A Question of Manhood (13 page)

It was the service before Christmas, and the place was fairly glowing with expectation. The sermon was all about the love God has for the world, the hope Jesus represents, and the lesson was that what we need most will always be provided.

So I prayed for all I was worth. I figured I'd built up a little equity by now, and maybe someone would at least let me know they'd heard me, even if maybe I couldn't have everything I thought I needed just yet. So I prayed for the protection of Chris's soul, for life to find a new “normal” soon, and for me to figure out what Dad wanted beyond laundry and trash collection. As I prayed, silently of course, I got this really intense feeling all through me and a kind of warmth in the general vicinity of my throat. My eyes watered, but this time they didn't feel like sad eyes. I took it as a sign that I'd been heard.

Toward the end of the service the minister announced that the midnight service would begin at eleven tonight, which seemed odd to me; why was that a midnight service?
Never mind; don't ask stupid questions. Just ask Mom if she wants to go to it
.

On the drive home, that's what I did. We were about halfway there, and the sun was trying to make us believe it was really up there someplace. I took a turn, careful to put on the blinker and slow down, pretending there was a cup of water on the dashboard. When he'd taught me to drive, Dad had told me that's the way to handle turns with Mom in the car, so that's how I did it.

Then I said, “Mom? Is that midnight service something you'd like to do?”

She didn't answer right away. I waited. Finally, “I don't know how you knew that, Paul. I haven't done that since I was a girl, but I was thinking during the announcement that it would be a wonderful thing to do. I just didn't want to ask you to go to church twice in one day, and I don't really want to go alone. My brother won't go, I'm pretty sure.”

“That's okay. I don't mind, really.” And in truth, I was hoping to feel that intense feeling again in this “midnight” service, maybe even get something by way of an answer.

We had fried chicken for dinner, which I really like. I chose to take it as a sign that I was doing what Jesus wanted. During the meal, Mom mentioned to Dad that I was taking her to the midnight service. His reaction was not what I would have expected.

Fork frozen halfway to his mouth, he said, “You don't usually go to that.” And then he looked at me and scowled for a second before he put the fork into his mouth.

“It's kind of a special year, dear.” Mom's voice sounded odd. I couldn't tell whether she was trying not to cry or if she was irritated with Dad.

We all watched a little TV, and when Dad went into his den about ten, I went upstairs to change. I kept picking out clothes and putting them back and pulling them out again, not concentrating very well, until finally I realized that what I wanted to do was ask Dad to come. Maybe he'd been pissed that he'd be all alone in the house on Christmas Eve. So I went downstairs and stared at the door to the den. It felt a little like a lion's den; I wasn't in the habit of going in there. That had been Chris's right. Chris's duty. But it wasn't like I was gonna say anything bad, right? Finally I knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

He'd been reading one of his historical novels about British ships at war, and he looked over the tops of his glasses at me. I closed the door. If he said no, I didn't want Mom to know. “Um, Dad, I don't know if this is a good idea or not, but—well…”

“What is it Paul?” He sounded irritated.

“Okay, um, I was wondering if you might want to go with us. To the Christmas Eve service. We have to leave really soon, so…I don't know. I just thought I'd ask.”

His eyes went back to the book, still open in front of him. “You know your mother is going to want to go to church again tomorrow, don't you?”

I blinked.
Is he serious? Will she really? Again? Well…
“It's Christmas.” I shrugged. And what kind of an answer was that to give me, anyway?

“I was going to go with her tomorrow. I can't say I put any stock in all this praying, myself, but if she wants to go tomorrow I'll go with her. Give you a break.”

So I wouldn't have to go tomorrow? Or was it that he didn't want me to? I nodded to show I understood he wouldn't go tonight, but then I asked, “So you don't think I should go tomorrow?”

He closed his book, holding a finger in the page to keep his place. “I don't care whether you go or not. I'm not altogether sure I like this churchgoing business, but I don't see how I can discourage your mother when you keep taking her.”

“Oh. But didn't you go with her for a while before…” Before Chris died, was what I'd been going to say.

He opened his book a little sharply. “And what good did it do?” He glared at me while I tried to figure out how, or whether, to answer that. He sighed. “I honestly don't care, Chris. You know very well how I feel about it. Do what you want on this score.”

Chris. He'd called me Chris. I was so dumbfounded I didn't know how to respond.
Should I point it out? No, that would probably be a dumb-ass thing to do. It would only make him mad at both of us.
All I said was, “Okay. I'll go tonight. I'll think about going tomorrow.”

Did his comment to “Chris” mean he hadn't liked that Chris kept taking Mom to church? And did he think he was talking to Chris when he'd said that I knew how he felt? Because I really don't.

