‘Good morning, Jack. The usual?’
‘Yep and whatever this young man would like,’ Jack said.
‘Is this your youngest? I haven’t seen him in forever.’ Mr. Do-nut flipped up the counter-top and stepped through to shake my hand. I waited for the ‘What happened to you?’, but it didn’t come. Maybe Jack had already told him, maybe he knew enough to not ask, or it didn’t matter. God bless the incurious.
I suspected they knew each other from AA. While he and Jack chatted, I went over to a table and pushed a chair out of the way. You don’t need furniture when you bring your own.
Amongst the posters showing the team rosters of the local high school – the one that had kicked me out years ago – a clipping of the local newspaper, decades old, showed a young Mr. Do-nut holding his paper hat and grinning widely. Jack joined me with two coffees and a bag of donuts.
‘A toast,’ Jack said. We raised our donuts and tapped them together. ‘Today donuts, tomorrow the world.’ We sat and read the newspaper like a normal father and son.
Jack popped the last bite of a donut into his mouth with a satisfied hum. He wiped the sugar glaze from his fingers.
‘How are you doing with your goofy pills?’
‘I’m cutting down. One or two during the day. Two or three to sleep. My legs feel like they’re on fire at night.’
‘Just go easy on that stuff.’
‘Your concern has been noted,’ I said tersely and he knew when to stop pushing.
A greasy-haired blonde, pulling a small girl behind her, approached the counter. Ignoring Mr. Do-nut’s greeting, she pointed at the display case and called out her order. When asked if that was all, she said a dozen donut holes as if that should have been obvious.
‘I got a hot batch of plain coming in two seconds. Is that okay, ma’am?’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ she huffed. I felt her staring and was determined to cow her into politeness. Unfazed, disgust crept onto her face as she surveyed my legs and the wheelchair. Her bellybutton peered from under her tank top like a squint-eyed cyclops. She hiked up her sweatpants and blinded the monster. I hid behind Doonesbury and Garfield, angry at the shame that she should’ve been feeling instead of me.
She approached the table.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
‘’Nam, ma’am. Goddamn V.C. booby trap took my fuckin’ legs!’ I said.
The woman looked at me doubtfully and turned to Jack. ‘Isn’t he too young to have been in the Vietnam War?’
‘Tell that to Nixon, lady. Now could you and your donuts fuck off and leave us alone?’
‘Excuse me. Let’s go, Laura. Some people don’t have any manners.’
I laughed at her retreat. Jack smiled.
‘That’s right. Keep walking,’ Jack called after her.
9
Jack was in his greenhouse by the time I woke up in the afternoon. Ten by thirty feet and shaped like an old-fashioned barn, its roof and walls were all glass. When I was a kid, his greenhouse was a small wooden structure with thick plastic sheets staple-gunned on. Then, he grew a few vegetables and flowers for Mom.
I craned my neck, lifting myself from the wheelchair, and watched him from the window. He was wearing a smock over a button-down shirt while he gardened. I was trying to remember if the Jack I knew as a child was as fastidious. Through the greenhouse panes I saw him with his head bent, a man in prayer, talking to his plants. Was he a lonely man or content or both? I had never gotten to know my father and that now seemed a mistake.
At two o’clock on the dot, every day, Jack hung his still perfectly clean smock on a peg near the door and came into the house calling me to take our daily walk to the donut shop.
I wheeled into the living room with my shoes in my lap.
‘You need help?’
‘No,’ I said as I pulled my leg up and set it across my knee to wrestle a shoe on.
Jack said, ‘Think of the money you’re going to save on shoes alone.’
Our afternoon routine was interrupted by the arrival of a black Cadillac Escalade that dwarfed Jack’s little Honda. My brother Patrick knocked then strode into the house just as I got my laces tied. He shook my hand as if I was a business client.
‘Hey, Pops,’ Patrick said.
‘Where’s the wife? My grandkids?’
‘They’re all at home. The twins have a cold but no biggie. I was just in town for a meeting. Thought I’d swing by to see how you and Jarred are getting on. You need anything?’ he asked as he sat down on the couch.
