feeling grumpy, thus the question. It’s something Dad would say when someone was in a bad mood. His joke was that you were Grumpy of the Seven Dwarfs, so the other six must be around somewhere. I would usually quickly make up where I thought all the others were. I knew he meant it rhetorically, but I couldn’t resist the exercise no matter how bad a mood I was in. I would start counting on my fingers and say something like, “Sleepy is in bed, of course; Sneezy is at the allergist; Doc is on the golf course; Bashful is hiding under the rug again; Dopey—well, even he doesn’t know where he is; and … crap.” I’d always forget at least one. And yes, I realize that the fact that I usually forgot Happy probably meant something.
But no matter what, just doing that little thing would usually make me laugh. Especially if I came up with something really strange—like “Bashful is breaking out of his routine by auditioning to be a stripper”—that cracked Dad up. Just seeing him laugh would immediately snap me out of it and I couldn’t remember why I was Grumpy in the first place. He’d try to play it straight,his serious deep-set eyes burning before a twinkle and the greatest laugh you’ve ever heard. Damn, I miss him.
But my grumpiness isn’t going away so easily this time. “Grumpy” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m pissed. There’s no other way to put it. So I just blurt it out. The words come out like an auctioneer rattling off prices for a used clock or like a single word, the world’s longest hyphenated one. “Mom-I-know-Dad-had-another-son-and-I-know-you-knew-and-I-can’t-believe-you-never-told-me-and-I-saw-the-picture-and-I-know-you-saw-that-picture-before-the-other-day-so-don’t-lie-just-tell-me-how-you-knew-and-also-tell-me-why-you-never-told-me.”
She stands there, staring at me for a minute, blinking. She purses her lipsticked lips, then exhales slowly. She doesn’t say anything, though. So I take the picture out from my backpack. “This younger guy is clearly Dad’s son,” I say. “And I fingerprinted the picture—I know you’ve touched it.”
“You did what?” she says, almost laughing.
“It’s not funny!” I say. I feel like a toddler.
“Okay, you’re right.” She smooths her hair, smooths the creases in her dress. If she thinks she can smooth everything away, she’s wrong. I scowl. “Settle down,” she says. “Have a seat.”
“I don’t want to have a seat!” I say. I realize I’m yelling.
“Guy,” she says. “Oh, honey. I understand.”
Bullshit
. “How can you understand? How can anyone understand unless they learn that their whole life is a lie? What else don’t I know?”
“That’s it,” she says. “I promise. And really, it’s not like what you think.”
“What I think is that Dad had a kid and never told me about it. I have a brother I never knew!”
“Well then, I guess it is what you think,” she says.
Is she trying to be funny?
“I wanted to tell you a long time ago,” she says. “But your father … he made me promise. It was a serious sore point for him. You know he loves you—he hated that he had a child he lost touch with. But his mother didn’t want anything to do with your father. Your father tried to have a relationship with him, but it just didn’t happen. And the boy—well, the man—he has had some … problems over the years. I don’t think anyone in the family had seen him for decades before the funeral.”
“What? He was at the funeral?”
“Yes, that strange man in the beard.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Your father never wanted you to know. And honestly, I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s not well.”
“What do you mean, ‘not well’? What do you mean, he has problems?”
“Drug problems,” she says. “That’s part of the reason why your father never wanted you to know about him, really. I mean, that sounds awful, but really it’s just that he didn’t want
But no matter what, just doing that little thing would usually make me laugh. Especially if I came up with something really strange—like “Bashful is breaking out of his routine by auditioning to be a stripper”—that cracked Dad up. Just seeing him laugh would immediately snap me out of it and I couldn’t remember why I was Grumpy in the first place. He’d try to play it straight,his serious deep-set eyes burning before a twinkle and the greatest laugh you’ve ever heard. Damn, I miss him.
But my grumpiness isn’t going away so easily this time. “Grumpy” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m pissed. There’s no other way to put it. So I just blurt it out. The words come out like an auctioneer rattling off prices for a used clock or like a single word, the world’s longest hyphenated one. “Mom-I-know-Dad-had-another-son-and-I-know-you-knew-and-I-can’t-believe-you-never-told-me-and-I-saw-the-picture-and-I-know-you-saw-that-picture-before-the-other-day-so-don’t-lie-just-tell-me-how-you-knew-and-also-tell-me-why-you-never-told-me.”
She stands there, staring at me for a minute, blinking. She purses her lipsticked lips, then exhales slowly. She doesn’t say anything, though. So I take the picture out from my backpack. “This younger guy is clearly Dad’s son,” I say. “And I fingerprinted the picture—I know you’ve touched it.”
“You did what?” she says, almost laughing.
“It’s not funny!” I say. I feel like a toddler.
“Okay, you’re right.” She smooths her hair, smooths the creases in her dress. If she thinks she can smooth everything away, she’s wrong. I scowl. “Settle down,” she says. “Have a seat.”
“I don’t want to have a seat!” I say. I realize I’m yelling.
“Guy,” she says. “Oh, honey. I understand.”
Bullshit
. “How can you understand? How can anyone understand unless they learn that their whole life is a lie? What else don’t I know?”
“That’s it,” she says. “I promise. And really, it’s not like what you think.”
“What I think is that Dad had a kid and never told me about it. I have a brother I never knew!”
“Well then, I guess it is what you think,” she says.
Is she trying to be funny?
“I wanted to tell you a long time ago,” she says. “But your father … he made me promise. It was a serious sore point for him. You know he loves you—he hated that he had a child he lost touch with. But his mother didn’t want anything to do with your father. Your father tried to have a relationship with him, but it just didn’t happen. And the boy—well, the man—he has had some … problems over the years. I don’t think anyone in the family had seen him for decades before the funeral.”
“What? He was at the funeral?”
“Yes, that strange man in the beard.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Your father never wanted you to know. And honestly, I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s not well.”
“What do you mean, ‘not well’? What do you mean, he has problems?”
“Drug problems,” she says. “That’s part of the reason why your father never wanted you to know about him, really. I mean, that sounds awful, but really it’s just that he didn’t want
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