Family Pictures

by Sue Miller

  Mack drove home. When he brought the car to a stop in front of the square, it was after twelve by the greenish light on the dashboard. He cut the motor and sat for a moment in the stillness. Then he got out, locked his door, and walked to the house.

  The tree was still on, for him to pull the plug, he guessed. But just as he crouched to reach the outlet under the window, his father’s voice stopped him: “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Mack lurched, nearly fell. His hand spread flat on the carpet, and he pushed himself up.

  “Sorry to scare you,” his father said. He held up a white china cup. “Want some eggnog? Spiked?”

  “It’s not my drug of choice,” Mack said.

  His father smiled and sat down in the deep chair. Mack sat too, on the couch. He was surprised, for a moment, at how relaxed he suddenly felt; and then he realized that he was eager, in a way, to have this over with, this last hurdle he’d known he’d have to leap before he let his destiny take him. He looked over at David. His father’s head was bent, as if he were still in church, praying. His hairline had receded slightly over the years, and when he lifted his face to Mack, his high forehead added to his aura of severity, of dignity. He was frowning. He cleared his throat. “Well, as you said, this thing is in motion now.” Upstairs, someone’s slippers slid down the hall to one of the back bedrooms: Sarah, or Nina. A door closed.

  “Somewhere out there, yes, I guess it is.”

  “I’ve no idea how long, but I suppose not very, and you lose your 2-S.”

  Mack didn’t answer, and David took a sip of eggnog and set the cup down on the fat upholstered arm of the chair. He was still wearing a tie and a tweed jacket. His eyes on Mack seemed big and black in the shimmery orange light. “What’s your plan?”

  Mack laughed, but David’s face stayed immobile, and he stopped quickly. David leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “We’ll support you, whatever you choose to do, Mack. I want you to know that.”

  “But what if I choose to do”—Mack made his voice dramatic and raised his eyebrows—“nothing!”

  David watched him, and Mack felt suddenly foolish. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and slouched back.

  “That would be asinine indeed,” David said quietly.

  After a minute, Mack said agreeably, “Well, gee. Thanks, Dad.”

  David’s eyes were steady on Mack. The pale skin on his brow had furrowed. “You cannot be serious.”

  “It is my life, man.”

  “Not to throw away, it isn’t.”

  “Why would it be throwing it away?” And before David could answer, he said, “Remember what our fearless leader said so long ago? ‘Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you—’”

  “Stop it, Mack.”

  Mack shifted, sat up straighter. “There was a time we all thought those were words to live by.”

  “Times have changed,” David said harshly.

  Mack shrugged. They both watched the tree a moment. The tinsel stirred slightly in a draft.

  Then David said, “Okay, let’s just start again here. Let’s lay this out. In terms of our options.”

  “What you mean, our, white man?”

  David ignored Mack’s smile. “I mean what’s possible here.” He took another swig of eggnog and set his cup down again. He licked his upper lip. “CO is possible,” he said. “It probably means a legal fight, but it’s possible.”

  “CO is not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, come on, Dad. I know guys who are doing CO. Their lives … have a certain recognizable pattern, you know? They’ve been fighting against the war all the way. They’re the ones throwing blood on my file, for Christ’s sake. They converse, like on a regular basis, with their consciences. They go to fucking church. Or Quaker meeting.” He shook his head. “There’s no way I’d make CO.”

  “All right. Supposing that’s true. Let’s suppose it is. Then there’s Canada.”

  Mack said nothing. He was watching. It had suddenly become clear to him that there was no need to respond until his father came to his point.

  “But I think, to be honest—she’d never say this, but I will—it’d about destroy your mother. If you want it, we’ll support you, as I said. But keep that in mind.”

  Mack sat.

  “Then there’s the option I think you should take.”

  After a long moment, Mack bit. “Which is?” he asked.

  “Well. I think I could get you disqualified psychiatrically.”

  Mack smiled. “I knew this was coming.” He shook his head. “I knew this was coming. God.”

  “It’s no disgrace, Mack. There are even some elements in your life that would make it seem very easy.”

