original short-story
Oct. 24th, 2006 07:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
laene_lifI don't know why I'm posting this here...
Probably no one is interested in reading this, and I don't mind that. I guess writing those couple of fics recently has gotten me interested in writing again, so I started looking through some of my old stuff. This is one I'm pretty proud of and which means a lot to me personally. I wanted to revise it a little bit, so I did. And now I'm... sharing it here, just for the hell of it. If anyone actually does try to read it out of curiosity - I apologize for being extremely long-winded. If anyone does read it and has any comments, I'd appreciate them very much.
Elegy for a Father
They are in the church where he and she were married twenty-five years ago -- but twenty-five years ago, there hadn't been a casket resting before the altar. He walks at the head of the procession, his black shoes padding softly on the carpeted aisle. She is trying not to cry, but the tears cannot be stopped; they fight their way out from within, in sudden quick jabs. He tries not to look. It is the first time he has been in a church in over a year.
. . .
Dr. Richard Stephenson clicked the top of his pen with relieved satisfaction and placed it in the pocket of his neatly-pressed button-down shirt, next to the cherry chap-stick. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, squinting blearily down at the meaningless records of his patients and their heart-problems, and then dragged a hand across his face and returned the glasses. He sat and stared directly in front of him at the pale wallpaper of the office that had been his for nearly twenty years, unmoving, except for a single finger that unconsciously twirled his dark hair, now streaked with distinguished silver. A hand on the small, rectangular clock on his desk jerked reluctantly forward with each passing second.
Near this clock were a few framed photographs. One featured four children, four laughing little girls, each in fuzzy, red feet-pajamas. It was Christmas morning. They were sitting on the knees of a their father, a skinny young man with slightly shaggy dark hair parted to the side, in khakis and a red woolen sweater. His big, strong hands supported them gently around their middles. He was smiling warmly, his deep brown eyes glowing from behind his glasses, crinkling with happiness at the corners.
But Richard wasn’t looking at the photographs. He was staring blanky at the grey wall before him. Suddenly, the door flew open and Richard looked up. In the doorframe stood a very short woman with bright red hair, grinning ridiculously, like the host of a television program for kids, doing everything within her power to get them excited about some saccharine sing-a-long. Her name was Dr. Katrina Martin, although her friends and recently divorced husband had always just called her Tina, or sometimes Teeny –- “because I’m so short!” she’d explain gleefully.
“Rick!” she said with mock disapproval, her hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you are still working!” She shook a finger at him imperially, as if to say he should know better. “Come on, let’s go home.” He laughed a little and nodded, as she slid up to his desk and leaned against it slyly. “You know,” she began, “maybe it’s time for another vacation. How does Bermuda sound?”
He smiled, pushed back his seat and rose to gather his things. “Sounds great.” She slipped her arm around his waist and brushed her head against his shoulder as they left the office and headed for his car.
Tina was right, Richard thought. He did work too hard; he deserved to relax. A vacation would do him good. He had been to Bermuda before -- he had walked along its long, pink beaches, hand in hand with his wife Anne. It was their honeymoon. But Richard wasn’t thinking about pink beaches. No, he was thinking about scuba diving. Since leaving the house on Union St., where Anne and his youngest still lived, he had become a certified scuba diver. He would love another opportunity to explore the distractingly bright colors of reefs deep below the surface, getting lost in the swirling cloud of a passing school of fish.
Richard drove home in his brand new Lexus sedan with Tina at his side, speeding all the way, as always. Anne used to tell him to slow down, but she was too cautious, too slow. He couldn’t help it if he was simply more efficient. Of course, he knew that only skilled drivers such as himself should go as fast as he did -- he was proud to say he had never gotten a ticket in his life. Suddenly a car pulled out into the road in front of him and he slammed on his breaks. “Turkey,” he muttered angrily at the driver, proceeding to tailgate the him until he finally pulled over. Richard shook his head disdainfully at the offender as he passed him, before racing down the road.
They arrived at last at the driveway of Tina’s house, still in one piece. He draped his blazer and tie over one arm and walked up the front steps of the house. The door creaked as they entered and swung shut loudly behind them. Immediately they were greeted by three golden retrievers, beating their tails against each other and the furniture as they struggled to be the first to say hello. A parakeet squawked noisily at their sudden appearance, causing a cat to leap down from its perch on the window sill and slink off into the next room.
