Triumphal
BACK!
Married now, that craziness is over. Writing class is over so should have more time to pop stuff up here. In the mean time here is my final piece for the class - it's a loooooong one so I'll be kind and cut. Any and all feedback is welcome.
The Watch Candle
I should have been suspicious when Dad first invited me out over “the holidays” instead of for Christmas. I assumed he'd figured out a way to save money on the flight if I didn't stay in Texas over the 25th. I told him that I needed to check with work before I could say for certain and immediately called my little sister. If I was going to visit Dad, I at least wanted to make sure Julie was there for a buffer.
“Are you kidding? Of course I'm taking him up on it. He's paying and it's colder than a witch's tit out here.” Jules had gotten a substantial bonus from her advertising agency to transfer to corporate headquarters in North Dakota, and she kicked herself daily for accepting it. She worked in a large, gray building with large men in gray suits. Whenever they had a potential client that seemed too artsy or liberal or otherwise inconsistent with their corporate mold, they gave the file to Julie. She was the hip facade on a soulless office. Jules was just a mouthpiece for the actual details of the contract negotiation - her job was to pepper the conversation with references to artists that she guessed the client would like and make mascaraed eyes at him or her in videoconferences. It was almost exactly like prostitution but with respectable healthcare and no sex. Most of the time. “Look. We're gonna have to meet the new wife at some point. Might as well be on his dime, right? I talked him into paying for Drew's ticket too.” Generally speaking, Jules changed boyfriends about as often as she changed hair color, which is to say monthly, but Drew had stuck around through blonde-streaked-pink, black-streaked-blue, and red-streaked black. Pretty damned impressive, really.
I put Dad off for a week, hoping that some terribly important and time consuming project would appear looming over the days of the proposed trip, but I'd never been an integral part of anything at the office. The joys of lower middle management. My therapist strongly encouraged me to go as well, but I have a suspicion she was motivated by job security as much as any concern for my mental well-being. I was devoid of excuses. I picked up the phone, bit the bullet, and told Dad I'd just love to come down for a week.
I hadn't seen Dad in almost three years, not since he insisted on flying out to visit me at college for my 21st birthday and was generally a well-intentioned wet blanket on the whole affair. It wasn't a bad visit, excepting the fact that I spent the whole time wishing he weren't there so I could have a normal drink-until-you-puke-and-wake-up-with-a girl-who's-name-you-don't-remember kind of 21st birthday. Instead we went to Cracker Barrel and rented a stack of John Wayne movies we used to watch together when I was a kid. He revealed a six-pack of Miller Genuine Draft longnecks with the flair of a man illuminating the great mysteries of life. He confessed that the night he'd met Mom it had been at a really wild party and he'd had two beers. What a hellion. I was in a bit of a funk anyhow, but the summoning of mom's ghost extinguished what little obstinate positive energies I had left. I withdrew into myself; there was nothing to fill the rest of the night but the Duke drawling and Dad trying to mask a sour face every time he sipped his beer.
I got off a sleek 747 in San Antonio and onto a flimsy dual prop for the last leg of the trip 100 miles south to Freer, Texas - Home of the Original Rattlesnake Roundup. The whole time we were in the air I tried to imagine that the constant vibration was just a complimentary inflight magic fingers massage. The plane juddered down onto the the tiny Duval-Freer municipal airstrip, and I and the eight other passengers filed out into the shockingly warm Texas sunlight. Not that it was hot, but for chrissakes it was December. Thank god Dad hadn't wanted to meet up for Father's Day or something.
There was a haphazard arrangement of pickups parked directly on the tarmac, and in front of one of them I saw Dad bouncing and waving broadly as though I wouldn't recognize him. Dad stands 6'3”, but on this occasion he had a ridiculous 'Don't Mess With Texas' trucker's cap perched atop his springy, graying hair that made him look even taller. He was all long, thin limbs stuck on a little pot belly - mom had often accused him of being an overgrown water strider masquerading as a human. After the pilot had unloaded my bag and I crossed the yellow SECURITY LINE painted on the asphalt, he bounded over and wrapped me in a simultaneously bony and pudgy hug exclaiming, “My prodigal son has finally returned home!” This is not home, I thought. I'd never been to Freer before and didn't anticipate being back anytime soon. I forced a smile and told Dad I liked his hat, and he showed me to his “new” truck.
The truck was not new, in fact it might have been older than I am, though not quite old enough to be a classic. But it was new to Dad, and he was clearly very proud of it. When he turned onto the street I learned that the shocks were shot and the roads potholed; I'd thought the flight was bad but now I was being shaken like a martini. Dad didn't seem to mind-he asked good fatherly catchup questions, and I told white lies as best I could through my clacking jaw. Yes, I like my job. Yes, I'm seeing somebody. Yes, yes, I'm happy as could be. “Mom sure would be proud of you,” he said. My eyes unfocused, and I let Texas blur past me and Dad's anecdotes muddle through my ears.
