a use for it that it hadn’t had. His eyes made me feel the same way.
During all these years I’ve thought about his eyes, and how they became so different. And since so much was about to change because of him, I’ve thought possibly that a long-suppressed potential in him had suddenly worked itself into visibility on his face. He was becoming who and what he was always supposed to be. He’d simply had to wear down through the other layers to who he really was. I’ve seen this phenomenon in the faces of other men—homeless men, men sprawled on the pavement in front of bars or in public parks or bus depots, or lined up outside the doors of missions, waiting to get in out of a long winter. In their faces—plenty of them were handsome, but ruined—I’ve seen the remnants of who they almost succeeded in being but failed to be, before becoming themselves. It’s a theory of destiny and character I don’t like or want to believe in. But it’s there in me like a hard understory. I don’t, in fact, ever see such a ruined man without saying silently to myself: There’s my father. My father is that man. I used to know him.
Chapter 12
T HINGS YOU DID. THINGS YOU NEVER DID. THINGS you dreamed. After a long time they run together.
After Berner and I had gone to bed on the Wednesday night my father returned, I listened to my parents in the kitchen, talking, laughing, washing dishes. The noise of water running. The clatter of plates and silverware. A cabinet opening and clicking closed. Their softened voices.
“Nobody would ever think . . .” my father said, then I couldn’t hear the rest.
“Do you want to make a family outing out of it?” my mother said. The water went on, then off. It was her more sarcastic voice.
“Nobody would ever think,” he said again. Then my name. “Dell.”
“You’re not. No,” she said.
“Okay.” Dried plates being stacked.
“So, are you happy?” Too loud for me not to hear.
“What’s happy got to do with it?”
“Everything. Absolutely.”
And this was my dream: running out in my pajamas into the kitchen light, where they were standing, looking at me. My tall father—his small eyes still gleaming. My tiny mother in her white pedal pushers and pretty green blouse with green buttons. A face of grave concern. “I’m going,” I say. Fists clenched. Face damp. Heart pounding. My parents begin to recede in my vision, as when you’re sick and fever shrinks the world and distance lengthens. My parents grew smaller and smaller until I was in the harshly lit kitchen alone, and they were at the vanishing point, just about to disappear.
Chapter 13
I SLEPT LATE ON THURSDAY, FROM HAVING BEEN UP and hearing them move around in the night. Our mother came in my room at eight—her glasses, her face soft and peering, close to my face, her small cool hand touching my bare shoulder. Her breath smelled sweet with Ipana and sour with tea. The door to my room stood open. Our father’s figure passed by it. He was wearing blue jeans and a plain white shirt and his Acmes.
“Your sister’s had breakfast. There’s Cream of Wheat for you.” Her eyes were focused on my face, as if she saw something unexpected there. “We have to go away for a day. We’ll be back tomorrow. It’ll be a good experience for you two to look after things.” Her face was calm. She’d made her mind up on something.
Our father stopped in the doorway, his hair combed and shiny. He was shaved. My room smelled like his talcum. He was very tall in the empty door space.
“You and your sister don’t answer the phone,” he said. “And don’t go anywhere. We’ll be back tomorrow evening. This’ll be good experience for you.”
“Where’re you going?” I gazed up at the sunlight behind him in the living room, my eyes burning from too little sleep.
“I have some more business. I mentioned it,” he said. “I need your mother’s opinion.” He was talking softly, but I could see a vein in his
During all these years I’ve thought about his eyes, and how they became so different. And since so much was about to change because of him, I’ve thought possibly that a long-suppressed potential in him had suddenly worked itself into visibility on his face. He was becoming who and what he was always supposed to be. He’d simply had to wear down through the other layers to who he really was. I’ve seen this phenomenon in the faces of other men—homeless men, men sprawled on the pavement in front of bars or in public parks or bus depots, or lined up outside the doors of missions, waiting to get in out of a long winter. In their faces—plenty of them were handsome, but ruined—I’ve seen the remnants of who they almost succeeded in being but failed to be, before becoming themselves. It’s a theory of destiny and character I don’t like or want to believe in. But it’s there in me like a hard understory. I don’t, in fact, ever see such a ruined man without saying silently to myself: There’s my father. My father is that man. I used to know him.
Chapter 12
T HINGS YOU DID. THINGS YOU NEVER DID. THINGS you dreamed. After a long time they run together.
After Berner and I had gone to bed on the Wednesday night my father returned, I listened to my parents in the kitchen, talking, laughing, washing dishes. The noise of water running. The clatter of plates and silverware. A cabinet opening and clicking closed. Their softened voices.
“Nobody would ever think . . .” my father said, then I couldn’t hear the rest.
“Do you want to make a family outing out of it?” my mother said. The water went on, then off. It was her more sarcastic voice.
“Nobody would ever think,” he said again. Then my name. “Dell.”
“You’re not. No,” she said.
“Okay.” Dried plates being stacked.
“So, are you happy?” Too loud for me not to hear.
“What’s happy got to do with it?”
“Everything. Absolutely.”
And this was my dream: running out in my pajamas into the kitchen light, where they were standing, looking at me. My tall father—his small eyes still gleaming. My tiny mother in her white pedal pushers and pretty green blouse with green buttons. A face of grave concern. “I’m going,” I say. Fists clenched. Face damp. Heart pounding. My parents begin to recede in my vision, as when you’re sick and fever shrinks the world and distance lengthens. My parents grew smaller and smaller until I was in the harshly lit kitchen alone, and they were at the vanishing point, just about to disappear.
Chapter 13
I SLEPT LATE ON THURSDAY, FROM HAVING BEEN UP and hearing them move around in the night. Our mother came in my room at eight—her glasses, her face soft and peering, close to my face, her small cool hand touching my bare shoulder. Her breath smelled sweet with Ipana and sour with tea. The door to my room stood open. Our father’s figure passed by it. He was wearing blue jeans and a plain white shirt and his Acmes.
“Your sister’s had breakfast. There’s Cream of Wheat for you.” Her eyes were focused on my face, as if she saw something unexpected there. “We have to go away for a day. We’ll be back tomorrow. It’ll be a good experience for you two to look after things.” Her face was calm. She’d made her mind up on something.
Our father stopped in the doorway, his hair combed and shiny. He was shaved. My room smelled like his talcum. He was very tall in the empty door space.
“You and your sister don’t answer the phone,” he said. “And don’t go anywhere. We’ll be back tomorrow evening. This’ll be good experience for you.”
“Where’re you going?” I gazed up at the sunlight behind him in the living room, my eyes burning from too little sleep.
“I have some more business. I mentioned it,” he said. “I need your mother’s opinion.” He was talking softly, but I could see a vein in his
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