Turn Us Again by Charlotte Mendel Page B

the way. Despite the clement weather, there is a fire in the hearth and the homey atmosphere that belongs to the English pub.
    My father is waiting for me and glad to see me. I made the right decision, disappearing for the day. That’s what he wants. I prepare our Marks and Sparks repast, and he enjoys it as much as I do. He does not mention the manuscript, and I guess that it has caused him great unhappiness. The decision to let me read it must have been difficult, born of his belief that it was the right thing to do, rather than his inclination. I do not know what will be revealed, but I can reassure him at this point, at least.
    â€œI couldn’t put Mum’s manuscript down last night. I got to the point where she had met Philip for the first time.”
    â€œAh yes, her first lie.”
    This irritates me and I lash out: “The first time you showed a streak of violence. But not the last, eh Father?”
    â€œA novel handpicks specific events and elaborates their details. As a result, the emerging picture is limited to the knowledge of those events. I would like to rise above the narrow analysis of ‘she said, I said,’ but it’s difficult, because our marriage is presented as a series of events in the manuscript. Do you understand?”
    Man, my father speaks like a character in a nineteenth-century novel. “What’s that got to do with your violence?”
    â€œLooking back over our marriage, I want to weep over what might have been if I had been calmer, less paranoid, and yes, less violent. My faults smite me in the face every time I think of your mother. I suffer over the unhappiness I caused her and torture myself with visions of how I would do it differently, if I had another chance. Still the nature of my role here forces me to justify myself all the time.”
    â€œWhat role?”
    My father looks annoyed. “Let’s go into the sitting room.” He brings two beers, two pint glasses, a bowl of olives and a bowl of chips, or crisps as they call them here. Prawn cocktail flavour. We sit on either side of the small electric fire.
    â€œMaybe ‘role’ is the wrong word. I want to present the other side of the coin while you are reading. To do this, I am forced to counter or explain details of events that happened over thirty years ago. I sound like I am self-justifying, but I’m not sure how to do it differently. I loved your mother. I was a flawed husband. But when you ask me why I reacted so strongly the first time she lied to me, I want to present the other side of the coin for the small details of that event.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad, you don’t have to explain yourself all the time. Justify to your heart’s content.”
    â€œThe deceit issue worried me. I have no antenna telling me when somebody is lying. I believe everybody always until I catch them in a lie. Then I doubt them always, because I don’t understand the purpose of lying.”
    â€œWell, she explains it. She told a little white lie to escape your wrath.”
    â€œThat wasn’t the only time.”
    I am silent for a minute, lighting a cigarette to give me time to think. I have inherited this honesty from my father. I too, cannot lie. Some woman will come into the office with a bad haircut, and everybody will be saying, “I love your haircut!” I try to hide, but they always catch me. “Haven’t you noticed that I got my hair cut, Gabriel?”
    â€œYes, yes I did,”
    â€œDo you like it?”
    And I go purple with embarrassment, because for some weird reason God has screwed me over big time by denying me the ability to lie.
    â€œWell, do you like it?”
    â€œIt … it will grow out soon.”
    Or opening presents with Jenny’s family. Horrors! They never let me get away with “Oh wow, what a kind thought” as I open some over-sized sweater. It’s always: “Do you like