learned nothing from that war, our country’s failure, nothing. Don’t you know what we were trying to tell you when we left, when we refused to take part in such –”
“Refused to defend your country, to defend our way of life - a decent, civilized way of life – against those goddamn Commie bastards.”
“Listen to you, Dad. Just listen to yourself –”
“No, you listen to me. You left, deserted, tail between your legs, and now you’ve come waltzing back in, with a ponytail and a little boy that I have no idea how you’ll raise. What the hell happened to Susie? She finally had enough?”
By this time, your grandmother has come to the back door and reaches her arm right out to the middle of the yard, it seems, to pull you back into the kitchen, push you into a chair and slam a glass down in front of you. She fills it, not with milkbut with lemonade, and for a moment, you think you could love her.
“Always been like that, Peter and Wilf.” Wilf, you guess, is your grandfather. Sounds like Peter and the Wolf. She shakes her head, then gets up and snaps on the radio. The news comes through the kitchen in static. You want to say something then. Maybe tell her about the drive down, about all the fun you are having, just you two guys. You are going to tell her your mother is fine but Peter comes into the kitchen then, red-faced, and looks at you in a way that makes you stand up.
“Well, he’s done it again,” he says. “We’re leaving now, Mom.” It is the first time you hear Peter say this. When you came in, he called her “your grandmother.” This is your father’s mom.
“I know,” your father’s mom says back, moving toward the table in the middle of the room. When she meets it, she grips, ungrips the edge. “I know,” she repeats. That was the last time you saw those two people. You don’t know how much of any of that you made up.
You leave your grandparents and keep driving. When the van stops in Arcana, California, you and Peter have decided that you might stay a while. He has included you in this choice with statements like questions – “What do you think, huh?” and “We’ll like it here, hey?” – to which you nod. Peter makes friends with other adults in a loud, joking way that you later realize makes people like him at first, avoid him later. You hear him tell people, “Don’t have a lot of material wealth but I’m good with my hands, can do just about anything.” This is how you and Peter find places to stay. He helps people with things –greenhouses, staircases, stone fireplaces – and you both stay in their houses while he does. You eat cereal with whichever kids live at the house you’re at, liking the places where they serve what Susan called
sugar bombs
, loathing the places where they feed you granola stirred into bitter yogurt. You and your instant friends – whichever children are there – read comics, build forts, and are sent outside where you run from object to object, climb things, and yell for very little reason.
You know, although Peter has never told you, not to mention the unfinished A-frame in Canada. Later, you will also know that it was more than an unfinished A-frame that came between your parents, but as a child you will attribute everything to this – Susan’s crying, Peter’s indifference, how you left, quickly and with so few words.
F riends could heal with well-chosen verses, circles of prayer. Could wipe sin clean away within the length of a song. Pastor John came over the evening after I had fainted at church.
“Come in, Pastor John, God bless!” Vera chimed like a bell when she opened the door. I was in the living room waiting and could only hear them.
“God bless, Vera,” he said, his tone sounding more serious. They spoke quietly and I couldn’t make out what they were saying until they were standing outside the living-room door. Then, I heard Pastor John say, “It must be hard for you on your own, Vera. You know, I do
“Refused to defend your country, to defend our way of life - a decent, civilized way of life – against those goddamn Commie bastards.”
“Listen to you, Dad. Just listen to yourself –”
“No, you listen to me. You left, deserted, tail between your legs, and now you’ve come waltzing back in, with a ponytail and a little boy that I have no idea how you’ll raise. What the hell happened to Susie? She finally had enough?”
By this time, your grandmother has come to the back door and reaches her arm right out to the middle of the yard, it seems, to pull you back into the kitchen, push you into a chair and slam a glass down in front of you. She fills it, not with milkbut with lemonade, and for a moment, you think you could love her.
“Always been like that, Peter and Wilf.” Wilf, you guess, is your grandfather. Sounds like Peter and the Wolf. She shakes her head, then gets up and snaps on the radio. The news comes through the kitchen in static. You want to say something then. Maybe tell her about the drive down, about all the fun you are having, just you two guys. You are going to tell her your mother is fine but Peter comes into the kitchen then, red-faced, and looks at you in a way that makes you stand up.
“Well, he’s done it again,” he says. “We’re leaving now, Mom.” It is the first time you hear Peter say this. When you came in, he called her “your grandmother.” This is your father’s mom.
“I know,” your father’s mom says back, moving toward the table in the middle of the room. When she meets it, she grips, ungrips the edge. “I know,” she repeats. That was the last time you saw those two people. You don’t know how much of any of that you made up.
You leave your grandparents and keep driving. When the van stops in Arcana, California, you and Peter have decided that you might stay a while. He has included you in this choice with statements like questions – “What do you think, huh?” and “We’ll like it here, hey?” – to which you nod. Peter makes friends with other adults in a loud, joking way that you later realize makes people like him at first, avoid him later. You hear him tell people, “Don’t have a lot of material wealth but I’m good with my hands, can do just about anything.” This is how you and Peter find places to stay. He helps people with things –greenhouses, staircases, stone fireplaces – and you both stay in their houses while he does. You eat cereal with whichever kids live at the house you’re at, liking the places where they serve what Susan called
sugar bombs
, loathing the places where they feed you granola stirred into bitter yogurt. You and your instant friends – whichever children are there – read comics, build forts, and are sent outside where you run from object to object, climb things, and yell for very little reason.
You know, although Peter has never told you, not to mention the unfinished A-frame in Canada. Later, you will also know that it was more than an unfinished A-frame that came between your parents, but as a child you will attribute everything to this – Susan’s crying, Peter’s indifference, how you left, quickly and with so few words.
F riends could heal with well-chosen verses, circles of prayer. Could wipe sin clean away within the length of a song. Pastor John came over the evening after I had fainted at church.
“Come in, Pastor John, God bless!” Vera chimed like a bell when she opened the door. I was in the living room waiting and could only hear them.
“God bless, Vera,” he said, his tone sounding more serious. They spoke quietly and I couldn’t make out what they were saying until they were standing outside the living-room door. Then, I heard Pastor John say, “It must be hard for you on your own, Vera. You know, I do
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