His “fix'er upper” was about fifteen minutes outside of town and had certainly seen better days, but the flower boxes were full of bright snapdragons and the door had recently gotten a fresh coat of paint. I tuned back in to Dad saying, “Dinner should just about be ready. I can't wait for you to meet Carla. She's turned my life around. Quite the cook too. I bet she and Julie-bear are gonna be just as thick as thieves, all this time to themselves.” Dad laughed merrily at this. The man cracked himself up more than anyone else I knew.
He swung the door open grandly, saying, “Be it ever so humble...” The first thing I saw was Jules sitting on the couch shooting me a venomous 'how the hell did I let you talk me into this' look. I'd never met Drew, but at a glance I could see that he was my sister's type - more hair on his face than his head, pierced wherever there was convenient cartilage, tattooed down the neck and out the sleeves. Doubtlessly he plays bass for some post retro urban grunge metal travesty. He looked dazed, like the victim of a car crash carefully shifting his flaming vehicle into park.
From around the corner I heard a sharp voice say, “Are they home already? Oh my land!” and out bustled my new stepmom. Carla was the archetype that every caricature of a Texan housewife was based on - dyed perm, blue eyeshadow, pink blush, a little extra love around the hips and under the arms. She tore her floured apron off and gave me a giant hug. I was enclosed in the smell of baking bread and Aqua-net. She leaned back and put her hands on my cheeks. Thank god she doesn't pinch. “Look at you! You are even more handsome than your pictures. Pale and thin, though - just like your sister. Well! You came to the right place, hon, and no doubt! Nowhere on God's earth will get you tan and fat fast as Texas. Come in, come in! Let me get that bag.” Her smile etched deep crow's feet into her face, and she bounced like a puppy. As much as I had decided not to, I found myself liking her almost immediately.
Carla scurried around, dropping my bags in the hall, shimmying the apron back on and promising dinner in two shakes. I hugged Julie and she smiled and punched me in the arm. There was a grim humor in her eyes like a soldier at the end of his tour sizing up a new recruit. Drew and I shared a cumbersome handshake. Dad beamed like a kid whose show-and-tell has gone over well. “Here, let me take you on the nickel tour!”
“Only if you start in the dining room!” Carla called from a steamy kitchen, “Supper's on in sixty seconds.”
Dad waved Drew and Jules away from the safety of the couch and shepherded us all into the dining room. The first thing that caught my eye was the table set with Mom's blue china. I don't know why it was so shocking to me; of course he kept it. But that little memory tipped a whole box of other ones off the back shelf and onto the floor of my mind. Mom singing Billie Holiday while she was cooking. Mom making silly faces behind stuffy Aunt Jillian. Mom sneaking a little taste of dessert before she brought it out for the rest of the family. She loved that china, she never let anyone else set or clear it. Yet here it was. They might as well put out another place setting.
Once everyone had settled in Dad asked us to bow our heads for grace. Jules and I haven't had any sort of religion for years but childhood instinct took over as chins dropped to chests and hands extended out to each side. Carla's hand, still damp from a quick wash up, found mine, and after a moment Drew took my left as gingerly as you would handle a loaded gun. Dad has a prayer formula, an all-purpose framework with preset phrases that can be rotated in or out depending on the situation. The cadence and intonation are unchanging, and it takes on the character of a Gregorian chant-a holy utterance not meant to be understood by the audience. There are a few nonstandard parts to tonight's rendition, however. 'Jehovah' had replaced 'Our Lord', and we seemed to now have a covenant instead of promises. Curious.
Plates were filled with down home cooking and first bites taken. By god, that woman can cook. I was privately speculating on the caloric content of each individual forkful when Dad cleared his throat. “As I'm sure you noticed,” he said around a mouthful of baked potato, “y'all are here a little early for Christmas.” Dad lived in northern Illinois his whole life until this recent move to Texas. It still threw me when he y'all'ed. “I was thinking that maybe this year, we could all get together and celebrate Hanukkah instead!” There was a long moment when the only sound was slow chewing.
I assumed I'd misunderstood, “Hanukkah...like with a menorah?”
Dad beamed.“Yes! Yes, a menorah, dreidels, latkes, the whole shootin' match!”
Julie swallowed her creamed corn and stated, “Dad...we're not Jewish.” God bless Jules.
Dad's eyebrows knitted together into a single graying caterpillar. He looked as baffled as if she had just stated that she was, in fact, not his daughter. “Of course we are! My mother was Jewish, and that makes us Jewish.” This had never been a relevant detail until now. “It's matrilinear.” he added, clearly quite pleased with the word.
I was scrambling to find some ounce of logic in this bizarre turn of events. “Ok, Dad. That might make you Jewish...I guess. But Mom was full-blooded Irish. Jules and I are definitely not Jewish. Besides, Grandma ate pork, like, every day.”
Dad was in no mood for logic. He bulled on, “I just want to give you kids a chance to reconnect with your heritage. If we don't tell our stories to our children, then the sufferings of our people will be forgotten!”
Julie smirked. “I'm pretty aware that Jews have had a shitty time of it, Dad. A dozen years of Sunday school and a high school history class saw to that. What gives? You've never even mentioned being Jewish before today.”
“Exactly! We have so much to catch up for! I think you'll really like dreideling. It's like poker, but with a top instead of cards.”
Jules and I shared a look of incredulity. I was at a loss for words.
