snippets of everything unsaid
On the morning of my Nana's funeral, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror listening to my father and brother make small talk in the kitchen.
It was the first time, in at least a year, that they had really talked at all.
"How was the trip back?" asked my Dad, about the drive back to the Cape my brother had made the night before, following the wake.
"It was good," said Brian. "It was raining pretty hard though."
"Yeah it's supposed to rain hard today, too."
Silence.
"You been watching the Celtics?" asked my Dad.
"Yeah...yeah. They're kicking ass right now."
Silence.
"I'm going to go get dressed now," said my Dad.
"Cool."
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On the day my parents announced they were separating, Brian was the only one who cried. He was six years old at the time, and I remember him clinging to my father, sobbing, begging him not to leave.
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My parents divorced and my father visited and called sporadically. Phone conversations with him would go something like this:
"Hi, Meliss."
"Hi, Dad."
"How was school today?"
"It was good. How was work?"
"Good."
"Did you sell any cars today?"
"Yes, today was a good day. I sold three cars." OR "No, today was a slow day."
"That's good." OR "Oh, that's too bad."
Silence.
After small-talking his way through another day of car sales, he probably didn't have the energy to think of new things to say to us, I reasoned.
"Does Bri or Mike want to get on the phone?"
"Yeah, here's Bri. I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, hon."
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When my father got remarried and had been living with my stepmother, Fawn, for about a year, my mother decided she would like to have two weeks to herself in the summer. I drove my brothers and I to my father's, and we all lived with him for the first and only time since we were little.
Brian, my Dad and I spent more than one night bonding on the porch. While Fawn did the dishes and Mike sat reading at the kitchen table, my father and I would beg Brian to do his spot-on impression of Mike. That required acquiring Mike's glasses, which he sometimes would not give up willingly; he knew he was being mocked, and we were interrupting his reading.
If Mike wouldn't give up his glasses, I would pay him $1. He'd sigh disgustedly and squint at War and Peace while I ran back to the porch to hand the glasses off to Brian. Brian would perch them on the end of his nose, look down, and relax his face. Rolling his shoulders forward and folding his hands in his lap, he now looked uncannily like Mike.
At this point, my Dad and Brian (Mike) would begin conversing.
"Hey Mike?" my Dad would say.
"What?" Brian would say in a monotone, just as Mike would.
"I hope the rain keeps up," my Dad would say, trying not to laugh. My father had so many stupid jokes that were only funny because they were stupid, and this was the beginning of one of them. Mike was the only one that wouldn't laugh at the jokes; when it came time for the punchline, the most Mike would do was sort of force this puff of air from his mouth, to acknowledge that he got the joke, and that it wasn't worth laughing at. My Dad, Brian, and I called this the "puff-laugh."
"What?"
"I hope the rain keeps up."
"Why?"
"So it doesn't come down."
(Puff.)
At this point, Brian, my Dad and I would be laughing hysterically, while Mike would good-naturedly retrieve his glasses so he could continue reading comfortably.
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One Christmas a few years ago, Brian came to my Dad's reeking of marijuana. My father went ballistic, and Brian never came for another Christmas again.
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Following the Mass for my grandmother, most of the family went to a hall in Dorchester for the reception. I sat down at a table with my father and one of his childhood friends while they were in mid-conversation.
"And then she'd pay Mike $1 just so Brian would do it again! It was beautiful!" he was saying.
My Dad and his friend laughed heartily.
Across the room, Brian stood at the bar talking with my uncle, and Mike was a few feet away, refilling his cup with coffee.
I approached the small crowd at the front of the room, where my cousin Steve had put in a video of my Nana's 80th birthday party -- which took place nearly 13 years ago. On the screen, my brothers and I stood at the doorway of the very same hall, among many of the same family, waiting to my surprise my Nana. A happy-go-lucky Mike was batting at a balloon, while Brian and I giggled. My father was off-screen, at the bar.
I turned from the screen to see that Brian and Mike had joined the crowd. Brian watched Mike acting uncharacteristically carefree, and said, "You were a pretty crazy dude."
