CHAPTER FOUR: TO KNOW PEACE
Silvia was disappointed, but not surprised when Frank didn’t come home on the night she had planned for them to attend a meeting. She had given him several reminders of the meeting throughout the week. She told him in the mornings before she left for work; she left him notes taped to his bedroom door and sticky notes on the refrigerator; and left a voicemail on his phone. She thought that he most likely had remembered and purposefully avoided coming home so that he would not have to go. When Vince came home, he found his sister sitting, staring at the door with a blank face, like she was asleep and awake at the same time.
“Hey Silvia,” he greeted his sister like he was trying to jar her out of her trance.
“Dad and I were supposed to go to an AA meeting tonight,” she told him, her face as glum as a bankrupt merchant. Vince looked back at her with a combination of astonishment and cynicism and said, “Yeah right, you were going to get Dad to go to an AA meeting?”
She didn’t tell him about the plan for his graduation party, which was the impetus for getting Frank to a meeting. She didn’t tell him her strong belief that if Frank stopped drinking, they could all be in peace. Instead she said, “I just thought it might be a good idea.”
“And it is,” agreed Vince wholeheartedly. “A great idea, in fact. Just not sure of the feasibility of it.”
Vince’s response didn’t seem to match his young and idealistic character. She wondered if her younger brother was suddenly becoming a realist. But rather than asking him about this apparent transformation, rather than trying to convince her brother of the possible feasibility of her cause, and rather than telling him of her success last week in getting Frank to attend a meeting, she just responded, “I thought it would be worth a try.”
Vince patted his sister on the shoulder, as if to say that it was a good try, and then he suggested that they take advantage of their father not being home and make use the kitchen that Frank always monopolized.
Becoming alive at the suggestion, Silvia popped up from her chair and went to the kitchen cabinet. She got out a can of garbanzo beans, a box of rigatoni, olive oil and a garlic bulb. She was delighted to find a bunch of broccoli rabe in the refrigerator. Vince sat quietly at the table reading a library book, as she proceeded to cook in silence.
While they ate, she wanted to have some pleasant dinner conversation-- nothing about their family, her moving away, or him going to college. She supposed that she could talk about gummy bears and blue whales, but that would probably be really boring for Vince.. She could ask him about what he learned at school today, but she assumed that it wasn’t much considering that he was a high school senior with only about one week of school left. She then thought of asking him about the book that he was reading. He mentioned the title briefly, and then he went on about some insight he had while at the library getting the book.
“I thought about getting a fiction book because I always read nonfiction, so I started looking through some of the new fiction books, and you know what? They were all about the second World War.”
Silvia knew what was coming.
“You know what I think? I think that the government is trying to make us all think that war is our natural state. That way we won’t want to speak out against it. We’ll just blindly accept it.”
“And the government is in cahoots with the publishing industry?” said Silvia sarcastically.
“That’s right!” said Vince, not noticing her sarcasm.
“Hey, speaking of war,” she said, putting her hand over her forehead. “I saw Rafa the other day, and he was asking about you.”
“Who’s that? And what’s he have to do with war?” Vince asked with a big question on his face.
“Somebody from the protests we used to go to. You remember, big head of kinky hair, always smiling, real friendly guy?”
“Oh yeah Rafa. He was a nice guy. How’s he doing?” He had such a large fork full of food that Silvia thought he would not be able to get it into his mouth. But he did.
“He seemed good. He’s become a carpenter of sorts, works at a bar by my old school, goes to Occupy rallies when he can.” As she said this, she strategically gathered a couple of beans, some broccoli rabe, and two rigatonis on her fork.
“Yeah, I should try to make a rally before I go.”
“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity for protests and rallies in Berkeley.” She didn’t mean to mention Berkeley. She was trying to keep the conversation clean and free of any and all controversy. It just slipped out, and she hoped that her brother would not pay too much attention to it, but that wasn’t the case. He stopped eating and looked down sullenly at his food. Silvia reacted to his sadness by offering advice, by trying to fix the problem at hand.
“Hey what about a scholarship, Vince? Have you thought of applying for one? It would be too late for this year, but there’s always next year. Aren’t you like number seven or something in your class? You got all A’s in your classes for Christ sake.”
At this suggestion, he looked even more discouraged.
“There’s no money left in this country for things like education. It’s all been used up for things like killing people, burning oil fields, missiles, and tanks. People, like Doug, are busy stealing...”
“C’mon Vince,” she interrupted him, not wanting to hear one of his tirades against the country. “Dad will help you. I’m sure of it.”
“And why are you so sure of it?”
This would have been the perfect opportunity to bring up the family gathering she was planning for him. She could tell him how she suspected that this event might put Frank in a good mood because of him being able to see Donna, and how his mood elevation could factor into his willingness to help with Vince’s tuition. But she didn’t take advantage of the moment. She was too tired. Tired from planning the reunion, tired from working her new job and planning for her move, and tired from trying to sober Frank up.
Her reluctance for bringing up the issue of the dinner party wasn’t only due to her current state of fatigue. There was something more. They were having such a nice quiet dinner, despite Vince’s mild irritation at her Berkeley remark and she didn’t want to ruin the peacefulness. It was a rare thing, indeed, to have a meal, an hour, a minute, or even a second, when there wasn’t an air of drama in this house. There was always the presence of a fight in some form. A fight could be happening, or it could be brewing, or the remains of a fight could be lingering. They moved in stages, like hurricanes, earthquakes, or most any sort of natural catastrophe. It felt a relief, but alien to Silvia, to be in her father’s house, without the presence of drama and chaos.
She was slightly nervous that Frank might pop in at any second to ask them why they were not eating whatever “delicious” thing he had made and stored away in the refrigerator, or to inspect what Silvia had cooked and make some derogatory remark about it, like calling it rabbit food. But he never came home that night, and though Silvia thoroughly enjoyed having the house free of her father’s abrasive presence, she couldn’t help but be angry about his absence and curious about his whereabouts.
When he stumbled in at three in the morning, she was awake worrying. Yes, worrying about her father. What a strange concept. She knew that the situation should have been reversed. Either she or Vince could have been out partying and keeping the parent up with worry. This was an upside down world. This was all wrong! And so was the way that she came into the kitchen, with her arms crossed and her punishing eyes peering down at her drunk of a father, like a mother peering down at her unruly teenage son. He was lying face down on the kitchen floor like he was completely unable to make it any further than through the back door. He looked so pathetic lying on the floor. It was tough to believe that he had attended a prestigious law school, was a judge, a father of four, and a husband of a college professor. He was someone who was so hyper-vigilant about food waste, but when it came to wasting his own life, he had no problem.
Olive Branches Don't Grow On Trees Page 18