Carla clearly wanted things to be going smoother than they were. “I think it will be fun! I got some recipes off the internet, and we found a whole CD of Hanukkah music at Wal-Mart.” She cast about for support, “Do you have any Jewish ancestry, Drew?”
Drew froze mid bite, eyes wide. He seemed to be scrambling desperately for the right answer. He swallowed thickly, mumbled something incoherent, and shook his head 'no'.
“Well, we can all learn it together then! Here, let's put some of that music on.”
Carla scooted over to the sound system and paused the Loretta Lynn cassette tape that had been scratching quietly in the background. She popped the CD in and fiddled with the controls and after a moment the speakers produced a shaking tambourine and some sort of string instrument accompanying several men singing a repetitive melody in what was presumably Hebrew. Drew winced. The song teetered right on the border of distracting and downright irritating. Dad halfheartedly tried to tap along, and everyone else kept occupied by chewing and avoiding eye contact. After a few minutes the song grudgingly ground to an end. The next track started up, and improbably enough, it was even more grating.
As diplomatically as I could I asked, “Maybe we could try listening to this after dinner?”
Jules pulled her forced-to-eat-brussel-sprouts face. “Or never?”
Dad dropped his fork to the plate, wearing a kicked puppy expression. “I can't believe my own children are anti-Semetic!”
Jules performed a world record eye roll. “Oh Jesus Christ, Dad.” Just when I'd thought we were going to make it through a whole meal without a father-daughter blow up. Too good to be true. “Can't you just once be a little bit normal?”
“And what exactly about being Jewish is not normal?”
“Dad, you arbitrarily decided to embrace a culture you've never given two shits about until now. You're not Jewish. Just accept your WASPiness and move on!”
“The Jews are God's chosen people, young lady! That is something to be proud of - not mocked.”
Drew inched his chair back and slid out, hoping to go unnoticed. He padded to the front door fishing a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket as he went. I've never been a smoker but at that moment I seriously considered becoming one.
There was heat rising in Julie's cheeks. “Proud? Are you proud of the shit that 'God's people' are pulling in Gaza right now?”
Dad blinked and sputtered, caught off guard by her conversational riposte. Carla seized the opportunity. She caught my eye and sweetly said, “Would you give me a hand clearing, hon?”
Thankful for any excuse, I grabbed a handful of dishes and retreated for the swinging door of the kitchen. Carla followed behind me, and soon as the door shut she heaved a massive sigh. Dad had found his words again and was haphazardly defending Israeli culture and foreign policy. This was the first time I had been alone with Carla, and I didn't really know what to expect. We made eye contact, and she said, “Lordy, Lordy, I could use a little nip. You a drinker, son?”
I was speechless for at least twenty seconds. I don't think I'd have been more shocked if she'd offered a line of cocaine. I must have managed a nod because she reached on tippy-toes to the cabinet above the fridge, and from behind a row of cleaning supplies she produced a bottle of Jose Cuervo. Carla pulled out a pair of juice glasses and poured two generous portions. “Your daddy ain't much of a drinker, I'm sure you know. But I figure if he can have his culture, I can have mine. My daddy's prayer was 'God, give me strength enough to meet the challenges of the day, and drink enough to make up for the strength I lack.' I hope tequila's alright with you.” She shook her head at the muffled argument happening in the next room and knocked her tequila back in one pull. It took me two swallows to get mine down; my eyes watered and my throat burned, but I was thankful nonetheless. She tipped a wink and said, “Praise the Lord for the agave plant, eh son?” In a practiced routine, she rinsed both glasses, fished two mints out of the jar on the counter, and handed one to me. It was a kind I'd never had before, a green and cream twist. It mellowed the lingering burn of the shot without overpowering the taste.
Carla pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves and tossed me a towel. “You're drying.” She smiled at me, but there was an even measure of sadness in her eyes. “Your dad is a good man. A strange one sure, but a good one. He misses you kids. You know that's why he tries so hard. I doubt there'd have been any Hanukkah talk if you and Jules hadn't agreed to come.”
I nodded and failed to think of a single thing to say in response. I miss him to, but I miss him the way he was, when it wasn't just him. Even when I was a kid I remember thinking how lucky I was that my parents were still married, that they were functional, that they loved each other. Dad was great at being the dad half of the parenting team, but when Mom died, it was like he was sailing without a compass. He smothered us whenever we let him close yet never seemed to be there when we really needed him. Jules got it much worse than I did.
Carla handed me damp dishes, and I fumbled around her kitchen, wiping and searching for where they belonged. When it became clear that I wasn't going to add anything to the conversation on my own, she went on, “I know that I can't know what you kids have gone through, what with your mom passing right in front of your eyes like that. My daddy died long and slow, and he always begged us to remember him in the good times. It's been eight years, hon. I don't think she'd want you hanging on like this. Not from what I've heard of her. It ain't easy on your dad neither, but he's trying to move on, bless his heart. All you can do is try.”
I tried to be angry at the matter of fact way she pronounced this, but I came up empty. I just dried the plate in my hand and looked for it's home through blurred eyes. The shouting match in the next room reached a crescendo, and then the front door slammed. A moment later Dad came into the kitchen, a smaller, beaten man. “My little girl said she's going to hitchhike home.”