“Hi, guys!” squealed Tina and their tails beat harder. Richard bent down to one of them and scratched his head. The dog panted happily and Richard began to wrestle with him. “A-whub-ub-ub-ahh,” he said as he rubbed the dog's stomach vigorously. It was the same sound he used to make as he drummed on the stomachs of his kids; they would always squirm and squeal with laughter, helpless to the overwhelming power of the tickle-monster. He wasn’t thinking about that, though -- he was thinking about dogs. What friendly, welcoming creatures golden retrievers were; anyone could walk into the house and the dogs would probably have followed without a thought! He had never considered himself a dog-person before, or an animal-person for that matter, but they were such open, affectionate creatures, so ready and willing to worship you -- who wouldn't enjoy that?
This was his life now. This was the home he had chosen in favor of the house he and his wife had bought together fifteen years ago and spent so long perfecting. He knew he made the right decision. He hadn’t been happy at home, dealing with a house full of teenage girls -- "gallivanting about!" he'd tell them. "The world revolves...!" Car accidents, mediocre grades, teen pregnancy, teen marriage engagement... Didn't they think of anyone but themselves? Didn't they think? They had said that he didn’t know them, that it was their mother who knew them, their mother who was always there... Their mother -- the good Catholic woman, moral and perfect and constant... She was always busy, driving the kids some place or other. How was it possible to spend that much time driving? If she was the one who really raised them, as they claimed, then she was the one to blame for their selfishness. No one in that house appreciated all he had done for them. Things were better now. Now that they were getting divorced and he was with Tina... Tina who appreciated him and made him laugh and always had some activity or trip planned.
“Guess what I bought at the store today!” said Tina. Richard looked up questioningly. She opened the fridge to display a bottle of chocolate syrup in one hand and a jar of jimmies in the other. “All of the ingredients for Hot Fudge Sundaes! Very high in Vitamin C: ...Chocolate!” She let out a shrill, delighted laugh. It was a favorite joke of hers.
“Oh,” he said, in a high-pitched voice aiming for pleasantly surprised. “Excellent.” He smiled.
“But we can’t have dessert before supper,” she said sagely, getting some things out of the refrigerator. “It’ll be ready in about half an hour.”
Richard poured himself some Scotch, sat down on the couch and reached for the remote, finding it on the coffee table, just as it was supposed to be. Yes, things were definitely better now -- he had never been able to keep track of the remote in his old house. He turned to the football game and the cheers of the crowd came blasting out from the surround-sound speakers he had purchased last month. After a few minutes, his peace was disturbed as a girl walked into the kitchen, car keys jingling as she clapped them against her palm. She was a junior in high school, with a pierced eyebrow and metallic blue hair.
“What’s for supper?” she asked her mother.
“Ribs.”
“Again? Ugh.”
“That’s not the response I want to hear, Justine,” Tina replied in a sing-song voice.
“Slut.”
“Oh-hoh!” cried Tina, spinning to face her and giggling madly. “Bitch!”
“Whore!”
Tina laughed and swatted the girl’s shoulder with a dish towel. “Oh, you’re bad. Isn’t she bad, Rick?”
Richard grunted from the couch, uninterested. The first time he had heard Justine insult Tina like that, he had been a bit alarmed, but Tina had laughed it off and turned it into a game -- she was good at doing that. Now it seemed to be one of their favorite games because they played it all the time, and they both got a good laugh out of it, so he just ignored it. It was perfectly normal.
Justine smiled sweetly at her mother, then turned and walked into the family room, giving Richard a noogie as she passed him. He jerked his head away and craned his neck to see her open the front door.
“See ya, Dick,” she said.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Richard shrugged and turned back to the TV. He didn’t really care where she went or what she did, as long as she didn’t take his car. He yawned and took a sip of his Scotch. An advertisement for a new Star Trek movie started and he watched with the skeptical yet unavoidable curiosity of a former trekkie. He and Anne used to watch Star Trek back when they were freshman in high school, sitting together on the ratty couch of his childhood home. But the truth of the matter was, it had really gone down the tube.
“Mommy?” came a whispery lisp from the kitchen.
“Yes, sweetie-pie?”
“I don’t feel good.”
Tina looked up with concern at her younger daughter, Cindy, who at eleven stood a good head above her. She liked to tell people that her mother was her best friend.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tina.
The girl hugged the blanket in her arms. “I have a tummy ache. And I’m tired.”