As I was backing out of the den he said, “I doubt I'll be up when you get back, so I'll say good night now.”

“Okay. Good night, Dad.”

In a daze I dressed in whatever came to hand and was standing at the door, coat over my arm and keys in my hand, when Mom came downstairs. She looked sweet and happy and maybe a little sad, too.

“Shall we go?” And she smiled at me.

I did my best to smile back, and thank God I remembered to hold all the doors at the right times, and that we got to the church without hitting anything. All my attention was on what Dad had said to Chris. To me, but to Chris.

It was an effort to pay attention during the service, too. I'd hoped that I'd get some tiny feeling of hope that things would get better and that Chris's soul would be taken to heaven, but I was numb. I kept losing track of what verse we were on in the hymns, and I barely noticed the organist making a mess of the endings of all those familiar carols. Mom held my hand a lot, and one time I forgot she had a hold on it and I tried to reach up to scratch my ear. Embarrassment hauled me back to the present, but only for a few minutes. Then I was back into fog again.

Had Dad resented it when Chris kept going with Mom to church when Dad wouldn't? And when Dad had started going again, after Chris had been home on leave, was he trying to be Chris for Mom? Had he been trying to do what he'd been telling me to do lately, to be a man and make things easier for her? And is he now getting me to do what he can't, just like he'd sent Chris to war for him?

My breath stopped, and I had to take in a really sharp gasp to get it going again. Once I did, the fog was gone. Or, not gone, but it had a different quality to it. Now it was a sort of red haze, like anger. Like fury. I was breathing again, that's for sure. Too quickly. In, out, in, out, round and round, setting up a whirlpool. It was an effort to calm myself enough to be a sane person by the time everyone stood for the final hymn, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” This time the fancy organ crap on the last verse really burned me, and I sang through gritted teeth.

I'd just shut the passenger side door for Mom and was walking around the back of the car to get in when I realized I hadn't spent any time at all praying. Not for Chris, not for me, not for anything. I stood frozen with my gloved fingers on the door handle; would this, like, cancel out all the praying I'd done up to now? I closed my eyes and took just a second to send up a silent plea.
Please, God; don't punish me—or Chris—for this
.

Christmas morning was a bust. It started out fine, with Mom making cocoa just like always, just as if Chris were there. She'd even done a stocking for me—candies, silly little trinkets, and a tangerine in the toe—which surprised me, 'cause I hadn't had a stocking in years. In fact, it confused me; it's kids who want Christmas stockings, not men, so I wasn't sure how to act. If I didn't get excited at all, it would hurt her feelings, but did I want to look like a kid in front of Dad? I walked a very uncomfortable line, and I don't think it made either of them happy.

Mom liked the bath set, or said she did, adding something about treating herself to some relaxing times. Then she handed Dad my gift to him where he sat in his favorite chair.

He stopped when the wrapping paper was partway off; he could already see what it was. He held it in both hands, propped it on his legs, and scowled at it. “Paul, just how did you manage to buy this? Did your mother do it for you?”

She was probably anxious to give me all the credit, 'cause she answered him herself, sounding cheerful. “Not a bit! He took care of these gifts all on his own.” She smiled at me.

But there was thunder brewing; I was surprised she couldn't tell. Dad's eyes flicked from her back to me. “Young man, bring me your wallet.”

I blinked stupidly. “What? Why?”

“Do as I say!”

“Andy?” Mom's voice was worried.

I tried to play casual. I shrugged and went upstairs, fetched it, and brought it back to where Mom and Dad were talking in hushed tones. He nearly snatched it from me and then emptied it completely, picking up every scrap of paper and examining every object.

“Dad, um, what exactly are you looking for?” I just stood there and watched, worried by his behavior, though I couldn't imagine what he thought I'd done.

Finally he threw the wallet onto the floor. “Where do you keep it?”

“Keep what? What are you talking about?”

“Don't you pretend with me. You know very well.”

I threw a glance at Mom, silently pleading for her to come to my rescue, but she was looking at the floor. She obviously knew what this was all about.

Time to be a man.
“Dad, if you want me to answer you, ask me a question I
can
answer.”

He stood, paper and bows and tobacco packets falling in cascades. His voice was dark. “Where is the false ID you used?”

ID? ID…
And suddenly it dawned on me. I let out an exasperated sigh. “I don't have a false ID. Mr. Chandler and I made an arrangement. He carried the tobacco out of the shop, gave it to me outside, and told me to come back after Christmas”—my voice started to rise—“to pay him for the stuff and to tell him how much you liked it!” We stood there, nearly toe to toe, and I realized for the first time that I was now just a little taller than him. My voice took on a sarcastic note. “So, Dad, how much do you like it? Please tell me so that I can report back to Mr. Chandler, since both of you don't trust me.”