Some sort of man code dictated that I not meet my Dad's eyes. I must not see his pain; he must not see mine. Carla peeled off the gloves and went to hug Dad, and I said in an abnormally low voice, “I'll go talk to her.”
The front porch was dark, but Julie's face glowed orange from her pulling hard on a cigarette. Drew was a large, dark bulk next to her looking out into the moonlit Texas night. I sat down on the stair on the other side of her, and for a long while there was no sound at all, the night completely still except for the freeway in the distance like soft, soothing static on the radio.
Julie was the one to finally speak up, her voice small and cold. “I just wish that one time he would look at me and not see a scared thirteen year old, you know?”
Of course, neither Drew nor I did, but he put his arm around her, and I said, “I hear you, Sis. I think he's trying. I really do.”
Julie choked on her tears and then coughed to cover them. She smoked her cigarette all the way to the filter and then flicked it out into the night. She spat off the porch. “Gotta take a piss,” she growled, but I still heard a little quaver beneath it. She pushed off both our shoulders and headed back inside.
Drew and I sat for another minute while he finished his smoke and fiddled absently with the three-quarter inch brass fishhook hanging from his earlobe. He frowned thoughtfully then stated, “Your family's pretty fucked up, man.”
“Yeah. I know. Only seven more days though, right? We're like twelve and half percent done.”
Drew snorted a laugh and resumed staring out into the night. My therapist says that turning bitterness into humor isn't productive, but I've found that it makes it much easier to get along. Mom was really funny. She always had everyone laughing. That day in the living room, there were a few seconds when I thought she was just making a joke - faking a heart attack before telling us to clean up the room or something. Then I realized it was serious; she was actually in pain. Nothing about that day stands out so clear as that. For a few horrible seconds, I laughed at my dying mother. I know that it wouldn't have changed anything if I had run immediately to dial 911 or if I'd just yelled to her that I loved her, but that knowledge doesn't bring any comfort. Whenever I let go enough to laugh at something, the memory of her face jabs me in the side, reopens the wound. I've come to view it as penance. Laughter is Mom's legacy, my burden.
I followed Drew in without any thought, and we caught Dad looking guilty, book in hand, lighting the middle candle on the menorah. He tried to hide the trademark yellow cover but I could make out the title-Judaism for Dummies. “It's the watch candle,” he stammered. “It's for lighting the other candles. I guess you can't use these other ones for anything else, so you have this one to read by or in case one goes out or something...” Julie came out of the bathroom, eyes red and mascara scrubbed off. None of us really knew quite what to do with each other right then. Luckily Carla swooped in to the rescue carrying a steaming pan. “Who wants some fresh babka?”
None of us had ever had babka before, and Carla confessed she took some liberties with the recipe. It was good - like a chocolate coffee cake. Midway through his piece I saw Dad eyeing the dreidel on the counter, but before he had a chance to suggest it I broke in, “Dad? Can we watch The Sons of Katie Elder?” It's an old John Wayne, one of Dad's favorites. He thought for a second then dug through his VHS collection without a word.
Jules, Dad, and I memorized every line in the movie years ago, but we hadn't sat and watched it together since mom died. It was the first time for Drew and Carla. I don't think Drew had ever even seen a western before; he was completely hooked, like a little boy waiting on the edge of his seat for the next big fight. Carla had pointed opinions about all of the characters and their decisions and she didn't hesitate to let them know her mind. Julie dropped off to sleep midway through and lulled over onto Dad's shoulder. Dad and I just watched and shared knowing looks in response to Carla and Drew's reactions. At the end, John Wayne's character brushes his dead mother's rocking chair and walks out of the frame and the movie ends on the empty chair rocking back and forth. Dad reached for the remote as slowly as he could so as to not disturb Julie. He flipped the television off midway through the credits. Carla recruited Drew to help her with the dessert plates, and I listened hard to see if her friend Jose was going to join them from the cabinet, but all that came through the wall was a muffled baritone and alto duet recounting the highlights of the film.
I sat with Dad in the living room lit only by the single flickering candle on the menorah. Julie gave a small sigh and snuggled her cheek down onto Dad's shoulder. “We should probably get her to bed, huh?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he whispered and smiled. “This might be the only way the three of us can spend any time together in peace.”
I started to laugh but held it, not wanting to wake Julie. Dad was trying to keep it in as well, and we snickered quietly like boys in church. Julie stirred again and her mouth dropped open into a rattling snore. Dad and I both came apart, shaking and giggling through our hands. Jules jerked awake, smacked her lips, and glared blearily at the two of us. “What the hell?” Dad could only wave his hand helplessly at her. She tried to maintain her scowl, but a smile began to crack through. “Seriously. You guys are assholes.”
The candle twinkled in Dad's eyes, “I'm so glad you kids came.”
We all survived the “holidays”. It wasn't always smooth or pretty but we pulled through and things got easier as the week went on. That center candle on the menorah burned down to a waxy puddle, and we never got around to lighting any of the others, but maybe we'll try again at Hanukkah next year.