“Do you want to take a nap? Would that help?” The girl nodded sadly. “Want me to tuck you in?” Another nod was the response.
In the other room, Richard rolled his eyes in irritation. It was really ridiculous how spoiled those girls of Tina's were. Now his kids -- they would never act like that; they were much more mature and reasonable. Winning art contests, becoming class president, going on to good schools -- Richard congratulated himself on raising such polite, intelligent girls. But he didn't dwell on this thought; his attention was quickly commanded by the Patriots scoring a touchdown. The phone rang and he ignored it.
“Would you mind getting that, Rick?” Tina shouted as she started upstairs. Then to her daughter, he heard her ask, “Do you know when your sister is coming home?”
“She said she’s sleeping at Daddy’s,” was the muffled response.
Richard picked up the phone. “Hello?”
A voice on the other end announced that it was calling from the local nursing home, and asked to speak to Dr. Stephenson.
“Speaking,” said Richard.
“Ah.” The voice hesitated. “Dr. Stephenson... I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Richard waited, his dark brows furrowed. “I’m very sorry, sir, but I’m calling to inform you that your father, Albert Stephenson has died.” He blinked. Something cold seemed to wash over him in a wave as the words slowly sank in. His father was dead.
“What? When?” He tried to make the idea tangible.
“This evening... He was found dead in his room just minutes ago.”
Richard swallowed. “Thank you.” He hung up.
A few minutes passed as he stood in the kitchen, staring blindly.
Dead.
Slowly, he turned and walked to the couch in a daze, lowering himself and cupping his chin in his hand. One of the dogs came over and nuzzled him curiously, but he ignored it. He shut off the TV. The sudden silence that followed was almost startling.
He had known this would come. His father had been staying in a nursing home for the past two and a half years, steadily growing worse and worse. It was almost a relief, now that it had finally happened and he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. But a part of him couldn't help wondering, thinking that if he could have seen him again, one last time... But it wouldn’t really have been him; in truth, his father had died a long ago. He had been suffering from Alzheimer’s the past few years. He had barely known his son toward the end. Richard wasn't sure he had really ever known him. He decided not to think about it.
He wouldn’t think about the little boy riding his bike down the street, carefully setting up army men across the living room floor or working on puzzles in his room. He wouldn’t think about the man who was never home, but who, when he was home, was a great, strong presence. Richard had wanted to do all the things he did, to help him as he fixed the car, to grow up and become a doctor like him.
His mother was not often home either; unlike many women of her time, her career was very important to her. She was a renowned child pyschologist; she always said that she loved children. And then, three years after his marriage, cancer.
The person he really remembered from his childhood was Papa. Papa took him on walks to the pond, sat him on his knee and told him stories from Italy. Stroke. It happened the year before he entered high school - the year before he met Anne.
Richard idly tapped a finger against the glass of scotch. He recalled his brother, laughing as he skidded across the frozen water of the pond down the street. He remembered him years later, lying in the backseat of Richard's car at the family barbecue, staring back blearily at Richard's daughters gathered at the car windows, waving. Richard had had to tell the girls to let their uncle rest. Only two years later: liver failure.
Richard downed the rest of the glass.
Someday, he’d die too.
. . .
Places from his childhood flash by through the window of the hearse: the house he grew up in, Anne’s old house down the street, the high school they had both attended, the incredible hill they went gone sledding down so many winters ago... It somehow seems smaller now.
His youngest, Elizabeth, sits beside him, pale and quiet, wearing a long black skirt and a gray sweater; she is resting an elbow against the door, a finger idly twirling her thin auburn hair into knots, a habit inherited from her father. Richard thinks how beautiful her hair is, how it looks just like her mother’s hair once did. He told her so the night he announced he was leaving and moving in with Tina. She had been sitting on the roof when he found her, crying. He combed his fingers through her hair, the way he had when she was little as she fell asleep at night, and told her that it wasn’t her fault, that he loved her so much and that he was so sorry this had to happen. She squeezed his hand then and he told her quietly how afraid he had been that she would hate him. “I don’t hate you, Dad,” she whispered.