  “What? Like using drugs?”

  “Yes.” His father’s gaze was direct. “And dropping out as you did. When you had the deferment. There’s a very … self-destructive image that could be established.”

  “And you’re just the guy to do it.”

  “Well, of course I wouldn’t be the one to do it. For all the obvious logical and ethical reasons. But there are colleagues of mine who do feel strongly about the war, who are willing to help.”

  Mack didn’t answer.

  “This is nothing to be ashamed of, Mack. There are lots of boys doing this.” When Mack didn’t answer again, David began to explain. He’d arrange an appointment. There were several men to choose from. He’d pick someone Mack could feel comfortable with.

  As his father talked, Mack watched him warming, becoming animated in that oddly distant way—gentle, concerned, but professional. He remembered how safe that had once made him feel; he remembered turning to his father when his mother seemed out of control. At what point, he wondered, had his father’s calm begun to seem a liability? At what point had his mother’s craziness come to seem honorable and appropriate? He couldn’t remember.

  “It’s a matter simply of an interview,” his father was saying. “Maybe two. Possibly three. And you’ve only got to marshal the evidence. You don’t need to lie. Just some selective remembering. Things you’ve done, events—hell, even I can think of two or three—that show you … well, under stress, let’s say.”

  “Hell,” Mack said. “I can think of four or five.”

  “Of course!” David said. His smile was almost boyish. Then he saw something in Mack’s face, and it dimmed.

  Mack’s voice was quiet and flat. “But I don’t want to do it, Dad. I’m not going to.”

  David nodded slowly, two or three times. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t see that you’ve got an option, son.”

  “I’m going to do what I told you I’d do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is nothing. Exactly that. Nothing. And maybe, all on their own, they’ll think I’m nuts enough for 4-F.”

  “Don’t be provocative, Mack.”

  “Well, then, take me seriously for about two seconds, will you? I’ve thought about this.”

  “Mack, boys like you do not get drafted. You’re better than that, and you know it. I won’t let this—”

  “Fuck that!” Mack’s body jerked forward on the couch. “Fuck it! I’m better than nobody.” He stopped for a few seconds, and his voice was soft again when he spoke. “I’m no different from anyone else, Dad. Just one of the guys. Just one of the fucking guys, like all the others.” He stood up. “And I don’t want you in my life anymore, arranging anything. Dispensing favors. Presiding. Like some … fucking god.”

  There was a long silence. “Well, I accept that, Mack,” David said finally. “I think that is fair. I’d argue you are different from everyone else, but I understand that I can’t be the one … that my judgment isn’t the definitive one.” He was looking down, at his clenched hands. “But let me offer you … let me suggest, though, one possible interpretation for your behavior.”

  “Oh, Christ, Dad.” Mack stood up and stepped quickly to the doorway.

  “No, wait a min
ute. I’ve heard you out. Now I’d like you to listen. Will you listen, just for another minute?”

  Mack stood, looking over at his father, looking down. He remembered a time years earlier—a fight?—when he’d stood over his father in just this way, feeling this same distance, this power.

  When it was clear that Mack would stay, David began. “I’d like to say, Mack, that I know I’ve been a … a difficult father for you. Partly the separation, literally disappearing that way. But I know, too, that I’ve been … withdrawn, and I regret that. I regret how cut off from all you children I’ve been. How much I’ve missed. And I don’t excuse myself. I know some of the reasons I turned away from the family, but I don’t excuse myself.” Mack had come into the room a step while his father talked, and now he sat down on Aunt Lalie’s chair. David smiled gratefully. “And because of that, I know”—he shrugged—“there are a lot of unresolved issues. For you, and for the girls. And I wouldn’t blame you if you felt like punishing me. Or testing me.”

  Mack was stirring.

  “No. Wait a minute. Here’s what I want to say, Mack. Hear me out.” David was leaning forward, one hand out. It was as though he wanted to touch Mack. But he didn’t. “It’s don’t. Don’t test me on this. This one hurts you, not me. Or you as much as me. If this is a test, find another. Find another one, son, that just hurts me, not you.”

