a chapter of something i'm working on
Christmas 2008
My father and I step outside the party to share a cigarette. He's supposed to have quit fourteen years ago; supposedly I never started. My mother knows he smokes but she chooses to look the other way (literally). Ignorance is almost always bliss.
"You smoke Lucky Strikes?" he asks with a smile in his voice. I have pulled the smashed box out of the pocket of my khakis. It was the way I was sitting.
"Yup. Chip off the old block?" I hand him one. I wish we bonded other ways. I used to try to get him to play tennis with me, but he always had an excuse. First, he was too busy and then it was his hip after the car accident he was in. The last answer was valid, but it still made me wish he had taken advantage of the opportunity in his more youthful days.
"Hell no, not any boy of mine," Dad laughs at me. His eyes are squinted. I laugh too. It's absurd to hear a man like him speak like that. He looks so educated, so worldly. Even at 60 his hair is still well-coiffed, gray all around, but it gives him a vibrancy and his eyes are always twinkling and engaging. His answers are always spot-on, sharp. He smells of old European cologne and he never dresses down except on Sundays. But he indulges.
I don't say anything but I breathe, alternate taking drags. We can hear the strained piano of a drunken version of Jingle Bells playing from inside. Someone was pounding the keys like they had to be punished for some hideous deed. It was probably my Aunt Elva, after one too many an eggnog.
"Well, you like the west coast enough, huh?" My father carefully ashes his cigarette upon the snow-flecked pavement. The weather was mild for New York in late December. We barely had an inch on the ground.
I don't think he liked the west coast. He travelled to Washington intermittently and went to California for lectures once or twice. He said it was good in small doses, as some things were, but balked when I told him I accepted the job in San Jose. To me, the west coast felt more real than things I experienced growing up in the east. And more relaxed. Less uptight, less frantic. People seemed to be more like, well, people.
"Sure do." Jingle Bells concludes with a loud bang. I think my father smiled, his wry lips twisting into a bow.
"I'm happy for you then, Dave," he said. I'm quiet. My mind isn't sure innately how to process this; it's a good thing, but I'm just taken aback.
"Well, thanks, Dad." My voice reads my amazement. It's not that my father has ever disapproved of my decisions or that my father has voiced his shame at the only child he had borne, but I never felt he was completely satisfied with me. Scholarships and awards and awkward accomplishments didn't mean a thing. Something was awry. Perhaps that's how it is with all parents, though. They expect more from their offspring than what they get.
There is silence. Just that. My cigarette burns out; the embers match the Christmas lights that hang from the neighborhood houses.
"You don't need to thank me," he coughs. And keeps coughing. A horrible, hacking sound that should have belonged to an old man and not my father. Who was not old. Who could not be old. He bends over some.
"Dad? Dad?" There's panic. "You all right?" I've been gone for months; I don't know what the hell is going on. No one does.
He raises his hand in the air, regaining his posture.
"Good as gold," my father whispers and I see his eyes against the night, for the first time. They do not twinkle as much. They are losing a luster.
I say nothing but nod my head in understanding. Matters of health were taboo in my household. Maybe it came from the fact both of my parents had grandparents burdened with various illnesses and conditions; maybe it came from my mother's line of work. Either way, both of my parents both their own well-being on the backburner. Hence the cigarettes, which were supposed to be done with fourteen years ago in some other life.
"We should head back in," I finally say when my thoughts get to be too much. I should say go to a doctor or how are you feeling. But instead, I gesture to my parents home. I gesture to the tree gleaming in the window that they decorated together right after the Thanksgiving I didn't come to.
My father clears his throat. Our cigarette butts line edge of the driveway. He pulls at his collar and goes in. I watch him from behind, wondering, did he lose weight?
This is not a story about my father, though. This is a story about my mother. She is inside then, wearing some bulky sweater and talking to her sister about local gossip and the novels they're trying to read. She is happy; there is rosy color in her face. Her life is about to change in these coming days.
