael was indeed damaged in some unalterable way.
* * *
It was his mother who had driven him for a trial stay at Chestnut Hill at the start of summer break after his freshman year. It was she who had called him every day and showed no embarrassment for him, at least none that was visible. When they gave him a temporary diagnosis of schizophrenia, one that was eventually changed to neurotic paranoia, an ugly term but still a better one than the first, she had been at his side and had not broken down into weak tears or turned her head away. She had known all along that he was capable of greatness and had not been daunted by this awful test. Like Nancy, she had nurtured his troubled mind with unconditional love and kindness.
The nervous breakdown had come two weeks after a night of drinking. Michael had gone to a party where he hadn’t known anyone. He had drunk too much and remembered standing in a corner by himself most of the night, listening to others’ conversations. Then the night had turned and he could remember only flashes of it. He had his arms wrapped around someone’s chest, and there was laughing around him. He could not remember who it was.
The next day, he had awakened alone on the lawn, and the hangover itself was enough to induce a state of misery. But when he walked around campus, he could feel eyes on him. He had done something wrong, but he could not remember what it was. He didn’t know who else had been there. He could not remember how he had gotten home. That seemed a paltry reason to break down, but he felt a strong desire to take a whole bottle of pills, and he found his hands were shaking. He could not even explain it to his one close friend, Alex, who hadn’t attended the party. Losing all control in front of a group of strangers had brought him to his knees somehow, emotionally. He could not remember what had happened.
When Michael was released from Chestnut Hill, he had gone back to live with his parents for the summer, and the long, empty days had been excruciating. He had insisted on sleeping on the third floor, and when the heat became unbearable, he had felt too embarrassed to complain since he had chosen it in the first place. When his father returned in the middle of the afternoon from the court house, Michael would invariably be up on the third floor with his nose buried in either a novel or a book that he was reading for his second-year philosophy class that fall.
When Michael passed his father’s study to go down to the kitchen, he would often listen outside the door to see if his father mentioned his name while he talked on the phone. He was sure one time he heard his father say “living with a lunatic,” but he had no proof, as the conversation wasn’t even about him. His father had been speaking with an old friend who was a doctor, and they were discussing playing golf that weekend. The comment would have been completely out of context, but it was possible he had said it. Michael then began listening to every comment his father uttered. From upstairs, he would lean over the banister whenever his father spoke to hear if his name was mentioned. His father’s tendency to mumble only added to the problem.
Once, during Christmas that year, his father had left the group assembled by the tree to make himself another scotch and water. Michael had been telling the family a story from school, and his father had left in the middle of it. He could have sworn he said “Fuck you” from the other room under his breath. But he had no proof. If asked, his father would only deny it.
Michael stayed at Chestnut Hill for exactly six weeks, while they tried different medications on him and a lot of talk therapy. He spoke of worrying about what other people thought of him and how, when he was drunk, those worries intensified. By the end of the six weeks, they seemed to believe he was stabilized and released him. While he was home, for the rest of that miserable summer, Michael had made a decision—to overprepare for the coming year and to make it the best academic year of his life. He read every single book on the syllabus before classes started, so that he could use the actual semester to do outside reading and research on the topics presented. His professors were amazed at his performance. He started a habit of advanced and thorough preparation for himself, a trend that continued through the rest of his four years.
His mother visited the school frequently, and when Michael received his academic awards at the end of the year, she stood in the back of the room in an elegant black dress. She helped him keep track of his prescriptions for Valium, and they tried it in combination with Thorazine to see if it would relieve his anxiety. She adored him and doted on him. Often, in their all-night study sessions, Alex and Michael would eat the snacks of crackers and cookies she sent in care packages. She had been so lovely, with her pretty face, nice teeth, stylish clothes and jewelry, and long legs. She pinned a diamond brooch on her black dress, simply because he loved the brooch and loved her style. But beyond the beautiful exterior, there was something even better: an authentic, loving spirit, proud of him always, the best of feminine grace that came from mothers.
* * *
Michael imagined the house being packed up and sold once his mother died and all the boxes and old paintings in the attic being carted off. The tranquility of the house would be disrupted, as new owners would move in and tear into it, updating it, pounding into its flooring, and removing the older kitchen appliances such as the oven and stove, which worked just fine and which he had grown to love.