  Mack was shaking his head. He grinned momentarily. Then he said, “Well, that all sounds noble as hell, doesn’t it? But I have to say—I mean, I don’t like to say it, but I have to say, Dad, that that’s one of the most egocentric things I’ve ever heard. This has nothing to do with you. This is me. This is me looking for some honesty, some authenticity, somewhere in my fucking life. Which is—no, listen, man!—which is a fraudulent, bad-faith piece of shit at the moment.”

  “Oh, God, Mack! All this existential crap.”

  Mack stood up quickly. He pointed to his father. “And your psychiatric crap! Your crap, Dad. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it. You’ve fucking got me coming and going, but I don’t care. I don’t care if this is Oedipal, or acting out, or some other shit. Those are just words, Dad, just your words for it. And I’m not interested, I’m just not interested anymore.” He stepped toward the doorway again, on his way to his room, but he stopped just inside it. “You don’t believe in my words: well, I don’t believe in your words. I just don’t happen to believe in them. They don’t describe it for me, Dad. They don’t have anything to do with the way I feel it.” He turned away.

  David rose quickly. “Mack!” he said.

  Mack’s harid rested on the newel post. He looked back. David came and stood in the archway, and they stared at each other for a moment. David said, “I guess my question for you, Mack, is what do you believe in?”

  Mack took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

  “In not faking it,” he said. “Not pretending to be what I’m not: noble, or worthy of exemption. Or better, I guess, than anyone else.”

  David’s gaze was intense on Mack. When Mack was finished, he frowned, and then he said, “But you notice, don’t you, that those are all negative?”

  Mack didn’t answer.

  “You’re being very scrupulous, but to what end? There’s no reason here. No center. No positive belief.”

  “It’s what I’ve got, man.” Mack lifted his empty hands. “It’s all I’ve got.”

  Mack went up the stairs slowly to the second floor, feeling his father’s eyes on him as he rose. After he’d shut the door to the attic stairs, though, he sprinted up the last flight, and a cry, a muted caw, escaped from him. He went into his room and shut the door, whirled around in the familiar dark.

  He wanted to shout, to bang the walls in victory. He went to the side window and looked out over the train tracks. Beyond the black ridge of the embankment, the bare treetops of Jackson Park made a feathered horizon line against the lighter sky. He remembered abruptly dreams he’d had as a child—still had, occasionally—of being able to fly. Dreams so vivid that on waking he sometimes felt for a few moments that they were true—that the slow ascent through just such pale, light air, above just such naked trees, was memory, not wish.

  He crossed the room to his desk, flicked on the harsh glare of his desk lamp, watched his hands moving under it, rolling a celebratory joint. He lighted it, then turned off the lamp and carried the joint with an ashtray back to the window seat. All there was left now was to wait. Easy. He could do that.

  He fell asleep at the window. His head snapping forward woke him. He got up, stripped, and staggered to his bed. His body felt hard and clean in the cool sheets, his cock stiffened in pleasure, and he reached to stroke himself. But before he’d even really begun, he fell asleep again.

  Sometime in the middle of the night he heard the noises of his father’s sleeplessness in the kitchen—the muted, slight scrape of the kettle on the iron grill as he started a pot of coffee. But Mack was so lost in his stoned dreams that he understood it as the sound of childhood: he believed it was his mother, awake with his brother—that Randall was among them again—and he smiled in his sleep to know that everything was back the way it was supposed to be.

  Chapter 15

  January 1970

  When Nina came back to high school after her long week’s absence, everything had changed. It wasn’t that she’d been popular before and now wasn’t—and it wasn’t the opposite either. It was just that whatever kind of success she might have aspired to earlier was now impossible, and her only hope lay in the aura of mystery and danger, tragedy even, that surrounded her.

  She felt as she lived through it that she would always remember that first day back, walking down the wide halls lined with lockers, nodding at the few classmates who spoke to her. Hearing the whispers starting up behind her as soon as she passed. “She … She … ,” a long hiss trailing her like a cloud wherever she went. Certain movie images helped her then, oddly pictures of men, mostly. Marlon Brando, staggering bloody and beaten through the crowd at the end of On the Waterfront; a Spanish bullfighter walking with strained indifference away from the bull and his tossing horns.