Jack was in his usual chair. I was already sitting.
‘How are you feeling, Pops? You okay? Did you make an appointment yet?’
Jack frowned and gave a quick shake of the head to Patrick. I pretended not to notice.
‘I could get my guys over to take care of your lawn. They can do the tree trimming too.’
‘I can do all that. I’ll strap a lawnmower to this one and get him to do it.’ Jack pointed at me.
Patrick turned his head. ‘You’re so brave. Our church has been praying for you. How are you?’
‘Fine and dandy,’ I mimicked his overly friendly tone. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t break my spine sooner. How about you? How’s Katie and the 1.8 kids?’
‘Katie?’
‘Your wife. She’s got to be a Katie or a Deborah.’
‘Karen.’
‘I was close. How’s Karen?’
‘Fine.’ Patrick turned to Jack. ‘How’s life with a roommate?’
‘You can see for yourself. He’s an asshole.’
‘I noticed.’
‘Brother, when I was in the hospital begging the nurses for enough morphine to knock me out, do you know what I found in the drawer next to my bed? A Bible. Do you know the story of Abraham?’
Patrick smiled and said of course. Jack gave me a look of caution.
‘So, the Almighty tells this guy to drag his ass up a mountain saying he just had to have a sacrifice. And, oh yeah, he wants the sacrifice to be his kid. The same kid that poor Abe and his wife waited forever for.’
Patrick’s smile turned stale, but he didn’t stop me. We all knew how this played out, falling into decade-old roles. I was ashamed of myself but I couldn’t stop either.
‘Abe, the prick, does what he’s told,’ I continued.
Patrick opened his mouth to say something but didn’t.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll wear himself out soon,’ Jack said.
‘He straps the kid down, who is probably screaming his head off, wishing he grew up with those nice idol-worshipping neighbours next door and, just as Abe raises the knife, Isaac thinking “I’m fucked”, God comes out, shit-eating grin, and says, “Just kidding.”’
Patrick looked at Jack, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
‘Abe, stunned but thankful, drops the knife. Falls to his knees and is in the middle of thinking how to tell the Almighty where he can shove all this prophet business when the Lord, the sicko, winks and says, “But I am going to need a bit of his dick back. You know, for a covenant and stuff.”’
Jack said, ‘You feel better? How long have you been practising that one?’
‘I’m sorry, Jarred. I was trying to be supportive.’
‘Well, tell your church to pray harder; I’m still in this wheelchair. Jack, I’ll be in my room.’
I came back out when the SUV pulled from the driveway. Jack, his feet up in his recliner, was reading one of his gardening magazines.
‘That guy is a walking stereotype.’ I pointed toward the window. ‘All-American boy with his patriotic Republican beer belly.’
Jack put down his magazine and watched me.
‘Does he just come over to brag about how rich he is? He was here for how long? Thirty minutes. He mentioned his SUVs, his Mustang for the weekends. His life is numbers: interest rates, price per square footage – you should have hit him up for some money.’
‘What do you know?’ Jack said sharply.
<
br /> I paused, taken aback, and I realised that Jack had been borrowing money from Patrick, which must have been why he stopped over.
Jack sighed and put down the magazine again. ‘What’s it to you? He’s happy.’
‘His life was easy.’
Jack stood up. ‘This isn’t about Patrick. Stop being such a clever prick for five seconds and you’ll figure that out.’
10
On the day of Mom’s funeral, the house was full of family and co-workers. Patrick was there, not quite thirty, but looking very comfortable in a suit. He greeted every visitor. Each one was bearing sombre expressions and casserole dishes. To this day lasagne means death to me.
I had just escaped the clutches of an aunt who was battling to make one of Dad’s ties fit me. Her last attempt, a knot the size of my fist, was good enough to satisfy her. I said thanks and fled. I found Dad in their – now his – bedroom. I sat beside him. We stared at the wall for answers.
‘I’m not going to the funeral,’ I announced.
‘No? Why not?’