But did she now? Two years had passed and gradually, he had spent less and less time with her. How many weeks has it been since he last saw her? He remembers that she was in a play last week, which he had missed. What play was it? Something Shakespeare. Something with a “tragic hero.” He hasn’t spoken with the older girls in almost a year—they were at college now and their lives had almost nothing to do with his; they had grown up. Soon it would be the same with Elizabeth. He remembers a time when they had sat together on the couch in the house on Union St.; she was seven years old, in grass-stained jeans and a Lion King sweatshirt. Megan, his eldest, had stormed by, screaming that someone had stolen her hairbrush. He had smiled wryly, shaken his head and turned to Elizabeth. “Promise me you’ll never get like that,” he had said. She had grinned in response, every bit the tomboy. “I promise.” But she hadn’t known what she was promising. She hadn't known what he meant to say was, "Promise me you'll never grow up."
He sighs, leans against the back of the leather seat, swallows through the numbness and rolls his head to the side. He watches the passing slabs of stone through the tinted glass, meaningless names carved into them, as the line of black cars slips quietly through the graveyard. His father's face is imprinted on his mind, stern and grey and foreign as it appeared when he knelt before the open casket at the wake. He tried to pray but all he could think as he gazed on the man's closed, wrinkled eyes and drooping mouth was that perhaps he, like his father, had already died a long time ago.
The funeral procession slows to a stop, and Richard steps out of the hearse. Cars holding long-forgotten relatives park behind him. His other daughters make their way over, speaking quietly with each other, their faces tired and strained.
The priest begins to read from the Bible, and they all stand silent around the casket, Richard and the strangers that had been his family. For a moment, Richard’s eyes meet Anne’s; they are blue and shining, though the tears have finally ceased to fall, and they are cold. He looks away. How did they end up here, he wonders -- here on this gray, windy day, with a grave lying between them. The little boy studying the puzzle pieces had no way of knowing that life was no more than a slow process of dying, and that when the puzzle was completed, he would simply throw it away because it had looked so much better in the picture on the box.
The priest finishes speaking and they are each given a flower to place upon the casket. Richard exhales slowly as he approaches and bends to carefully balance the rose on the smooth ebony. A breeze flutters through his hair and the flower wavers precariously on the wood for a moment, and then stills.
Probably no one is interested in reading this, and I don't mind that. I guess writing those couple of fics recently has gotten me interested in writing again, so I started looking through some of my old stuff. This is one I'm pretty proud of and which means a lot to me personally. I wanted to revise it a little bit, so I did. And now I'm... sharing it here, just for the hell of it. If anyone actually does try to read it out of curiosity - I apologize for being extremely long-winded. If anyone does read it and has any comments, I'd appreciate them very much.
They are in the church where he and she were married twenty-five years ago -- but twenty-five years ago, there hadn't been a casket resting before the altar. He walks at the head of the procession, his black shoes padding softly on the carpeted aisle. She is trying not to cry, but the tears cannot be stopped; they fight their way out from within, in sudden quick jabs. He tries not to look. It is the first time he has been in a church in over a year.
Dr. Richard Stephenson clicked the top of his pen with relieved satisfaction and placed it in the pocket of his neatly-pressed button-down shirt, next to the cherry chap-stick. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, squinting blearily down at the meaningless records of his patients and their heart-problems, and then dragged a hand across his face and returned the glasses. He sat and stared directly in front of him at the pale wallpaper of the office that had been his for nearly twenty years, unmoving, except for a single finger that unconsciously twirled his dark hair, now streaked with distinguished silver. A hand on the small, rectangular clock on his desk jerked reluctantly forward with each passing second.
Near this clock were a few framed photographs. One featured four children, four laughing little girls, each in fuzzy, red feet-pajamas. It was Christmas morning. They were sitting on the knees of a their father, a skinny young man with slightly shaggy dark hair parted to the side, in khakis and a red woolen sweater. His big, strong hands supported them gently around their middles. He was smiling warmly, his deep brown eyes glowing from behind his glasses, crinkling with happiness at the corners.
But Richard wasn’t looking at the photographs. He was staring blanky at the grey wall before him. Suddenly, the door flew open and Richard looked up. In the doorframe stood a very short woman with bright red hair, grinning ridiculously, like the host of a television program for kids, doing everything within her power to get them excited about some saccharine sing-a-long. Her name was Dr. Katrina Martin, although her friends and recently divorced husband had always just called her Tina, or sometimes Teeny –- “because I’m so short!” she’d explain gleefully.