Married now, that craziness is over. Writing class is over so should have more time to pop stuff up here. In the mean time here is my final piece for the class - it's a loooooong one so I'll be kind and cut. Any and all feedback is welcome.
The Watch Candle
I should have been suspicious when Dad first invited me out over “the holidays” instead of for Christmas. I assumed he'd figured out a way to save money on the flight if I didn't stay in Texas over the 25th. I told him that I needed to check with work before I could say for certain and immediately called my little sister. If I was going to visit Dad, I at least wanted to make sure Julie was there for a buffer.
“Are you kidding? Of course I'm taking him up on it. He's paying and it's colder than a witch's tit out here.” Jules had gotten a substantial bonus from her advertising agency to transfer to corporate headquarters in North Dakota, and she kicked herself daily for accepting it. She worked in a large, gray building with large men in gray suits. Whenever they had a potential client that seemed too artsy or liberal or otherwise inconsistent with their corporate mold, they gave the file to Julie. She was the hip facade on a soulless office. Jules was just a mouthpiece for the actual details of the contract negotiation - her job was to pepper the conversation with references to artists that she guessed the client would like and make mascaraed eyes at him or her in videoconferences. It was almost exactly like prostitution but with respectable healthcare and no sex. Most of the time. “Look. We're gonna have to meet the new wife at some point. Might as well be on his dime, right? I talked him into paying for Drew's ticket too.” Generally speaking, Jules changed boyfriends about as often as she changed hair color, which is to say monthly, but Drew had stuck around through blonde-streaked-pink, black-streaked-blue, and red-streaked black. Pretty damned impressive, really.
I put Dad off for a week, hoping that some terribly important and time consuming project would appear looming over the days of the proposed trip, but I'd never been an integral part of anything at the office. The joys of lower middle management. My therapist strongly encouraged me to go as well, but I have a suspicion she was motivated by job security as much as any concern for my mental well-being. I was devoid of excuses. I picked up the phone, bit the bullet, and told Dad I'd just love to come down for a week.
I hadn't seen Dad in almost three years, not since he insisted on flying out to visit me at college for my 21st birthday and was generally a well-intentioned wet blanket on the whole affair. It wasn't a bad visit, excepting the fact that I spent the whole time wishing he weren't there so I could have a normal drink-until-you-puke-and-wake-up-with-a girl-who's-name-you-don't-remember kind of 21st birthday. Instead we went to Cracker Barrel and rented a stack of John Wayne movies we used to watch together when I was a kid. He revealed a six-pack of Miller Genuine Draft longnecks with the flair of a man illuminating the great mysteries of life. He confessed that the night he'd met Mom it had been at a really wild party and he'd had two beers. What a hellion. I was in a bit of a funk anyhow, but the summoning of mom's ghost extinguished what little obstinate positive energies I had left. I withdrew into myself; there was nothing to fill the rest of the night but the Duke drawling and Dad trying to mask a sour face every time he sipped his beer.
I got off a sleek 747 in San Antonio and onto a flimsy dual prop for the last leg of the trip 100 miles south to Freer, Texas - Home of the Original Rattlesnake Roundup. The whole time we were in the air I tried to imagine that the constant vibration was just a complimentary inflight magic fingers massage. The plane juddered down onto the the tiny Duval-Freer municipal airstrip, and I and the eight other passengers filed out into the shockingly warm Texas sunlight. Not that it was hot, but for chrissakes it was December. Thank god Dad hadn't wanted to meet up for Father's Day or something.
There was a haphazard arrangement of pickups parked directly on the tarmac, and in front of one of them I saw Dad bouncing and waving broadly as though I wouldn't recognize him. Dad stands 6'3”, but on this occasion he had a ridiculous 'Don't Mess With Texas' trucker's cap perched atop his springy, graying hair that made him look even taller. He was all long, thin limbs stuck on a little pot belly - mom had often accused him of being an overgrown water strider masquerading as a human. After the pilot had unloaded my bag and I crossed the yellow SECURITY LINE painted on the asphalt, he bounded over and wrapped me in a simultaneously bony and pudgy hug exclaiming, “My prodigal son has finally returned home!” This is not home, I thought. I'd never been to Freer before and didn't anticipate being back anytime soon. I forced a smile and told Dad I liked his hat, and he showed me to his “new” truck.
The truck was not new, in fact it might have been older than I am, though not quite old enough to be a classic. But it was new to Dad, and he was clearly very proud of it. When he turned onto the street I learned that the shocks were shot and the roads potholed; I'd thought the flight was bad but now I was being shaken like a martini. Dad didn't seem to mind-he asked good fatherly catchup questions, and I told white lies as best I could through my clacking jaw. Yes, I like my job. Yes, I'm seeing somebody. Yes, yes, I'm happy as could be. “Mom sure would be proud of you,” he said. My eyes unfocused, and I let Texas blur past me and Dad's anecdotes muddle through my ears.