I shrugged, took Mom’s pillow from the bed, and buried my head into it for the scent of her. We sat together and stared at the wall; still it gave nothing away.
‘I’m definitely not going to the funeral.’ I stood up and left.
In the kitchen, I took a sandwich from the pile and a can of Coke from the counter. A woman who I didn’t know suggested there were cold ones in the fridge. I shook my head, put the edge of Mom’s pillow in my teeth and went outside.
The neighbour across the street always left their garage door ajar to let their cats go in and out. I set my sandwich, Coke and pillow inside, then squeezed through. A narrow space meandered between the stacks of boxes and junk. The workbench was a pile of rusting tools and I compared it to Dad’s orderly system of having a place outlined on the wall for every screwdriver and wrench. I thought someone should tell the neighbour about this system.
I moved between the stacks of boxes, opening them to examine the contents: photos and papers, canned food, newspaper-wrapped knick-knacks and ancient appliances. A marquee that advertised ‘PIZZA’ leaned against the back of a gun cabinet storing golf clubs, which created a space big enough for me to lie down. I moved boxes to seal one side, and I had my fortress. Shortly after, the calling of my name stopped, and the cars drove away.
I left her pillow in my fortress and shoved the empty can into a box of junk. Our house was left unlocked, but it was empty. The dining-room table was full of Tupperware and Pyrex domed with food. I pressed my finger into the Saran-wrapped broccoli cheese casserole and smushed a hole into it. I ate a cookie and smushed more holes. I ate some chips from a bowl and made more holes until the well-wisher’s comfort food looked like a pegboard.
I went into Mom’s closet, stumbling on the piled shoes, and was enveloped by her hanging clothes. The hangers clattered and her long dresses fell to the ground as I tripped and tangled myself into them.
In her bathroom, I uncapped and unscrewed and sniffed the menagerie of bottles and tubes that mothers need. I twisted the pink bullet of a lipstick up and down. I spread it on my lips and looked at myself in the mirror. I put two sharp streaks of war paint on my cheeks and one down the centre of my nose and forehead. I nibbled and chewed the waxy tip before returning it to its basket.
I crawled under her side of the bed, lying on my back, and imagined her sleeping above me. I was awoken by Dad pulling me out by the ankle. He wiped away the lipstick on my cheek and sniffed his fingers.
‘Your brother is going to sleep in your room and drive back tomorrow. Okay? You can have the couch or sleep in here with me.’
‘In here.’
‘Hey, we gave Mom a fighting chance. You took good care of her. She’s gone now, and we have to figure out how to deal with it, but she died knowing how much we loved her. That’s more than a lot of people get.’
I nodded, but I didn’t understand.
He continued, ‘Think of all those extra days we had lying beside her, holding her hand. Remember? You should know just how special that is. Do you hear me? I mean it.’
He waited for me to respond.
‘How about you go clean your face off? Unless you got a date or something.’
For a few months after the funeral, there was the flickering light of a dying bulb from Dad. It would fade until he was nothing more than a thin red filament when he and the Mickey Mouse glass disappeared into the garage to sort his coffee cans of junk. Sometimes he’d brighten, speak to me, be the adult, the parent, but each time his light returned, it was dimmer and dimmer. As far as I know, he never went back to work. Insurance money kept the electricity on and Mickey Mouse tanned whiskey brown.
I heard Mom’s voice too often. I’d shake my head to get rid of the painful whispers and a few times I was sent to the school psychologist with teacher-scrawl notes of concern. We talked about stages of grief through picture books.
‘Which stage do you think you are in?’
I gave the answers the little man with the gull’s-egg head seemed to want and left as quickly as he would let me.
I heard her most often at home, singing, calling for Dad, who had more pet names than an ancient god. Sometimes it was the echo of her nurse’s clogs on the floor.
Sadness ambushed me daily.
I was eating my after-school snack and watching a montage of the A-Team wielding their makeshift weapons driven on by their jaunty theme song. Bad guys flew in slow-motion non-lethal somersaults. I was crying so much my body shook. Dad picked me up like I was a baby. He looked confused and scared, not sure what to do with this strange child who was now his responsibility alone.