“Rick!” she said with mock disapproval, her hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you are still working!” She shook a finger at him imperially, as if to say he should know better. “Come on, let’s go home.” He laughed a little and nodded, as she slid up to his desk and leaned against it slyly. “You know,” she began, “maybe it’s time for another vacation. How does Bermuda sound?”
He smiled, pushed back his seat and rose to gather his things. “Sounds great.” She slipped her arm around his waist and brushed her head against his shoulder as they left the office and headed for his car.
Tina was right, Richard thought. He did work too hard; he deserved to relax. A vacation would do him good. He had been to Bermuda before -- he had walked along its long, pink beaches, hand in hand with his wife Anne. It was their honeymoon. But Richard wasn’t thinking about pink beaches. No, he was thinking about scuba diving. Since leaving the house on Union St., where Anne and his youngest still lived, he had become a certified scuba diver. He would love another opportunity to explore the distractingly bright colors of reefs deep below the surface, getting lost in the swirling cloud of a passing school of fish.
Richard drove home in his brand new Lexus sedan with Tina at his side, speeding all the way, as always. Anne used to tell him to slow down, but she was too cautious, too slow. He couldn’t help it if he was simply more efficient. Of course, he knew that only skilled drivers such as himself should go as fast as he did -- he was proud to say he had never gotten a ticket in his life. Suddenly a car pulled out into the road in front of him and he slammed on his breaks. “Turkey,” he muttered angrily at the driver, proceeding to tailgate the him until he finally pulled over. Richard shook his head disdainfully at the offender as he passed him, before racing down the road.
They arrived at last at the driveway of Tina’s house, still in one piece. He draped his blazer and tie over one arm and walked up the front steps of the house. The door creaked as they entered and swung shut loudly behind them. Immediately they were greeted by three golden retrievers, beating their tails against each other and the furniture as they struggled to be the first to say hello. A parakeet squawked noisily at their sudden appearance, causing a cat to leap down from its perch on the window sill and slink off into the next room.
“Hi, guys!” squealed Tina and their tails beat harder. Richard bent down to one of them and scratched his head. The dog panted happily and Richard began to wrestle with him. “A-whub-ub-ub-ahh,” he said as he rubbed the dog's stomach vigorously. It was the same sound he used to make as he drummed on the stomachs of his kids; they would always squirm and squeal with laughter, helpless to the overwhelming power of the tickle-monster. He wasn’t thinking about that, though -- he was thinking about dogs. What friendly, welcoming creatures golden retrievers were; anyone could walk into the house and the dogs would probably have followed without a thought! He had never considered himself a dog-person before, or an animal-person for that matter, but they were such open, affectionate creatures, so ready and willing to worship you -- who wouldn't enjoy that?
This was his life now. This was the home he had chosen in favor of the house he and his wife had bought together fifteen years ago and spent so long perfecting. He knew he made the right decision. He hadn’t been happy at home, dealing with a house full of teenage girls -- "gallivanting about!" he'd tell them. "The world revolves...!" Car accidents, mediocre grades, teen pregnancy, teen marriage engagement... Didn't they think of anyone but themselves? Didn't they think? They had said that he didn’t know them, that it was their mother who knew them, their mother who was always there... Their mother -- the good Catholic woman, moral and perfect and constant... She was always busy, driving the kids some place or other. How was it possible to spend that much time driving? If she was the one who really raised them, as they claimed, then she was the one to blame for their selfishness. No one in that house appreciated all he had done for them. Things were better now. Now that they were getting divorced and he was with Tina... Tina who appreciated him and made him laugh and always had some activity or trip planned.
“Guess what I bought at the store today!” said Tina. Richard looked up questioningly. She opened the fridge to display a bottle of chocolate syrup in one hand and a jar of jimmies in the other. “All of the ingredients for Hot Fudge Sundaes! Very high in Vitamin C: ...Chocolate!” She let out a shrill, delighted laugh. It was a favorite joke of hers.
“Oh,” he said, in a high-pitched voice aiming for pleasantly surprised. “Excellent.” He smiled.
“But we can’t have dessert before supper,” she said sagely, getting some things out of the refrigerator. “It’ll be ready in about half an hour.”
Richard poured himself some Scotch, sat down on the couch and reached for the remote, finding it on the coffee table, just as it was supposed to be. Yes, things were definitely better now -- he had never been able to keep track of the remote in his old house. He turned to the football game and the cheers of the crowd came blasting out from the surround-sound speakers he had purchased last month. After a few minutes, his peace was disturbed as a girl walked into the kitchen, car keys jingling as she clapped them against her palm. She was a junior in high school, with a pierced eyebrow and metallic blue hair.
