cry. Margie was still the parent, and so she hugged Martha while she cried, even though she knew that she should be the
one who was crying, who was getting hugged. Then Martha said, “You know, this is one fucked-up family.”
Margie said, “I really can’t handle that language coming from you.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
Margie was beginning to know what Martha pointed out was true even if she did choose to express it in such a vulgar way. Martha
made sense to her, as did her father’s psychiatrist, who attributed Jack Potter’s behavior to the trauma of his war experience.
Margie told the psychiatrist that her father had really loved her mother to the point of obsession. But the psychiatrist said,
“We blame love for a lot of things. Actually, it’s an easy way out. It protects us from having to deal with the real injuries.”
Margie nodded at him, understanding. When she was in the sixth grade and her class was studying the three paragraphs in their
social studies book devoted to World War II, she’d gone home and asked Jack Potter about his war experience. Her father’s
response was, “In June of 1944, New England lost fewer men on the beaches of France than Connecticut did at the circus a month
later.”
He had really said it to the wall across from his chair at the kitchen table. He’d heard Margie’s question, but had forgotten
where it was coming from. They were having dinner at the time. He’d cooked chicken wings. He and Margie didn’t like vegetables.
They were eating and reading. He was reading his papers and Margie was reading her comic books. She didn’t read her library
books at the kitchen table because she might drip chicken grease on them, and in those days the librarians would flip through
the pages searching for damage before accepting returns.
When Margie got married and visited her father at his new residence, she’d sit across from him at the little table in his
room where he was reading. She always brought a book so she could read while he went through his newspapers and magazines
just the way they’d done every night at home until Margie left their apartment to marry. She’d sit for an hour or so and then
when she’d get up to go, he’d say, “Thanks for visiting with me, Margie.” On occasion, he’d speak to the wall while she was
visiting, the way he had at home. Once he said, “I hope my eyes go last.” He didn’t say that because he cared so much about
his reading, but because the hospital staff tended not to bother him while he read. If he wasn’t reading they’d try to start
a conversation.
Even though he was carrying on a wall monologue, Margie still said, “Now they have books on tape, Dad, in case your
ears
are the last to go.”
He said, “You
listen
to stories that people tell—you
read
stories that people write. What is the sense in it?”
Yeah. What’s the sense in anything, Dad? Margie wondered. He saw no sense in living the life he might have led. He just wanted
to get life by him. Early on, Margie believed that without his wife, life was not life for her father, just like tapes were
not books. Margie used to look at him and think: This man has a broken heart and there’s no mending it. But as she came to
know his new psychiatrist, she began to change her mind. Once, just after he’d been confined to a wheelchair—he wouldn’t walk—the
doctor had come in for the first time, introduced himself, and started chatting. While the doctor was in the middle of his
third sentence—something like, “The view isn’t bad from…“—Jack Potter interrupted. He said, “What are you talking about?”
The doctor said, “Actually, I’ll be visiting you like this once a week. I’m treating your depression.”
Margie’s father said, “I’m not depressed. I’m happy.”
The doctor said, “You’re happy with merely existing?”
“That’s correct.”
“The war, Mr. Potter, changed your definition of
one who was crying, who was getting hugged. Then Martha said, “You know, this is one fucked-up family.”
Margie said, “I really can’t handle that language coming from you.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
Margie was beginning to know what Martha pointed out was true even if she did choose to express it in such a vulgar way. Martha
made sense to her, as did her father’s psychiatrist, who attributed Jack Potter’s behavior to the trauma of his war experience.
Margie told the psychiatrist that her father had really loved her mother to the point of obsession. But the psychiatrist said,
“We blame love for a lot of things. Actually, it’s an easy way out. It protects us from having to deal with the real injuries.”
Margie nodded at him, understanding. When she was in the sixth grade and her class was studying the three paragraphs in their
social studies book devoted to World War II, she’d gone home and asked Jack Potter about his war experience. Her father’s
response was, “In June of 1944, New England lost fewer men on the beaches of France than Connecticut did at the circus a month
later.”
He had really said it to the wall across from his chair at the kitchen table. He’d heard Margie’s question, but had forgotten
where it was coming from. They were having dinner at the time. He’d cooked chicken wings. He and Margie didn’t like vegetables.
They were eating and reading. He was reading his papers and Margie was reading her comic books. She didn’t read her library
books at the kitchen table because she might drip chicken grease on them, and in those days the librarians would flip through
the pages searching for damage before accepting returns.
When Margie got married and visited her father at his new residence, she’d sit across from him at the little table in his
room where he was reading. She always brought a book so she could read while he went through his newspapers and magazines
just the way they’d done every night at home until Margie left their apartment to marry. She’d sit for an hour or so and then
when she’d get up to go, he’d say, “Thanks for visiting with me, Margie.” On occasion, he’d speak to the wall while she was
visiting, the way he had at home. Once he said, “I hope my eyes go last.” He didn’t say that because he cared so much about
his reading, but because the hospital staff tended not to bother him while he read. If he wasn’t reading they’d try to start
a conversation.
Even though he was carrying on a wall monologue, Margie still said, “Now they have books on tape, Dad, in case your
ears
are the last to go.”
He said, “You
listen
to stories that people tell—you
read
stories that people write. What is the sense in it?”
Yeah. What’s the sense in anything, Dad? Margie wondered. He saw no sense in living the life he might have led. He just wanted
to get life by him. Early on, Margie believed that without his wife, life was not life for her father, just like tapes were
not books. Margie used to look at him and think: This man has a broken heart and there’s no mending it. But as she came to
know his new psychiatrist, she began to change her mind. Once, just after he’d been confined to a wheelchair—he wouldn’t walk—the
doctor had come in for the first time, introduced himself, and started chatting. While the doctor was in the middle of his
third sentence—something like, “The view isn’t bad from…“—Jack Potter interrupted. He said, “What are you talking about?”
The doctor said, “Actually, I’ll be visiting you like this once a week. I’m treating your depression.”
Margie’s father said, “I’m not depressed. I’m happy.”
The doctor said, “You’re happy with merely existing?”
“That’s correct.”
“The war, Mr. Potter, changed your definition of
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