“This isn't a question of trust. Selling tobacco to you is illegal.”

“Who do you think you are, a cop or something?”
That oughta hurt
.

He just stood there, breathing noisily through his nose, and then he said, “You talked Mr. Chandler into jeopardizing his store by breaking the law for you.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. You're welcome.” I turned and stomped upstairs to my room.

My parents' voices drifted up from downstairs, and my ears strained for recognizable words and angry tones. When I could hear neither, I took it as a good sign; maybe Mom would calm him down for me this time. I half expected someone to come knocking on my door, and after an hour I heard first Mom and then Dad come upstairs, but I guess all they did was dress for church.
Will anyone ask me if I'm going?

The answer was no. They just went downstairs again, got in the car, and drove off.

What the fuck?
Had Dad told Mom I didn't want to go? Or was this their way of telling me how out of line I was and that I was only marginally in the family at the moment?

Would they have just walked out on Chris?

Hell, no!

I threw my door open and nearly ran downstairs. Mom had put my wallet back together and had already dealt with most of the wrappings and bows and crap, though it looked like she'd stopped partway through. But my stocking, all neatly re-stuffed, was in a pile with the wallet and the other things I'd been given. There was a new light for my bicycle, biking gloves, a new parka, and
Seven Separate Fools,
the latest Three Dog Night album. I wrapped my arms around all of it, hiked back upstairs, and tossed it all onto my bed. Then I went into Chris's room and pulled out about ten albums from his collection that I wanted and added them to the pile in my room. I stood there, panting more from fury than exertion, and ran a hand through my hair. Then I wheeled around and went back into Chris's room.

One of these days Mom was gonna put a special lock on this door and hide the key, and I wouldn't be able to come in here anymore. Would I still care? What difference would it make? I stood there, looking around at everything, turning in place, and getting angrier with each revolution.

“FUCK!”

I yelled it again, just to hear it, just for the satisfaction of doing it. Then, “Fuck you, Chris!”

Fuck you. Fuck you for signing up. Fuck you for trying to do what Dad wanted you to do. Fuck you for going over there. Fuck you for getting killed. Fuck you for being gay. And fuck you for making me love you.

Oh, yeah; and fuck you for leaving me this legacy to remember you by. This legacy of secrets. This burden I have to carry for you the rest of my fucking life.

I slammed the door on my way back to my room, where I nearly threw the mattress off the bed looking for the pages I'd written to him. The albums slid off of each other and onto the floor, but I didn't care. Crumpled papers in hand, I thundered downstairs, grabbed Dad's pipe lighter, and set fire to a corner of the wad. Too late I realized I needed to move the fireplace screen before I could toss the flaming mass in, and by the time I managed that with my one free hand, a bit of smoldering paper had separated itself and landed on some paper Mom hadn't picked up yet. Guess what happened.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, with the legs of the wooden table nearest the fireplace scorched and the carpet on that side of the hearth burned and stinking, the flames were out. My papers were gone, mission accomplished; but I had to come up with some reason why this had happened. I stood there, looking around, and my gaze landed on the pile of wrapping paper that Mom had left. So I crumpled it, tossed it all into the fireplace, and set fire to it. If I was going to catch hell—and there didn't seem any way out of that—I needed a better reason than “I was trying to get rid of some stuff I didn't want you to see.” I contemplated disappearing for a while, but I knew that if Dad got home and I'd skipped out it would be worse. So I went back to Chris's room and knelt by the bed, thinking I'd wait there. And I prayed.

Jesus, it wasn't my fault I didn't get to church this morning. I was going to go, you know that. If you're fair, you won't let this relapse affect what I've been asking for. Which, as you know, is for Chris to be in heaven, and for things here on earth to be calm enough for us to figure out how we can go on from here. So please don't blame me because my dad thinks I did something I shouldn't have. He's wrong. Mr. Chandler wouldn't have done something that would jeopardize his store, and Dad just couldn't back down from his high horse. So he tried to make it my fault anyway, which you know very well it wasn't. So don't take it out on me, or Chris. Please. Thank you. Amen.

I sat on the bed, but that didn't seem right. I sat at the desk. But the walls started closing in on me, so I went into the basement and stayed there until I heard the car.

Predictably, Dad blew his stack. “What in God's name were you thinking?”

For a few minutes Mom stood in the doorway to the kitchen looking worried, but she must have figured she couldn't help because she disappeared into that housewife's haven.

“I was trying to help, I told you. I was getting rid of some of this stuff. Cleaning up.”