Soon enough it would happen, though, and there wasn’t much he could do to stop it. Michael was stuck on the Peninsula with his family—he had been the one who had demanded they move and stay there, despite the unfavorable climate for his son’s asthma, and he could hardly now abandon it to come and live in his mother’s house after she passed away. The house would have to be sold; the perfection of the place would have to be sacrificed. The elegant and tasteful family of possessions that decorated the shelves and tables would be removed and dispersed. The jewelry would be given to the female descendants, and they would wear it cautiously, unable to shake the associations each piece had with death and passing. It was an impossible thought. For now, though, he had this place, his mother’s house, away from his own home and family. It was an uncomplicated space, and he could lie in the grand room almost as if he were back in college on one of the holiday breaks, his life unwritten, no ties to anyone. It felt that way with his mother sleeping in another room. Michael shut the door to his room and stretched out on the big bed, the silence in the house all-encompassing.
He remembered all the weekends he and Alex had come here to stay with his parents. His mom had fussed over the two young men, and they had slept on the third fl
oor after watching shows on the TV set in the den. His father had been away fishing, so it was just the three of them in the house. His mother had brought them powdered doughnuts in the den as they watched TV, and she had washed all their clothes and made them breakfast. At dinner, she had listened to them talk about what they were learning in their classes, how they had impressed this professor or that with a well-thought-out comment during class, and she beamed at them both. Michael would have done anything for his mother, so proud was he of her beautiful face and smart dresses and pearl earrings.
Recalling those happy days, he fell asleep easily.
* * *
The next morning was a Sunday, and Michael knew that John would be beginning work on the gazebo that day. He decided to drive back home from his mother’s house a couple hours earlier than planned so he could join John. The thought had occurred to him in the middle of the night when he woke up in his nest of covers. He hoped he might see some trace of the joy John felt being around his wife. It pained him to leave his mother, but he would have to go at some point that day, and he wanted to be around John. He could help out and be part of it all somehow. He wasn’t that good with tools, but he could certainly follow orders. He could saw planks. He could pound nails if he were told where to place them. The trees and sleeping houses whizzed past him in the early-morning light, soft jazz music coming from the radio. It would be nice to be part of building something real and lasting for his family. Maybe he would elicit Max’s help. This could be a way for Max to learn to be more manly, less of a spectator, and more in the action of life. These were the types of projects a father was supposed to do with his son.
He arrived home a little after ten, and Nancy was in the kitchen with Max. He told his son about his idea, and Max got up, looking confused. Nancy beamed at Michael as he took the boy out to the yard. John had papers spread out on the ground with rocks holding down the corners. Ten feet over, boards and beams lay in a rudimentary configuration. He turned, smiling with surprise, when he saw Michael and Max.
“Want some helpers?” Michael asked, feeling easygoing. Max looked to Michael and John again, a bewildered look on his face.
“Hey, little guy,” John said to Max, getting down on one knee. A wide smile illuminated Max’s face, and Michael suddenly felt very proud of his son. It was nice to have a quiet little son who didn’t terrorize the house or make a fuss. With his little baseball cap on, Max was quite handsome. John would have liked a son like this, Michael thought.
“You ready to do some guy stuff, buddy?” Michael said down to Max, who looked up expectantly and didn’t answer. It occurred to Michael that Max had no idea what “guy stuff” was. Who better to teach them than John? John was not macho, but he was a guy’s guy and could probably throw a football very well and understood all the intricacies of pipes that ran below a house—two things that Michael could not do well.
Michael held the boards in place and John gently hammered in the first nail so it pierced the wood in a tiny stab; the wood held it, and there were several bangs needed to drive it all the way in. Max held the hammer as it wavered over the nail. He looked up at Michael, who nodded with encouragement. Max brought it down, and the small thud sent the nail in deeper. He blushed with astonishment and looked up again at John and Michael.
“Great job! Let’s do another!” John said. He was very good at this dad stuff. Michael suddenly wished that John had been his own father—he would have turned out all right then, with no faulty wiring. Though his father had not been mentally ill, he had not been a normal father by any means. His silence had been laced with disapproval of his children, and he had kept himself at a distance from Michael. How he had loved to look through the glass door and see his father standing before a canvas of a still life of flowers, paused, with a paintbrush in hand, considering his next stroke. How he would have loved to learn to paint alongside his father, but he would never have dared to disturb his father’s painting; it was his sacred time to himself. He remembered that in later years he had asked his mother if she and his father had ever been in love. Without hesitation she had replied, “No, we were not in love, we were obsessed with each other.” And Michael could see the fascinated looks they sometimes gave each other, which indeed hinted at obsession or some sort of watchful compulsion. His father was fascinated with his paintings in the same way; he would study them as he painted them, with a cunning eye to detail.