His “fix'er upper” was about fifteen minutes outside of town and had certainly seen better days, but the flower boxes were full of bright snapdragons and the door had recently gotten a fresh coat of paint. I tuned back in to Dad saying, “Dinner should just about be ready. I can't wait for you to meet Carla. She's turned my life around. Quite the cook too. I bet she and Julie-bear are gonna be just as thick as thieves, all this time to themselves.” Dad laughed merrily at this. The man cracked himself up more than anyone else I knew.
He swung the door open grandly, saying, “Be it ever so humble...” The first thing I saw was Jules sitting on the couch shooting me a venomous 'how the hell did I let you talk me into this' look. I'd never met Drew, but at a glance I could see that he was my sister's type - more hair on his face than his head, pierced wherever there was convenient cartilage, tattooed down the neck and out the sleeves. Doubtlessly he plays bass for some post retro urban grunge metal travesty. He looked dazed, like the victim of a car crash carefully shifting his flaming vehicle into park.
From around the corner I heard a sharp voice say, “Are they home already? Oh my land!” and out bustled my new stepmom. Carla was the archetype that every caricature of a Texan housewife was based on - dyed perm, blue eyeshadow, pink blush, a little extra love around the hips and under the arms. She tore her floured apron off and gave me a giant hug. I was enclosed in the smell of baking bread and Aqua-net. She leaned back and put her hands on my cheeks. Thank god she doesn't pinch. “Look at you! You are even more handsome than your pictures. Pale and thin, though - just like your sister. Well! You came to the right place, hon, and no doubt! Nowhere on God's earth will get you tan and fat fast as Texas. Come in, come in! Let me get that bag.” Her smile etched deep crow's feet into her face, and she bounced like a puppy. As much as I had decided not to, I found myself liking her almost immediately.
Carla scurried around, dropping my bags in the hall, shimmying the apron back on and promising dinner in two shakes. I hugged Julie and she smiled and punched me in the arm. There was a grim humor in her eyes like a soldier at the end of his tour sizing up a new recruit. Drew and I shared a cumbersome handshake. Dad beamed like a kid whose show-and-tell has gone over well. “Here, let me take you on the nickel tour!”
“Only if you start in the dining room!” Carla called from a steamy kitchen, “Supper's on in sixty seconds.”
Dad waved Drew and Jules away from the safety of the couch and shepherded us all into the dining room. The first thing that caught my eye was the table set with Mom's blue china. I don't know why it was so shocking to me; of course he kept it. But that little memory tipped a whole box of other ones off the back shelf and onto the floor of my mind. Mom singing Billie Holiday while she was cooking. Mom making silly faces behind stuffy Aunt Jillian. Mom sneaking a little taste of dessert before she brought it out for the rest of the family. She loved that china, she never let anyone else set or clear it. Yet here it was. They might as well put out another place setting.
Once everyone had settled in Dad asked us to bow our heads for grace. Jules and I haven't had any sort of religion for years but childhood instinct took over as chins dropped to chests and hands extended out to each side. Carla's hand, still damp from a quick wash up, found mine, and after a moment Drew took my left as gingerly as you would handle a loaded gun. Dad has a prayer formula, an all-purpose framework with preset phrases that can be rotated in or out depending on the situation. The cadence and intonation are unchanging, and it takes on the character of a Gregorian chant-a holy utterance not meant to be understood by the audience. There are a few nonstandard parts to tonight's rendition, however. 'Jehovah' had replaced 'Our Lord', and we seemed to now have a covenant instead of promises. Curious.
Plates were filled with down home cooking and first bites taken. By god, that woman can cook. I was privately speculating on the caloric content of each individual forkful when Dad cleared his throat. “As I'm sure you noticed,” he said around a mouthful of baked potato, “y'all are here a little early for Christmas.” Dad lived in northern Illinois his whole life until this recent move to Texas. It still threw me when he y'all'ed. “I was thinking that maybe this year, we could all get together and celebrate Hanukkah instead!” There was a long moment when the only sound was slow chewing.
I assumed I'd misunderstood, “Hanukkah...like with a menorah?”
Dad beamed.“Yes! Yes, a menorah, dreidels, latkes, the whole shootin' match!”
Julie swallowed her creamed corn and stated, “Dad...we're not Jewish.” God bless Jules.
Dad's eyebrows knitted together into a single graying caterpillar. He looked as baffled as if she had just stated that she was, in fact, not his daughter. “Of course we are! My mother was Jewish, and that makes us Jewish.” This had never been a relevant detail until now. “It's matrilinear.” he added, clearly quite pleased with the word.
I was scrambling to find some ounce of logic in this bizarre turn of events. “Ok, Dad. That might make you Jewish...I guess. But Mom was full-blooded Irish. Jules and I are definitely not Jewish. Besides, Grandma ate pork, like, every day.”
Dad was in no mood for logic. He bulled on, “I just want to give you kids a chance to reconnect with your heritage. If we don't tell our stories to our children, then the sufferings of our people will be forgotten!”
Julie smirked. “I'm pretty aware that Jews have had a shitty time of it, Dad. A dozen years of Sunday school and a high school history class saw to that. What gives? You've never even mentioned being Jewish before today.”
“Exactly! We have so much to catch up for! I think you'll really like dreideling. It's like poker, but with a top instead of cards.”
Jules and I shared a look of incredulity. I was at a loss for words.
