Short Century by David Burr Gerrard Page B

world.
    â€œThe twentieth century will be a short century,” he said. “Either we or the Soviets will launch the missiles before long, and all the lies will be burned away. Members of our family will be there for whatever comes afterward. Emily, you may be the founding mother of the postapocalyptic race.” Emily and I suppressed our giggles. “You’ll have to watch out for weakness, though,” our father continued. “Some of us have indulged in the ultimate weakness right here in this hotel.”
    Emily ducked behind him and did the noose-pantomime that she always did at this part of the speech.
    â€œI could tell even when I was a child that your grandfather was weak. When he killed himself I was not even terribly surprised. But Paul surprised me. I thought Paul was strong, and yet he decided to leave nothing of himself. It’s awful to say, but Paul might as well never have lived. You should have as many children as you can. I love both of you, but two surviving children is not enough.”
    â€œAre you insulting Paul?” I asked.
    â€œNo. I respect Paul enough to acknowledge that he never existed. That was what he set out to do and that was what he did. He also set out to make every minute that I spent with him a waste of my time on earth, and he did that as well. My son and my father had a lot in common with each other, and nothing in common with me. I find suicide simply unintelligible, as, I can already tell, does Emily.”
    â€œDaddy, don’t you want to give me my presents?” She adopted this little-girl tone whenever she spoke to our father. Around our father she was a different, and much diminished, person, which is strange given that I’m fairly certain that our father would have preferred her as she acted when it was only the two of us. How much sarcasm there was in her behavior was never clear to me, and maybe never clear to her.
    â€œArthur,” my father said, “you should know that I don’t think you’re doomed to kill yourself if you don’t want to.”
    â€œDaddy doesn’t mean that,” Emily said, putting her hand on my shoulder.
    â€œSo he does think I’m doomed to kill myself?”
    â€œJust because you’re not a very forceful young man,” my father said, “doesn’t mean you won’t find a way to make your mark.”
    â€œI’m going to prove you wrong,” I said. “Not about me, I don’t care about myself, but you’re wrong about the world. We’re not condemned to war, or whatever it is that you’re saying. There is good in the world.” I stormed off, though I didn’t know where in particular I was going. I made it a few steps before I fell on my ass.
    Yes, I slipped on a banana peel.
    f
    Free the oppressed peoples of the world, and make love to Miranda. These were my directives that fall and winter, and if I made little progress on the former, I proved abundantly triumphant on the latter. Soon, she was coming to school every weekend. (I always bought her ticket, though we never talked about it.) After the first several times we made love, lying entwined with Miranda’s sweaty body came to feel sacramental, or at least as I imagined sacraments must feel for a believer. I was amazed that both this and the episodes of haphazard groping and grasping I was accustomed to could be crammed together under the word “sex.” Our pleasure was so momentous it seemed Vietnamese peasants would have to experience some ripple effect.
    Our impulses were essentially monastic; for all our bluster about a worldwide movement, we brought out each other’s essential shyness. In truth we missed everything about 1968, both what was at the time incidentally and is now canonically ridiculous, and everything that was truly important. We were only dimly aware of the student movements outside the country, in Paris, Prague, Warsaw, Mexico City, Rome, West Berlin. The