My Beautiful Failure by Janet Ruth Young Page B

And then he said it was all too much trouble and he had changed his mind. And he made this little jumping sound—a sound of exertion, and she didn’t know if he was on his way to the pavement or what—but he said he had jumped back inside the building. Margaret felt so proud. She wished she could tell her parents what she did. Or at least her cousin who was a priest.
    But she couldn’t because of confidentiality, I said. That’s a shame.
    Margaret sat perfectly still, as if having saved someone’slife, she saw no need to ever move again. The phones were flashing, but none of us felt ready to take a call.
    I said finally that it seemed kind of weird, that a ninety-year-old man would be so nimble, jumping on and off ledges.
    That wasn’t so unusual, Richie explained. Plenty of eighty-five- and ninety-year-olds climbed mountains and ran marathons.
    Margaret raised her head, and I realized she had been praying. She went to the front room so Pep could debrief her about the call.

50.
fractured
    W hen I got home Dad was finishing another painting in the fruit-bowl series. The new painting showed the earth split in two like a coconut. The pieces sat in what looked like a woven basket, but when you looked closely the strands were human fingers. The title was Who Will Re-pair? Jodie and Linda oohed over the details. Jodie’s barrette dangled from two strands of hair like an oversize zipper.
    I pictured people coming in to the show and trying to make sense of this. I didn’t want Dad to be judged. By anyone. He was foolish to get his opinions from two silly girls.
    Nor did I want him judged for what happened in the winter. It was one thing for me to know something was wrong with Dad—that was necessary for getting the problem solved. It was another thing for people outside to know.
    He was my dad, after all. He was Bill Senior. And I was Bill Junior.

51.
muses
    M r. Gabler stopped by my desk, waiting. But I had nothing.
    “What is the problem this week?” he asked. “I gave you some leeway. This is a real failure to execute.”
    How could I muff that assignment again? It wasn’t even that difficult. I could have done it in fifteen minutes. But for the second class in a row I’d spaced out.
    “What was that all about?” Gordon asked me after class. He gets superb grades without appearing to try. He hardly ever mentions the work, but he never misses an assignment.
    Of all the people in the world, Gordy was definitely someone who could be trusted with the truth. “My dad wants to have an art show,” I told him.
    “Why are you telling me this like it’s bad news?”
    “It seems unrealistic,” I said. “I think he might be”—I turned around to face him so I can speak in a lower voice—“getting sick again.”
    “Sick how?” Gordon asked. His expression: face verystraightforward, almost at military attention, and lips kind of pursed together to make sure no sound of his own squeaked out. It was the visual equivalent of Richie’s listening voice, and I felt for that minute like I was the most important person in Gordy’s world.
    “Do you know what bipolar disorder is?” We were at his locker, number 217, and I stared at the front of 219 while I said those words. That Gordy would know something about Dad that Dad didn’t know himself—it was like one of those hospital gowns that open in the back, so everyone but you knows that your rear end is showing. It was humiliating.
    “I know some people who’ve been diagnosed with it,” Gordy said, digging out his lunch bag and a five-dollar bill. I wondered if he meant Brenda. But I didn’t push.
    “I’ve been reading up on it,” I said. I turned my head and met Gordy’s eyes. “Some people don’t start out bipolar, but if they’re depressed and start taking antidepressants in too high a dosage, they can become manic. Then they spend the rest of their lives swinging from one extreme to the other.”
    “You think that’s happening to your dad?” We