we sat in the kitchen over a light supper. Rose and Arthur yawned frequently from exhaustion and tension. No one was hungry and with the topic of the letters having been instantly elevated to a taboo, there was nothing anyone cared to talk about.
Rose was the first to leave the table. Then I went into the living room and turned on the TV. Arthur followed and sat at a respectful distance from me on the sofa.
“Did you talk to What’s His Face about a job?” Arthur asked.
I nodded. A White Sox game was on, tied 6 to 6 in the fifteenth inning.
“You know there’s no rush,” said Arthur. “You don’t have to get a job. I hope you know that.”
“I’ve got to get a job. That’s what they told me. It has to look like I’m getting adjusted.”
“You’ll adjust. It doesn’t have to happen right away. I told you what it was like for me when I came home from the Army.”
I nodded, but Arthur went on.
“I was of course glad to be back. The war was over and I was alive. I had people I wanted to see and places to go. The whole country was celebrating. But I couldn’t do it. Everyone thought your mother and I were having a little second honeymoon but the truth was I couldn’t leave the house. It was the damndest thing. I was just stuck here as if I was paralyzed.”
“I know, I know,” I said. And then, looking away from the TV but not quite at my father, I said, “But there’s a big difference between coming home from World War II and coming home from a fucking insane asylum where you’ve been sent because you burned your girlfriend’s house down. No one wants to see me.”
Arthur shook his head. “Stop it. With an attitude like that you can’t expect very much.”
“That’s fine. I don’t expect anything.”
“Don’t you understand? Everyone is willing to grant that what’s behind you is behind you. Look at all the people here today. I know you don’t care very much about them but that’s not the point. They were all happy to see you again. It was almost like you’ve never been gone.”
“Right. I noticed.”
“Now it’s your turn, David. It’s time for you to realize to yourself that what’s in the past is in the past.”
“I don’t think I know what the past is. I don’t think there’s any such thing.”
“You want to know what the past is?” said Arthur. “It’s what’s already happened. It’s what can’t be brought back.”
“The future can’t be brought back, either. Neither can the present.”
“I’ll show you what the past is,” said Arthur. He clapped his hands together once, waited a moment, and then clapped them again—the sound was hollow, forlorn. “The first clap was the past,” he said with a subdued yet triumphant smile. If we had shared the sort of life that Arthur had wanted for us it would have contained hundreds of conversations just like this one.
“Then what was the second clap?” I said. “That’s the past too, isn’t it? And right now, while I’m saying this, isn’t this the past too, now?”
Rose came in holding that week’s National Guardian. She wore a light blue robe and her summer slippers; she was smoking her nightly Newport. “I’m going to bed now,” she announced. It was something she used to say to hurt Arthur, to make him feel he was being avoided and to emphasize the point that they wouldn’t be making love. There had been a time when Rose had felt she could protect her position in the marriage, and protect her privacy, by simply (and it was simple) withholding her love. But now that her love was no longer sought there was no advantage to be gained in rationing it. It was clear that the power she once had was not real power—it had been bestowed upon her, assigned. It had all depended on Arthur’s wanting her, depended on his vulnerability to every nuance of rejection. He had, she realized now, chosen her weapon for her. He had given her a sword that only he could sharpen.
Arthur checked his watch. “OK,” he
Rose was the first to leave the table. Then I went into the living room and turned on the TV. Arthur followed and sat at a respectful distance from me on the sofa.
“Did you talk to What’s His Face about a job?” Arthur asked.
I nodded. A White Sox game was on, tied 6 to 6 in the fifteenth inning.
“You know there’s no rush,” said Arthur. “You don’t have to get a job. I hope you know that.”
“I’ve got to get a job. That’s what they told me. It has to look like I’m getting adjusted.”
“You’ll adjust. It doesn’t have to happen right away. I told you what it was like for me when I came home from the Army.”
I nodded, but Arthur went on.
“I was of course glad to be back. The war was over and I was alive. I had people I wanted to see and places to go. The whole country was celebrating. But I couldn’t do it. Everyone thought your mother and I were having a little second honeymoon but the truth was I couldn’t leave the house. It was the damndest thing. I was just stuck here as if I was paralyzed.”
“I know, I know,” I said. And then, looking away from the TV but not quite at my father, I said, “But there’s a big difference between coming home from World War II and coming home from a fucking insane asylum where you’ve been sent because you burned your girlfriend’s house down. No one wants to see me.”
Arthur shook his head. “Stop it. With an attitude like that you can’t expect very much.”
“That’s fine. I don’t expect anything.”
“Don’t you understand? Everyone is willing to grant that what’s behind you is behind you. Look at all the people here today. I know you don’t care very much about them but that’s not the point. They were all happy to see you again. It was almost like you’ve never been gone.”
“Right. I noticed.”
“Now it’s your turn, David. It’s time for you to realize to yourself that what’s in the past is in the past.”
“I don’t think I know what the past is. I don’t think there’s any such thing.”
“You want to know what the past is?” said Arthur. “It’s what’s already happened. It’s what can’t be brought back.”
“The future can’t be brought back, either. Neither can the present.”
“I’ll show you what the past is,” said Arthur. He clapped his hands together once, waited a moment, and then clapped them again—the sound was hollow, forlorn. “The first clap was the past,” he said with a subdued yet triumphant smile. If we had shared the sort of life that Arthur had wanted for us it would have contained hundreds of conversations just like this one.
“Then what was the second clap?” I said. “That’s the past too, isn’t it? And right now, while I’m saying this, isn’t this the past too, now?”
Rose came in holding that week’s National Guardian. She wore a light blue robe and her summer slippers; she was smoking her nightly Newport. “I’m going to bed now,” she announced. It was something she used to say to hurt Arthur, to make him feel he was being avoided and to emphasize the point that they wouldn’t be making love. There had been a time when Rose had felt she could protect her position in the marriage, and protect her privacy, by simply (and it was simple) withholding her love. But now that her love was no longer sought there was no advantage to be gained in rationing it. It was clear that the power she once had was not real power—it had been bestowed upon her, assigned. It had all depended on Arthur’s wanting her, depended on his vulnerability to every nuance of rejection. He had, she realized now, chosen her weapon for her. He had given her a sword that only he could sharpen.
Arthur checked his watch. “OK,” he
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