* * *
The hammer was lifted by the small hands and then brought down again and again throughout the day. At one point Michael helped with a bang to get the nail back to straight stature, but Max seemed to enjoy that part too. Nancy brought them iced teas, refreshment they needed, but when Michael saw her in the yard, his face and mind darkened. He had forgotten about her for a moment, and there she was, never far away. Once he took the iced tea with a lemon wedge clinging to its side and drank down the sparkling golden liquid, Nancy said, “Wow, great job, guys! I’ll let you get back to it,” and she collected their glasses back on a tray and walked away. Michael’s heart warmed toward her more with each retreating step.
John used his electric saw to split the wood into the exact size needed, and Michael and Max continued with little nail projects. They gave Max the project of collecting the extra sawed-off wood bits and placing them in the shiny black trash bag on the lawn. It was a mild afternoon, breezy and warm, and the flowers John had planted at the edges of the yard bloomed white, fuschia, bright yellow, and violet. More insects were interested in their yard due to the flowers—they zoomed from flower to flower, something Michael would never have noticed if he had not come out on this Sunday. Something that would never have happened if Michael had not brought John into their world. The edges of their world were flowering, structures were being built. An injection of goodness was filtering in. His mind was cooperating with him that day. It was still; no tremors of paranoia were filling in at the edges. He forgot about his pills, and they seemed to sleep in his pocket, unaware of their duty. Normally his soft hands caressed the sides of the brown plastic container when he stood among people.
* * *
Two hours in, Max sat down near them and twirled a leaf in his hand, then began to move the dirt with the edges of a sharp rock. He was content there, so Michael helped John with the measuring and sawing, and pretty soon, the foundational boards of the gazebo were intact. The gazebo would be a place to sit and look at the flowers, a place for people to sit and whisper secrets in the shade. It would be here soon. Maybe he could come out here when he couldn’t sleep in the fall with a blanket wrapped around him and a cup of hot tea in the moonlight, while the world slept around him. At the end of the summer, he and John could sit out here with a six-pack and admire their work . . . it would be late evening. John would have no one to go home to, he could stay for dinner, heck, he could stay over. They had a guest room. Maybe he’d want his own room?
Nancy brought them out ham sandwiches, and they ate sitting on the grass. Michael saw a bush rustle in the corner of the lawn and looked for the fox, for his sparkling, mysterious eyes, but he did not emerge.
“Thanks for the help . . . nice of you—” John said to Michael in between bites.
Nancy had taken Max in to wash his hands before he ate his sandwich.
“I was glad to . . . hope we didn’t slow you down, me and my team,” Michael said, and his body tensed. Anxiety flushed through him again, through the wires, and then vanished, leaving him a little more tired than before.
“No, not at all. Tomorrow I’ll have my guys with me, but you two are welcome out here anytime. It’s hard to do it alone—no conversation. You know?”
Michael did know how hard it was to do it alone. He certainly did know that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The morning seemed to burst down upon the earth instead of revealing its hues gradually. It was uncommonly hot, and the world appeared prepped for the odd and the absurd. As Ryan rode to the clas
s with Jill in the morning, she noticed a man walking at the side of the road in black pants and a black shirt, who, as the car approached him, jumped and tapped his heels together. Jill was overexcited by the anticipation of the energetic movement class, and she sipped from her travel mug of tea and hummed to herself. She was unusually quiet, and a sly smile kept creeping onto her lips, but she said nothing.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“I just think you are going to really like this. I do. I know you’ll have a strong reaction to it, like I did when I was young,” Jill answered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re creeping me out. You can’t bring me back to your hippy-dippy days, Jill, much as you’d like to,” Ryan responded.
Jill winced once but then kept smiling to herself. She flipped on the radio and began humming along to the Cars.
“We’re almost there,” she said and banged the flat of her hand against the wheel to punctuate her statement.
* * *
The energetic movement class was surprisingly crowded with middle-aged women and men, and the room was decked out in garnet-colored curtains that almost matched the rust-colored carpet. The first half of the class consisted of flowing movements of squatting and reaching, with audible deep breathing. Next, everyone lay down in rows and the teacher, a young, petite woman named Dari, came around and gently put her hands on each person for several minutes. Ryan had to wait twenty minutes before her turn came, and the absurdity of lying on her back for no reason in particular began to make her angry. The room seemed shrouded in mist, which alternated from hot to cold as it grazed over her skin. The lights were dimmed, and the entire experience had the reverence of a sacred ceremony. She imagined how she would laugh in Jill’s face once it was all over. Then she felt Dari kneel down next to her, and two small warm hands pressed down on her, one hand on her thigh and one below her heart.
Stranger, Father, Beloved Page 11