Carla clearly wanted things to be going smoother than they were. “I think it will be fun! I got some recipes off the internet, and we found a whole CD of Hanukkah music at Wal-Mart.” She cast about for support, “Do you have any Jewish ancestry, Drew?”
Drew froze mid bite, eyes wide. He seemed to be scrambling desperately for the right answer. He swallowed thickly, mumbled something incoherent, and shook his head 'no'.
“Well, we can all learn it together then! Here, let's put some of that music on.”
Carla scooted over to the sound system and paused the Loretta Lynn cassette tape that had been scratching quietly in the background. She popped the CD in and fiddled with the controls and after a moment the speakers produced a shaking tambourine and some sort of string instrument accompanying several men singing a repetitive melody in what was presumably Hebrew. Drew winced. The song teetered right on the border of distracting and downright irritating. Dad halfheartedly tried to tap along, and everyone else kept occupied by chewing and avoiding eye contact. After a few minutes the song grudgingly ground to an end. The next track started up, and improbably enough, it was even more grating.
As diplomatically as I could I asked, “Maybe we could try listening to this after dinner?”
Jules pulled her forced-to-eat-brussel-sprouts face. “Or never?”
Dad dropped his fork to the plate, wearing a kicked puppy expression. “I can't believe my own children are anti-Semetic!”
Jules performed a world record eye roll. “Oh Jesus Christ, Dad.” Just when I'd thought we were going to make it through a whole meal without a father-daughter blow up. Too good to be true. “Can't you just once be a little bit normal?”
“And what exactly about being Jewish is not normal?”
“Dad, you arbitrarily decided to embrace a culture you've never given two shits about until now. You're not Jewish. Just accept your WASPiness and move on!”
“The Jews are God's chosen people, young lady! That is something to be proud of - not mocked.”
Drew inched his chair back and slid out, hoping to go unnoticed. He padded to the front door fishing a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket as he went. I've never been a smoker but at that moment I seriously considered becoming one.
There was heat rising in Julie's cheeks. “Proud? Are you proud of the shit that 'God's people' are pulling in Gaza right now?”
Dad blinked and sputtered, caught off guard by her conversational riposte. Carla seized the opportunity. She caught my eye and sweetly said, “Would you give me a hand clearing, hon?”
Thankful for any excuse, I grabbed a handful of dishes and retreated for the swinging door of the kitchen. Carla followed behind me, and soon as the door shut she heaved a massive sigh. Dad had found his words again and was haphazardly defending Israeli culture and foreign policy. This was the first time I had been alone with Carla, and I didn't really know what to expect. We made eye contact, and she said, “Lordy, Lordy, I could use a little nip. You a drinker, son?”
I was speechless for at least twenty seconds. I don't think I'd have been more shocked if she'd offered a line of cocaine. I must have managed a nod because she reached on tippy-toes to the cabinet above the fridge, and from behind a row of cleaning supplies she produced a bottle of Jose Cuervo. Carla pulled out a pair of juice glasses and poured two generous portions. “Your daddy ain't much of a drinker, I'm sure you know. But I figure if he can have his culture, I can have mine. My daddy's prayer was 'God, give me strength enough to meet the challenges of the day, and drink enough to make up for the strength I lack.' I hope tequila's alright with you.” She shook her head at the muffled argument happening in the next room and knocked her tequila back in one pull. It took me two swallows to get mine down; my eyes watered and my throat burned, but I was thankful nonetheless. She tipped a wink and said, “Praise the Lord for the agave plant, eh son?” In a practiced routine, she rinsed both glasses, fished two mints out of the jar on the counter, and handed one to me. It was a kind I'd never had before, a green and cream twist. It mellowed the lingering burn of the shot without overpowering the taste.
Carla pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves and tossed me a towel. “You're drying.” She smiled at me, but there was an even measure of sadness in her eyes. “Your dad is a good man. A strange one sure, but a good one. He misses you kids. You know that's why he tries so hard. I doubt there'd have been any Hanukkah talk if you and Jules hadn't agreed to come.”
I nodded and failed to think of a single thing to say in response. I miss him to, but I miss him the way he was, when it wasn't just him. Even when I was a kid I remember thinking how lucky I was that my parents were still married, that they were functional, that they loved each other. Dad was great at being the dad half of the parenting team, but when Mom died, it was like he was sailing without a compass. He smothered us whenever we let him close yet never seemed to be there when we really needed him. Jules got it much worse than I did.
Carla handed me damp dishes, and I fumbled around her kitchen, wiping and searching for where they belonged. When it became clear that I wasn't going to add anything to the conversation on my own, she went on, “I know that I can't know what you kids have gone through, what with your mom passing right in front of your eyes like that. My daddy died long and slow, and he always begged us to remember him in the good times. It's been eight years, hon. I don't think she'd want you hanging on like this. Not from what I've heard of her. It ain't easy on your dad neither, but he's trying to move on, bless his heart. All you can do is try.”
I tried to be angry at the matter of fact way she pronounced this, but I came up empty. I just dried the plate in my hand and looked for it's home through blurred eyes. The shouting match in the next room reached a crescendo, and then the front door slammed. A moment later Dad came into the kitchen, a smaller, beaten man. “My little girl said she's going to hitchhike home.”