Mike puffed.
My Dad remained with his friend, deeply engaged in small talk.
It was the first time, in at least a year, that they had really talked at all.
"How was the trip back?" asked my Dad, about the drive back to the Cape my brother had made the night before, following the wake.
"It was good," said Brian. "It was raining pretty hard though."
"Yeah it's supposed to rain hard today, too."
Silence.
"You been watching the Celtics?" asked my Dad.
"Yeah...yeah. They're kicking ass right now."
Silence.
"I'm going to go get dressed now," said my Dad.
"Cool."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the day my parents announced they were separating, Brian was the only one who cried. He was six years old at the time, and I remember him clinging to my father, sobbing, begging him not to leave.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My parents divorced and my father visited and called sporadically. Phone conversations with him would go something like this:
"Hi, Meliss."
"Hi, Dad."
"How was school today?"
"It was good. How was work?"
"Good."
"Did you sell any cars today?"
"Yes, today was a good day. I sold three cars." OR "No, today was a slow day."
"That's good." OR "Oh, that's too bad."
Silence.
After small-talking his way through another day of car sales, he probably didn't have the energy to think of new things to say to us, I reasoned.
"Does Bri or Mike want to get on the phone?"
"Yeah, here's Bri. I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, hon."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When my father got remarried and had been living with my stepmother, Fawn, for about a year, my mother decided she would like to have two weeks to herself in the summer. I drove my brothers and I to my father's, and we all lived with him for the first and only time since we were little.
Brian, my Dad and I spent more than one night bonding on the porch. While Fawn did the dishes and Mike sat reading at the kitchen table, my father and I would beg Brian to do his spot-on impression of Mike. That required acquiring Mike's glasses, which he sometimes would not give up willingly; he knew he was being mocked, and we were interrupting his reading.
If Mike wouldn't give up his glasses, I would pay him $1. He'd sigh disgustedly and squint at War and Peace while I ran back to the porch to hand the glasses off to Brian. Brian would perch them on the end of his nose, look down, and relax his face. Rolling his shoulders forward and folding his hands in his lap, he now looked uncannily like Mike.
At this point, my Dad and Brian (Mike) would begin conversing.
"Hey Mike?" my Dad would say.
"What?" Brian would say in a monotone, just as Mike would.
"I hope the rain keeps up," my Dad would say, trying not to laugh. My father had so many stupid jokes that were only funny because they were stupid, and this was the beginning of one of them. Mike was the only one that wouldn't laugh at the jokes; when it came time for the punchline, the most Mike would do was sort of force this puff of air from his mouth, to acknowledge that he got the joke, and that it wasn't worth laughing at. My Dad, Brian, and I called this the "puff-laugh."
"What?"
"I hope the rain keeps up."
"Why?"
"So it doesn't come down."
(Puff.)
At this point, Brian, my Dad and I would be laughing hysterically, while Mike would good-naturedly retrieve his glasses so he could continue reading comfortably.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One Christmas a few years ago, Brian came to my Dad's reeking of marijuana. My father went ballistic, and Brian never came for another Christmas again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Following the Mass for my grandmother, most of the family went to a hall in Dorchester for the reception. I sat down at a table with my father and one of his childhood friends while they were in mid-conversation.
"And then she'd pay Mike $1 just so Brian would do it again! It was beautiful!" he was saying.
My Dad and his friend laughed heartily.
Across the room, Brian stood at the bar talking with my uncle, and Mike was a few feet away, refilling his cup with coffee.
I approached the small crowd at the front of the room, where my cousin Steve had put in a video of my Nana's 80th birthday party -- which took place nearly 13 years ago. On the screen, my brothers and I stood at the doorway of the very same hall, among many of the same family, waiting to my surprise my Nana. A happy-go-lucky Mike was batting at a balloon, while Brian and I giggled. My father was off-screen, at the bar.
I turned from the screen to see that Brian and Mike had joined the crowd. Brian watched Mike acting uncharacteristically carefree, and said, "You were a pretty crazy dude."
Mike puffed.
My Dad remained with his friend, deeply engaged in small talk.