“What’s for supper?” she asked her mother.
“Ribs.”
“Again? Ugh.”
“That’s not the response I want to hear, Justine,” Tina replied in a sing-song voice.
“Slut.”
“Oh-hoh!” cried Tina, spinning to face her and giggling madly. “Bitch!”
“Whore!”
Tina laughed and swatted the girl’s shoulder with a dish towel. “Oh, you’re bad. Isn’t she bad, Rick?”
Richard grunted from the couch, uninterested. The first time he had heard Justine insult Tina like that, he had been a bit alarmed, but Tina had laughed it off and turned it into a game -- she was good at doing that. Now it seemed to be one of their favorite games because they played it all the time, and they both got a good laugh out of it, so he just ignored it. It was perfectly normal.
Justine smiled sweetly at her mother, then turned and walked into the family room, giving Richard a noogie as she passed him. He jerked his head away and craned his neck to see her open the front door.
“See ya, Dick,” she said.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Richard shrugged and turned back to the TV. He didn’t really care where she went or what she did, as long as she didn’t take his car. He yawned and took a sip of his Scotch. An advertisement for a new Star Trek movie started and he watched with the skeptical yet unavoidable curiosity of a former trekkie. He and Anne used to watch Star Trek back when they were freshman in high school, sitting together on the ratty couch of his childhood home. But the truth of the matter was, it had really gone down the tube.
“Mommy?” came a whispery lisp from the kitchen.
“Yes, sweetie-pie?”
“I don’t feel good.”
Tina looked up with concern at her younger daughter, Cindy, who at eleven stood a good head above her. She liked to tell people that her mother was her best friend.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tina.
The girl hugged the blanket in her arms. “I have a tummy ache. And I’m tired.”
“Do you want to take a nap? Would that help?” The girl nodded sadly. “Want me to tuck you in?” Another nod was the response.
In the other room, Richard rolled his eyes in irritation. It was really ridiculous how spoiled those girls of Tina's were. Now his kids -- they would never act like that; they were much more mature and reasonable. Winning art contests, becoming class president, going on to good schools -- Richard congratulated himself on raising such polite, intelligent girls. But he didn't dwell on this thought; his attention was quickly commanded by the Patriots scoring a touchdown. The phone rang and he ignored it.
“Would you mind getting that, Rick?” Tina shouted as she started upstairs. Then to her daughter, he heard her ask, “Do you know when your sister is coming home?”
“She said she’s sleeping at Daddy’s,” was the muffled response.
Richard picked up the phone. “Hello?”
A voice on the other end announced that it was calling from the local nursing home, and asked to speak to Dr. Stephenson.
“Speaking,” said Richard.
“Ah.” The voice hesitated. “Dr. Stephenson... I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Richard waited, his dark brows furrowed. “I’m very sorry, sir, but I’m calling to inform you that your father, Albert Stephenson has died.” He blinked. Something cold seemed to wash over him in a wave as the words slowly sank in. His father was dead.
“What? When?” He tried to make the idea tangible.
“This evening... He was found dead in his room just minutes ago.”
Richard swallowed. “Thank you.” He hung up.
A few minutes passed as he stood in the kitchen, staring blindly.
Dead.
Slowly, he turned and walked to the couch in a daze, lowering himself and cupping his chin in his hand. One of the dogs came over and nuzzled him curiously, but he ignored it. He shut off the TV. The sudden silence that followed was almost startling.
He had known this would come. His father had been staying in a nursing home for the past two and a half years, steadily growing worse and worse. It was almost a relief, now that it had finally happened and he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. But a part of him couldn't help wondering, thinking that if he could have seen him again, one last time... But it wouldn’t really have been him; in truth, his father had died a long ago. He had been suffering from Alzheimer’s the past few years. He had barely known his son toward the end. Richard wasn't sure he had really ever known him. He decided not to think about it.
He wouldn’t think about the little boy riding his bike down the street, carefully setting up army men across the living room floor or working on puzzles in his room. He wouldn’t think about the man who was never home, but who, when he was home, was a great, strong presence. Richard had wanted to do all the things he did, to help him as he fixed the car, to grow up and become a doctor like him.