Some sort of man code dictated that I not meet my Dad's eyes. I must not see his pain; he must not see mine. Carla peeled off the gloves and went to hug Dad, and I said in an abnormally low voice, “I'll go talk to her.”
The front porch was dark, but Julie's face glowed orange from her pulling hard on a cigarette. Drew was a large, dark bulk next to her looking out into the moonlit Texas night. I sat down on the stair on the other side of her, and for a long while there was no sound at all, the night completely still except for the freeway in the distance like soft, soothing static on the radio.
Julie was the one to finally speak up, her voice small and cold. “I just wish that one time he would look at me and not see a scared thirteen year old, you know?”
Of course, neither Drew nor I did, but he put his arm around her, and I said, “I hear you, Sis. I think he's trying. I really do.”
Julie choked on her tears and then coughed to cover them. She smoked her cigarette all the way to the filter and then flicked it out into the night. She spat off the porch. “Gotta take a piss,” she growled, but I still heard a little quaver beneath it. She pushed off both our shoulders and headed back inside.
Drew and I sat for another minute while he finished his smoke and fiddled absently with the three-quarter inch brass fishhook hanging from his earlobe. He frowned thoughtfully then stated, “Your family's pretty fucked up, man.”
“Yeah. I know. Only seven more days though, right? We're like twelve and half percent done.”
Drew snorted a laugh and resumed staring out into the night. My therapist says that turning bitterness into humor isn't productive, but I've found that it makes it much easier to get along. Mom was really funny. She always had everyone laughing. That day in the living room, there were a few seconds when I thought she was just making a joke - faking a heart attack before telling us to clean up the room or something. Then I realized it was serious; she was actually in pain. Nothing about that day stands out so clear as that. For a few horrible seconds, I laughed at my dying mother. I know that it wouldn't have changed anything if I had run immediately to dial 911 or if I'd just yelled to her that I loved her, but that knowledge doesn't bring any comfort. Whenever I let go enough to laugh at something, the memory of her face jabs me in the side, reopens the wound. I've come to view it as penance. Laughter is Mom's legacy, my burden.
I followed Drew in without any thought, and we caught Dad looking guilty, book in hand, lighting the middle candle on the menorah. He tried to hide the trademark yellow cover but I could make out the title-Judaism for Dummies. “It's the watch candle,” he stammered. “It's for lighting the other candles. I guess you can't use these other ones for anything else, so you have this one to read by or in case one goes out or something...” Julie came out of the bathroom, eyes red and mascara scrubbed off. None of us really knew quite what to do with each other right then. Luckily Carla swooped in to the rescue carrying a steaming pan. “Who wants some fresh babka?”
None of us had ever had babka before, and Carla confessed she took some liberties with the recipe. It was good - like a chocolate coffee cake. Midway through his piece I saw Dad eyeing the dreidel on the counter, but before he had a chance to suggest it I broke in, “Dad? Can we watch The Sons of Katie Elder?” It's an old John Wayne, one of Dad's favorites. He thought for a second then dug through his VHS collection without a word.
Jules, Dad, and I memorized every line in the movie years ago, but we hadn't sat and watched it together since mom died. It was the first time for Drew and Carla. I don't think Drew had ever even seen a western before; he was completely hooked, like a little boy waiting on the edge of his seat for the next big fight. Carla had pointed opinions about all of the characters and their decisions and she didn't hesitate to let them know her mind. Julie dropped off to sleep midway through and lulled over onto Dad's shoulder. Dad and I just watched and shared knowing looks in response to Carla and Drew's reactions. At the end, John Wayne's character brushes his dead mother's rocking chair and walks out of the frame and the movie ends on the empty chair rocking back and forth. Dad reached for the remote as slowly as he could so as to not disturb Julie. He flipped the television off midway through the credits. Carla recruited Drew to help her with the dessert plates, and I listened hard to see if her friend Jose was going to join them from the cabinet, but all that came through the wall was a muffled baritone and alto duet recounting the highlights of the film.
I sat with Dad in the living room lit only by the single flickering candle on the menorah. Julie gave a small sigh and snuggled her cheek down onto Dad's shoulder. “We should probably get her to bed, huh?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he whispered and smiled. “This might be the only way the three of us can spend any time together in peace.”
I started to laugh but held it, not wanting to wake Julie. Dad was trying to keep it in as well, and we snickered quietly like boys in church. Julie stirred again and her mouth dropped open into a rattling snore. Dad and I both came apart, shaking and giggling through our hands. Jules jerked awake, smacked her lips, and glared blearily at the two of us. “What the hell?” Dad could only wave his hand helplessly at her. She tried to maintain her scowl, but a smile began to crack through. “Seriously. You guys are assholes.”
The candle twinkled in Dad's eyes, “I'm so glad you kids came.”
We all survived the “holidays”. It wasn't always smooth or pretty but we pulled through and things got easier as the week went on. That center candle on the menorah burned down to a waxy puddle, and we never got around to lighting any of the others, but maybe we'll try again at Hanukkah next year.