My father and I step outside the party to share a cigarette. He's supposed to have quit fourteen years ago; supposedly I never started. My mother knows he smokes but she chooses to look the other way (literally). Ignorance is almost always bliss.
"You smoke Lucky Strikes?" he asks with a smile in his voice. I have pulled the smashed box out of the pocket of my khakis. It was the way I was sitting.
"Yup. Chip off the old block?" I hand him one. I wish we bonded other ways. I used to try to get him to play tennis with me, but he always had an excuse. First, he was too busy and then it was his hip after the car accident he was in. The last answer was valid, but it still made me wish he had taken advantage of the opportunity in his more youthful days.
"Hell no, not any boy of mine," Dad laughs at me. His eyes are squinted. I laugh too. It's absurd to hear a man like him speak like that. He looks so educated, so worldly. Even at 60 his hair is still well-coiffed, gray all around, but it gives him a vibrancy and his eyes are always twinkling and engaging. His answers are always spot-on, sharp. He smells of old European cologne and he never dresses down except on Sundays. But he indulges.
I don't say anything but I breathe, alternate taking drags. We can hear the strained piano of a drunken version of Jingle Bells playing from inside. Someone was pounding the keys like they had to be punished for some hideous deed. It was probably my Aunt Elva, after one too many an eggnog.
"Well, you like the west coast enough, huh?" My father carefully ashes his cigarette upon the snow-flecked pavement. The weather was mild for New York in late December. We barely had an inch on the ground.
I don't think he liked the west coast. He travelled to Washington intermittently and went to California for lectures once or twice. He said it was good in small doses, as some things were, but balked when I told him I accepted the job in San Jose. To me, the west coast felt more real than things I experienced growing up in the east. And more relaxed. Less uptight, less frantic. People seemed to be more like, well, people.
"Sure do." Jingle Bells concludes with a loud bang. I think my father smiled, his wry lips twisting into a bow.
"I'm happy for you then, Dave," he said. I'm quiet. My mind isn't sure innately how to process this; it's a good thing, but I'm just taken aback.
"Well, thanks, Dad." My voice reads my amazement. It's not that my father has ever disapproved of my decisions or that my father has voiced his shame at the only child he had borne, but I never felt he was completely satisfied with me. Scholarships and awards and awkward accomplishments didn't mean a thing. Something was awry. Perhaps that's how it is with all parents, though. They expect more from their offspring than what they get.
There is silence. Just that. My cigarette burns out; the embers match the Christmas lights that hang from the neighborhood houses.
"You don't need to thank me," he coughs. And keeps coughing. A horrible, hacking sound that should have belonged to an old man and not my father. Who was not old. Who could not be old. He bends over some.
"Dad? Dad?" There's panic. "You all right?" I've been gone for months; I don't know what the hell is going on. No one does.
He raises his hand in the air, regaining his posture.
"Good as gold," my father whispers and I see his eyes against the night, for the first time. They do not twinkle as much. They are losing a luster.
I say nothing but nod my head in understanding. Matters of health were taboo in my household. Maybe it came from the fact both of my parents had grandparents burdened with various illnesses and conditions; maybe it came from my mother's line of work. Either way, both of my parents both their own well-being on the backburner. Hence the cigarettes, which were supposed to be done with fourteen years ago in some other life.
"We should head back in," I finally say when my thoughts get to be too much. I should say go to a doctor or how are you feeling. But instead, I gesture to my parents home. I gesture to the tree gleaming in the window that they decorated together right after the Thanksgiving I didn't come to.
My father clears his throat. Our cigarette butts line edge of the driveway. He pulls at his collar and goes in. I watch him from behind, wondering, did he lose weight?
This is not a story about my father, though. This is a story about my mother. She is inside then, wearing some bulky sweater and talking to her sister about local gossip and the novels they're trying to read. She is happy; there is rosy color in her face. Her life is about to change in these coming days.
Comments
Post a Comment