Jun '02 [Home]
Fiction
South
Terrence Dunn
[Dunn's "A Tornado of Birds," a very different story of father and son, appeared in the Mar '02 issue. Eds.]
We split up, each feigning indifference. Or maybe she meant it.
She headed north for the summer to visit an old flame who was teaching golf at Mount Snow. I knew he'd been after her for years. They would get bored with each other in a few weeks. It still bothered me, though. I hate golf.
I took the opposite direction, left our sub-sublease on 89th and Amsterdam and went to a friend's loft, just across from the Spring Street Book Store. I used to spend a lot of my time there when I first got to the City, reading and daydreaming about the future, before I got locked into making ends meet in the present. My friend was at a photo shoot in Paris. He did all right. I resolved to change, to reconnect to the good things that I care about. Rehabilitate myself. Stop drinking, smoking, get back in shape.
I didn't do those things, didn't try, not even once. In June, my father died. I was asked to give a eulogy at his funeral, and for reasons I don't understand, I agreed to. We hadn't spoken in years. No particular reason. I think we'd each just concluded that the other was a jerk. I told myself I'd gotten tired of being yelled at by a drunk. I told myself that, but felt guilty, like there was something else I should be doing about it. Like I could make it better, if I really tried. If I was a really good son.
My mother and father had been separated for many years, since I was thirteen. She and my three sisters had scattered across the country. Every other Christmas or so all of us (except for him) would gather at someone's house. My sisters are nice people, but I'm the youngest and don't really know them all that well. Their husbands are all pretty successful: a lawyer, an accountant, and I forget what else. They talked about those things, professional things, and I felt left behind.
I can't say much about my mother. She acts like a real mom, nagging me about meeting people and going back to school and sending me goofy cards on my birthday. When my parents split up, the girls went with her and I went with my dad. I think she wanted me to fight that arrangement. I didn't, so that was that.
He had ended up in Charlotte, so that's where the funeral was. I stayed at a bland motel near the airport. Driving to the church, I didn't really notice a city, just a lot of strip malls and Denny's and billboard signs. It was very warm there. I'd been sweating ever since I got out of the shower—and still was, even with the air conditioning cranked up in my rented Fiesta. My mother gave me a big hug and everybody else congregated around me, as if I was someone special. There was a surprising number of people there, fifty or sixty. Someone said, That's his boy. An older woman kissed my cheek and held my hand tightly, whispering, I know this is tough. But it didn't feel that way. I was ashamed, actually, to feel relief. One more door closed. One less place to revisit.
I hadn't thought much the night before about what to say. Pretty much got drunk at the airport bar. The minister made some comments about Ronald's new friends all being here as most of the people in the pews nodded warmly. After him, another man went up and said, "Hi, my name is Phillip." The congregation nodded and said, quietly, "Hi, Phillip." He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and had a pony tail. He had to stop every few moments to take a breath. He said he loved my father. Next came Michael, who was twitchy but spoke in a brave, firm voice. A couple of others. Finally there was Angela, who was lovely and haunted. Each of them was greeted by a quiet hello from the pews. Angela talked about her higher power and about taking it one day at a time. She said she had been at the hospital and that the last day of my father's life was the best day he ever had.
I went to a few AA meetings not too long ago, to appease my girlfriend. The people there were kind of sad, but nice. I knew there was nothing there for me. My problem wasn't drinking. That's just what I did to fill in the blank spaces. My problem was the blank spaces. But going to the meetings made her back off for a while.
So that's where he'd ended up. I can't really remember him sober at all. That would have been interesting to see. I felt jealous of Angela and the others, like they had taken something from me.
My name was called, and I walked quickly up the aisle. I found my mother among the faces in the pews and forced a smile at her. I spoke in a careful, measured tone, more or less saying:
Ronald Shea was born in Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan in 1929 and lived most of his earlier life in a not particularly hospitable climate. A mother who died when he was twelve. A father who wasn't very giving, who drank too much and who had to stop working when he broke his back on the docks when Ronald was 17. Ronald put himself through school, fought in Korea, and got a job as a salesman at a pharmaceutical company, which is what he did, with success, until the day he died. He had a wife and four children and seven grandchildren, all of whom are here. Life was tough to him and he felt like you had to be tough right back at it. That's what he taught me, that's what he showed me. But it seems he made a lot of new friends recently and I can see from your faces that you cared about him.…
The faces were a blur, but I could feel them staring, the unblinking look of born-agains and recovering drunks. Suddenly unnerved, I looked away. A nice breeze had picked up. It passed through the tree outside, making it rustle against the open window frame. It reminded me of a cabana my girlfriend and I had stayed at in Barbados when we thought we were going to get married. It was very nice, lying in the bed with her by the window and listening to the ocean down the hill and the palms brushing the roof. I think I was happy then, at that moment.
Slightly panicked, I looked hard at the back wall. Words tumbled out of me before I knew I was going to speak them:
My father bought me a new bike the Christmas when I was seven and I remember sneaking downstairs at two in the morning and seeing him in the garage of our little split level, straining over the half-constructed frame, a glass and a bottle next to him, sweating and cursing. He didn't see me. But when we were done opening presents the next day, I still hadn't gotten the bike by the time we all went into the kitchen for breakfast before church, so I was sitting there, staring into my cereal, sad and worrying over what I had done wrong, afraid that this meant he was going to light into me again, when he walked into the kitchen wheeling the bike in front of him, saying, 'Oh, I forgot one thing.' And everyone looked at me with these smiles that showed they'd known this was coming. My father, my dad, had this look on his face that said this is something he wanted very badly to work out just the way he planned it. This is something he really cares about, this is someone he really cares about. And I jumped out of my chair and hugged him and everyone clapped and applauded. I really liked all of it then. I think I was happy then.
It was very still in the church. I took a deep breath.
I am sure I saw that look on his face. I know that sometimes I remember what I wish I had seen. I know that there are other times, angry times, that I do not want to remember. You all may have seen the better part of him that I missed. But I try to remember seeing that Christmas again, seeing right through the hard, bitter part of that man and finding my dad. But I cannot be sure.…I am sorry, I cannot think of what else to say.
When everyone left to go to the restaurant where a luncheon was being held, I drove for a while according to the directions, but then ignored the exit on the interstate and kept on driving south. I figured I'd return the car at another airport and fly home from there. Or maybe not.
I just drove, until long past dark, heading south, looking for something that reminded me of something, looking for something to connect to myself.
(Terrence Dunn was born in New York City and has his law practice here, but he lives in Pelham with his wife and family. He is at work on a novel and on several pieces about children.)
[Dunn's "A Tornado of Birds," a very different story of father and son, appeared in the Mar '02 issue. Eds.]