“You sure cleaned up, all right. Just look at this mess! This table belonged to your grandmother, and now it's ruined. And the carpet!”

Yeah, I can see that. Did you think that got by me?
I said nothing aloud but waited for the steam to rise a little higher, which I knew it would; he wasn't played out. But I wasn't gonna do anything, if I could help it, to make things worse. I kept my mouth shut.

“What do you think ought to happen next, hmmm? What's the next step here?”

“I don't know, Dad. I've said I'm sorry, I've admitted it was stupid. What else can I say?”

It escalated from there with him shouting about what a child I was until I'd about had it. I started fighting back. “It wouldn't have happened if you guys hadn't just left on me. Why didn't you ask me to go with you? I asked you to go with us last night.”

“Don't you try to make this anyone's fault but yours, young man.”

“You tried to make it my fault that you were wrong about my nonexistent fake ID.”

Silence. Always a bad sign. It's the point in one of these arguments where Dad gives up on words and resorts to physical bashing. His arm shot out and pointed in the direction of the basement door.

Now we'd reached the point at which our family script says I'm to turn and walk in front of him to the door and down the steps, anticipating the strike of a leather strap against my ass all the way. But this time I didn't turn.

“What are you waiting for?” he nearly shouted.

“I'm waiting for an apology.” I guess I had a death wish or something. “You accused me of having an illegal ID this morning, in case you've forgotten, and I had no such thing. The only thing I did wrong was to get you something I knew you'd like for Christmas. And now you're gonna whip my ass? I don't think so.”

He stepped forward, nearly onto my toes, and looked up at me. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Andy!” It was Mom's voice. She was in the fray now, and she pushed me away and faced Dad herself. “It's Christmas Day!”

I wanted more. I wanted her to point out that he'd been wrong to accuse me earlier, that they'd both been wrong not to ask me to go with them, and that the burned wood and carpet just evened today's score. But she evidently wanted all of us to live to see another day and just stood between us. It reminded me of that time Mom had told me I wasn't taking Laura to any party the weekend that Chris would be home.
Jeez, was that only five weeks ago?
Then, and now, she was stone. She was ice. She was something that would not be moved.

So in the end it took a woman to stare down two men who were bent on damaging each other. Because I swear, if he'd come at me with that belt, I'd have taken it away from him, and he'd be lucky if I didn't use it on him. I think Mom knew that. I think she knew the time when I'd let him do that to me was over.

Dinner that night was about as glum as it's possible to imagine. I was civil to Mom, but I didn't speak to Dad. He spoke to no one.

She cried as she did the dishes. I felt like a shit, but I didn't see what I could have done differently. Dad just landed in his precious recliner, and I went upstairs to my room. Mom went into Chris's room and shut the door.

Happy Birthday, Jesus
.

 

The next morning, after Dad was safely at work, I sat at the desk in his den, with the door shut. I'd looked up Mr. Treadwell's home number and had even written it on a piece of green-lined paper. It was in front of me now, staring up at me. Three times, maybe four, I picked up the telephone handset and dialed a few of the numbers before I hung up again. The thing was, I didn't know what I'd say to him. What I had was a laundry list of complaints against my dad, and a few against Chris that I couldn't talk about. And what was Mr. Treadwell gonna be able to do about any of that? What could anyone do?

In the end I called Marty Kaufman. I could have called Bobby, or Terry, or a couple other guys, but I called Marty, probably because he's the one my parents liked the least. It had been a while since we'd talked outside of necessity, but we weren't enemies or anything. So we decided to hook up. He had his license by now.

“Let's cruise, kid,” he said. “I'll let you drive some.”

When I saw his car from my bedroom window I headed downstairs, shrugging into a jean jacket as I went. I called to Mom that I was going out for a while, not stopping long enough to hear if she had anything to say to that, or if she wanted any more information.

Marty had a five-year-old Mustang, dark green, standard transmission. We spent some time in a nearly empty parking lot while he let me practically strip his gears figuring out how to work the clutch, and finally I got it. Then he took the wheel back and gunned the car over icy patches, spinning around as many times as possible before the tires caught pavement again. At one point something went a little screwy under the hood, and Marty had to get this mondo toolbox, bright shiny red, out of the trunk.

“Jeepers, creepers,” I said, faking amazement. “Anything you don't have in that box?”

“Not much. You never know what you'll need, eh?”

He had no trouble setting things to rights, and we were off. I drove some on the highway—license laws be damned—and we stopped for burgers and sodas around three o'clock. After that he just drove around, honking at other cars and whistling at girls, sometimes with the windows down so they'd hear. Marty made so many comments about one girl's body or another's that I finally asked him, “How much have you done, anyway? How far have you gone with a girl?”