  Nina had run away, something so scandalous in her world that she knew it was all that would matter about her for the rest of her senior year. She had run away, and she wouldn’t tell anyone why or where she’d gone or what she’d done. Everyone had a version, even people who’d never been remotely interested in her before. Mary repeated them all to Nina. She was the only one Nina talked to about any of it, though she wouldn’t tell even Mary why she’d gone.

  The sessions with the psychiatrist had already started, forced on her because of her stubborn silence. If she wouldn’t talk to her parents, her father said the night she returned, she would have to talk to someone else, someone responsible. His face was composed when he said this, his voice was calm, but Nina could tell by the tightness around his mouth that he was deeply angry.

  She had arrived back at home midevening and let herself in quietly with her key. She had stood in the front hall, staring at herself in the mirror and listening to the noises in the house—tinny radio music and the sound of running water from the kitchen, upstairs the on-and-off voice of someone on the telephone.

  And then a laugh.

  A laugh! Nina couldn’t help being shocked. They had gone on, then. Life had gone on.

  But she should have known this. Hadn’t she gone on with all of them when their father left? When Randall was sent away? Hadn’t she laughed?

  Lying across the bench in the front hall were Mary’s ugly tweed coat, Sarah’s green one. On a newspaper on the floor under the mirror there was a row of boots drying. Here and there on the ancient wood, the ghostly white Rorschachs of melted salted snow recorded everyone’s comings and goings over the time she’d been away. Nina looked at herself in the mirror. She had been gone six days. She felt she had changed so deeply and profoundly that she would never be the same, but she saw no signs of that in the mirror.

  Her si
ster—Mary, it was Mary—was saying something about an aptitude test: “There’s no point in getting nervous. It just makes it worse.” Nina tilted her head back until suddenly the overhead light ignited the tears that distorted her vision. She watched her blurred reflection with contempt. “Cry,” she whispered. “Go ahead.” And then she grinned sorrowfully at herself—at her flat, unwashed hair, her greasy skin, her bus-smelling, rumpled clothes.

  She spun around as her mother strode quickly out of the kitchen, drying her hands with an old towel, her head already tilted back to yell up the stairs to someone. Lainey stopped, frozen, when she saw Nina. And then it began, it began just the way Nina had known it would. “Neenee,” her mother whispered, and she rushed forward in only a few long steps and threw her arms around Nina. Nina felt the long shudders shake her mother’s body. She smelled her perfume. After a moment Lainey drew back. She gripped Nina’s shoulders, shook them, hard, and cried out in a shrill, anguished voice, “Where were you? Where were you? I was so worried!”

  Nina had gone to Columbus, Ohio. She’d looked it up in the encyclopedia at school. Columbus was close enough but far enough. It was big enough but small enough. After she’d paid the bus fare she’d have $272 to get by on for a while. And it was where her lover, a graduate student, had gone to college.

  She had seen Philip Olson for the first time from the stage in Mandel Hall. He was sitting behind the director in the nearly empty auditorium, his feet draped over the back of the seat in front of him. When Nina and the other high school girls trying out stepped onstage in a group, he swung his feet down and leaned quickly forward to say something to the director. They laughed together loudly, and Nina knew instantly by the sound of their laughter that he’d said something sexual about them.

  The girls were all trying out for the bit parts in The Crucible, a university production. The other actors, college and graduate students and a few quasi-professionals, had been in rehearsal for a while. The girls would have only a few lines each—mostly they had to scream—so they were being added later, only a few weeks before the production. There were seven of them trying out. One by one they had to step forward, say a few lines, and then act frightened and scream very loudly. When Nina took her turn, her heart was beating so hard she could feel it shake her chest, and she was afraid she would open her mouth and be unable to make any noise. When she screamed, her voice did break, but even she could hear that it made her sound more convincing, more frightened.