His mother was not often home either; unlike many women of her time, her career was very important to her. She was a renowned child pyschologist; she always said that she loved children. And then, three years after his marriage, cancer.
The person he really remembered from his childhood was Papa. Papa took him on walks to the pond, sat him on his knee and told him stories from Italy. Stroke. It happened the year before he entered high school - the year before he met Anne.
Richard idly tapped a finger against the glass of scotch. He recalled his brother, laughing as he skidded across the frozen water of the pond down the street. He remembered him years later, lying in the backseat of Richard's car at the family barbecue, staring back blearily at Richard's daughters gathered at the car windows, waving. Richard had had to tell the girls to let their uncle rest. Only two years later: liver failure.
Richard downed the rest of the glass.
Someday, he’d die too.
Places from his childhood flash by through the window of the hearse: the house he grew up in, Anne’s old house down the street, the high school they had both attended, the incredible hill they went gone sledding down so many winters ago... It somehow seems smaller now.
His youngest, Elizabeth, sits beside him, pale and quiet, wearing a long black skirt and a gray sweater; she is resting an elbow against the door, a finger idly twirling her thin auburn hair into knots, a habit inherited from her father. Richard thinks how beautiful her hair is, how it looks just like her mother’s hair once did. He told her so the night he announced he was leaving and moving in with Tina. She had been sitting on the roof when he found her, crying. He combed his fingers through her hair, the way he had when she was little as she fell asleep at night, and told her that it wasn’t her fault, that he loved her so much and that he was so sorry this had to happen. She squeezed his hand then and he told her quietly how afraid he had been that she would hate him. “I don’t hate you, Dad,” she whispered.
But did she now? Two years had passed and gradually, he had spent less and less time with her. How many weeks has it been since he last saw her? He remembers that she was in a play last week, which he had missed. What play was it? Something Shakespeare. Something with a “tragic hero.” He hasn’t spoken with the older girls in almost a year—they were at college now and their lives had almost nothing to do with his; they had grown up. Soon it would be the same with Elizabeth. He remembers a time when they had sat together on the couch in the house on Union St.; she was seven years old, in grass-stained jeans and a Lion King sweatshirt. Megan, his eldest, had stormed by, screaming that someone had stolen her hairbrush. He had smiled wryly, shaken his head and turned to Elizabeth. “Promise me you’ll never get like that,” he had said. She had grinned in response, every bit the tomboy. “I promise.” But she hadn’t known what she was promising. She hadn't known what he meant to say was, "Promise me you'll never grow up."
He sighs, leans against the back of the leather seat, swallows through the numbness and rolls his head to the side. He watches the passing slabs of stone through the tinted glass, meaningless names carved into them, as the line of black cars slips quietly through the graveyard. His father's face is imprinted on his mind, stern and grey and foreign as it appeared when he knelt before the open casket at the wake. He tried to pray but all he could think as he gazed on the man's closed, wrinkled eyes and drooping mouth was that perhaps he, like his father, had already died a long time ago.
The funeral procession slows to a stop, and Richard steps out of the hearse. Cars holding long-forgotten relatives park behind him. His other daughters make their way over, speaking quietly with each other, their faces tired and strained.
The priest begins to read from the Bible, and they all stand silent around the casket, Richard and the strangers that had been his family. For a moment, Richard’s eyes meet Anne’s; they are blue and shining, though the tears have finally ceased to fall, and they are cold. He looks away. How did they end up here, he wonders -- here on this gray, windy day, with a grave lying between them. The little boy studying the puzzle pieces had no way of knowing that life was no more than a slow process of dying, and that when the puzzle was completed, he would simply throw it away because it had looked so much better in the picture on the box.
The priest finishes speaking and they are each given a flower to place upon the casket. Richard exhales slowly as he approaches and bends to carefully balance the rose on the smooth ebony. A breeze flutters through his hair and the flower wavers precariously on the wood for a moment, and then stills.
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-25 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-25 01:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-25 01:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-25 01:57 am (UTC)(Now you get some Colbert love too.)
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Date: 2006-10-26 06:05 am (UTC)i did not want to finish it because it was touching a nerve.
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Date: 2006-10-26 02:44 pm (UTC)It is pretty sad piece, and means a lot to me because, to be honest, it's pretty closely based on my own life. Or, well, my father's life.
Thanks for reading and commenting.
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Date: 2006-11-01 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-01 06:45 pm (UTC)