bad smell had entered the room. “Who cares what a bunch of eggheads think? Teaching college makes you a professor. A piece of paper don’t make you, or not make you, nothin’.”
“If I had that piece of paper,” I said, “you’d have to call me ‘doctor.’”
“Like your grandfather, the sainted Dr. O’Malley, the prince of Park Slope? Ah, what the hell for?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking a finger at me. “Only piece of paper I ever got was a paycheck, but I got one every week for over forty years. Let’s see if you last that long.”
I remembered them together, my mother’s father and my father. Grandpa liked my father, a lot, I think. Dr. O’Malley just never quite adjusted to his only daughter, after years of piano, ballet, and expensive private school, marrying the son of immigrant Irish tavern owners. It had been my father’s double shifts at the bar and then on the docks that paid her way through nursing school, though.
“How’s Ma?” I asked. “She feeling any better?”
“I read the paper this morning,” my father said. “If there’s a cure, it didn’t make the morning edition.”
“Dad, c’mon.”
“I hear it in your voice, son. She isn’t getting any better, she’ll only get worse. You and I both know that.”
I got up from the couch. “Where is she? Out back in the garden?”
“She’s in Atlantic City,” my father said.
“You’re kidding me, right? You still let her take those trips? I thought we talked about that.”
“We did,” my father said. “And like I told you then, you have no say. She likes those trips. It’s only for the day. She goes by charter bus, with her friends. The church always sends a couple nurses to keep an eye.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“The nurses? Can’t hurt.” He smiled. “I always thought nurses were okay.”
“Dad, that’s not what I mean. Mom’s not well. She’s unpredictable. You know that.”
“You’re goddamn right I do. I live with it every day.” My father looked up at me, one eye half closed, elbows on his knees. “She’s sick, but she ain’t dead. She worked hard her whole life and if she wants to play the slots all day with her friends, I’ll drive her to the bus and slip forty in her purse every goddamn time.” He stood, crossing the room to me. “And next time you talk to me like a child, I’ll drag you out back by the ear and bust open your melon like goddamn Fourth of July.”
“Understood,” I said, dropping my head to conceal a smile.
My father had bruised his knuckles a few times in his life, but he’d never lifted a hand to family. As a pediatric nurse my mother had seen more abused children than she cared to remember. My father had too much respect for her to ever bring even a hint of such a thing into our house. Absurd physical threats were how he let Danny and me know we’d crossed a line. At least in the house, Danny and I had always respected that line. Even though we harbored no fear of violence, we also had no curiosity about the other side.
“Thank you for sparing my melon,” I said. I eased up to the edge of the couch, looked up at my father. “I’m not here to talk about Mom, anyway. I’ve got some other news.”
My father beamed. “You met a girl.” He clapped his hands. “Please tell me you got her pregnant. Your mother and I are dying for grandkids.” His face went grim at his own words.
“How about a son?”
My father only looked confused.
“Dad,” I said. “Danny’s back.”
Anger reddened his face to the tips of his ears. He folded his hands over his belt buckle, spread his feet. The muscles of one shoulder twitched. This is what he must have looked like, I thought, guarding the door of his father’s bar. I wondered if he knew that wrist trick that Danny had pulled at the Red Lion. I questioned the wisdom of leading my dad to news of his junkie son through a conversation about his sick wife.
“What does that
“If I had that piece of paper,” I said, “you’d have to call me ‘doctor.’”
“Like your grandfather, the sainted Dr. O’Malley, the prince of Park Slope? Ah, what the hell for?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking a finger at me. “Only piece of paper I ever got was a paycheck, but I got one every week for over forty years. Let’s see if you last that long.”
I remembered them together, my mother’s father and my father. Grandpa liked my father, a lot, I think. Dr. O’Malley just never quite adjusted to his only daughter, after years of piano, ballet, and expensive private school, marrying the son of immigrant Irish tavern owners. It had been my father’s double shifts at the bar and then on the docks that paid her way through nursing school, though.
“How’s Ma?” I asked. “She feeling any better?”
“I read the paper this morning,” my father said. “If there’s a cure, it didn’t make the morning edition.”
“Dad, c’mon.”
“I hear it in your voice, son. She isn’t getting any better, she’ll only get worse. You and I both know that.”
I got up from the couch. “Where is she? Out back in the garden?”
“She’s in Atlantic City,” my father said.
“You’re kidding me, right? You still let her take those trips? I thought we talked about that.”
“We did,” my father said. “And like I told you then, you have no say. She likes those trips. It’s only for the day. She goes by charter bus, with her friends. The church always sends a couple nurses to keep an eye.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“The nurses? Can’t hurt.” He smiled. “I always thought nurses were okay.”
“Dad, that’s not what I mean. Mom’s not well. She’s unpredictable. You know that.”
“You’re goddamn right I do. I live with it every day.” My father looked up at me, one eye half closed, elbows on his knees. “She’s sick, but she ain’t dead. She worked hard her whole life and if she wants to play the slots all day with her friends, I’ll drive her to the bus and slip forty in her purse every goddamn time.” He stood, crossing the room to me. “And next time you talk to me like a child, I’ll drag you out back by the ear and bust open your melon like goddamn Fourth of July.”
“Understood,” I said, dropping my head to conceal a smile.
My father had bruised his knuckles a few times in his life, but he’d never lifted a hand to family. As a pediatric nurse my mother had seen more abused children than she cared to remember. My father had too much respect for her to ever bring even a hint of such a thing into our house. Absurd physical threats were how he let Danny and me know we’d crossed a line. At least in the house, Danny and I had always respected that line. Even though we harbored no fear of violence, we also had no curiosity about the other side.
“Thank you for sparing my melon,” I said. I eased up to the edge of the couch, looked up at my father. “I’m not here to talk about Mom, anyway. I’ve got some other news.”
My father beamed. “You met a girl.” He clapped his hands. “Please tell me you got her pregnant. Your mother and I are dying for grandkids.” His face went grim at his own words.
“How about a son?”
My father only looked confused.
“Dad,” I said. “Danny’s back.”
Anger reddened his face to the tips of his ears. He folded his hands over his belt buckle, spread his feet. The muscles of one shoulder twitched. This is what he must have looked like, I thought, guarding the door of his father’s bar. I wondered if he knew that wrist trick that Danny had pulled at the Red Lion. I questioned the wisdom of leading my dad to news of his junkie son through a conversation about his sick wife.
“What does that
Similar Books