‘Let’s go see your mom.’
We left the house.
‘We’re going to walk it.’
I hesitated.
‘I’m too tired to drive.’ It was later that I figured out that tired meant drunk. ‘C’mon, it’s not that far. It’ll be an adventure.’
The weather was warm and clear and the puffs of cottonwood seed staggering on the wind made the world seem safe. We walked the sidewalks along the main road. We stopped for drinks at a gas station. Dad pulled a Coors off the six-pack like a ripe apple and emptied it in a gulp. I tried to match him, but the Coke’s fizz burned my nose. A huge burp erupted.
‘Say excuse me,’ he said.
‘Excuse me.’
He let out his own, loud and powerful, then he excused himself.
At the graveyard, the rows of headstones were lined up waiting for somebody, anybody. Mom’s grave didn’t have a stone yet. A red scab of clay amongst the grass and trees marked her death.
‘I got another letter from school,’ he said. ‘You need to keep your head down and stay out of trouble.’
As if crawling into bed beside her, Dad lay on the ground. I sat, the rectangle of Mom’s grave between us.
‘Tell me something nice about your mom,’ he said.
‘She smelled nice.’ I picked blades of grass then laid them in a row, 111111.
‘Yep. She did. She had pretty eyes.’
‘She had a chocolate chip right here. Her lucky freckle.’
‘Her beauty spot. Do you think your mom was perfect?’
I thought about it. I nodded.
‘I think so too. I’ve loved your mom all my life. I don’t know how to be without her. She made me want to be a good man. I’m having a hard time believing why I should keep it up.’
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say.
‘You’re growing up. Soon enough, you’re going to start liking girls. You’re going to love them and if you’re lucky one’ll love you back. You’re going to be stupid. There’s no avoiding it. A boy’s hands are too callow for a thing as fine as a girl’s heart. You’re going to take for granted women who are too good for you in the first place. You aren’t a man until you have enough regrets to shame you into it. Boys have no regrets.’
I wanted him to stop talking.
‘I know this
is all nonsense and I’m talking to myself here, but I hope you meet a girl as perfect as your mom. I had so many, so many good years, more than any man is due.’
No, I wanted him to keep talking so I didn’t cry.
‘I’m glad she died first though. I think of her being left behind and feeling like this. I can’t breathe sometimes, it hurts so much.’
I wanted to be here, but alone.
‘I couldn’t have done that to her. When she was real sick, before she woke up the first time, I should’ve loaded us all into a car and driven off a cliff. I hate myself for thinking like that.’
I wanted to run away. I wanted that, most of all.
Dad found me in a mausoleum arranging the niche vases so that all the flowers were on one side of the room.
‘I don’t know. What now? Donuts? Let’s get some donuts. Mom would want us to be happy. Fat and happy.’
Still licking the sugar from my fingers, I had a kind of happiness. Back at the house, full of fried dough and remembrances of Mom, we were son and father. We were watching tv in the living room. Dad asked about school, but my lack of interest defeated him. I could see him straining to think of something to talk about. I didn’t mean to discourage him, but I didn’t know how else to respond.
During a commercial, Dad left and went into his bedroom. He came out wearing his old Navy uniform and boots. Bright flesh winked between the straining buttons. He went into the garage wearing a motorcycle helmet the shape of a turtle shell. Curiosity stole my attention from the empty flickering of the tv and I went to find out what the tearing noises were.
Shredded cardboard boxes surrounded him.
‘Come here. You need battle armour for Armageddon.’ He placed a sheet of cardboard with a hole in the centre so it fitted like a poncho. He tied it down with twine. He made me two tissue-box greaves for my shins and wrapped my forearms in the remains of a banana box. He nodded appreciatively at his work.
‘Stay here.’
I fiddled with my armour, excited by whatever he had planned.
He returned with a plastic colander and sunglasses.
‘Put these on, soldier.’
He dug out of his pocket Mom’s lipstick and gave my cheeks two slashes of tutu-pink war paint.
The Coward Page 5