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Brew City Magazine | |
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Guidelines About the Magazine Editor-in-Chief: Managing Editor: Associate Editor: |
I’d heard stories about him before. Something having to do with a Perkins Restaurant in Florida, when Christine and her siblings were kids. He’d flown into a rage and slammed the ketchup bottle onto the glass table top, sending a crack straight down the middle. Ketchup splashed all over the paisley wallpaper, sending a waitress in a brown and white uniform over with a rag and a Mexican dishwasher over with a mop. The confusing thing was, a lot of fathers—or mothers—had done that. These mothers and fathers sometimes raised fuck-ups, sometimes they birthed Nobel Prize winning geniuses, and sometimes their children came out like Christine—both genius and fuck-up, and neither, all at the same time. She moved in with me after coming back from Guatemala; I didn’t ask her to share the rent. She never offered. Besides, it would be temporary, just until fall semester started up again. We’re not ready for that both of us had vocalized, at some point or another. But by the time I realized those lines had been recited out of habit and resolved to say something, she had housing lined up near Bergen Street, five stops away on the F Train. It wasn’t just a little bit strange that Christine’s father was flying all the way from Arizona to help her move a few boxes into her new apartment; it was absolutely bizarre. He’d never cared or even known about her moves before. Besides, the man was notoriously thrifty, not to mention an excessive planner. This trip appeared to have been thrown together within the course of a few days. We were sitting on the fire escape outside my kitchen window and Christine was giving me a crash course on her father. The sky was growing dark over miles of rooftops, the sun bright orange as it fell. Christine’s hair caught bits of light like flame. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. “I wonder if he’s trying to make amends,” Christine rolled her eyes and puffed her cigarette. She grunted a laugh. Winked at me. “I just don’t get why he won’t just crash here, if he’s so concerned about saving money,” I said. “I told you he’s welcome to.” Christine shook her head. “My family has always been really formal. Though I guess I broke out of that to some extent. I know it seems weird to you, Anna, but that’s just the way he is. I dunno. Knowing—or rather, not knowing—my father, it makes sense. I was silent, so she continued. “Anna, my family just isn’t like yours. ‘Member that story you told me about the day your parents dropped you off at college and your dad shouted, use prophylactics!, as he was pulling away?” “Yea,” I said, grinning. “Exactly.” She smiled. “That would never happen in a million billion years in my family. My father can barely acknowledge that I might do anything but study law like some goddamn automaton. But the idea that maybe, just maybe, I’d be interested in having a sexual relationship with someone? Forget it.” Neither of us said anything. “And don’t even mention fucking girls,” she added, before I could. “Shit, Anna,” she said, grabbing my hand playfully. Christine turned her head away, the smile still on her face, and I studied her profile. Her long black hair fell past her shoulder, dipped lazily into the delicate crevices of her shoulder bone. Her bra strap fell casually around her upper arm from underneath her black shirt. Yeah, but does your dad remind your mom how fat she is? I thought to myself. Still, you’re the one that can’t seem to stop throwing up your food. “What are you thinking about?” She asked, probably noticing the furrow in my brow. “Nothing,” I said. Christine’s formality with her father and lack of communication shouldn’t have surprised me at all, really. He knew next to nothing about his adult daughter except that she’d been accepted to a prestigious law school and one day, he assumed, she’d make a lot of money. He knew nothing of the identity repeatedly questioned, the self-doubt. That before she’d left for Guatemala she’d been close to dropping out, because four in the morning was the only time she had to paint. He didn’t know that she would call me screaming and crying about really wanting to be an artist. He knew none of the complicated sacrifices that buoyed her. That when she got real sad, she’d starve herself for days, and then binge. That she’d lock herself into her room to study, wouldn’t come out for week. Then she’d emerge, exhausted, ragged, depressed. That in the middle of the night she’d burn herself on the electric coil of the stove, just so she could feel something. And the reverse was also true, as I suppose it always is. Christine seemed to know little of her father, except that, despite his image of thriftiness, he had taken over ten expensive trips within three years to places like Antarctica with wealthy, adventurous white men and women in the midst of a mid-life crisis. He had taken 75 rolls of black and white film entirely of ice and snow. And no one had ever looked at a single one of them. He himself had barely looked at them after taking them home from the photo shop. The prints, Christine said, lay underneath her mother’s linen in the dining room cabinet. Still, he loomed large, large enough to symbolize everything about Christine that I would never be able to touch, no matter how much I tried to strip her layers away.
The week Christine’s father arrived, I took her out for dinner to our favorite Indian restaurant. I could tell she’d been on edge from the minute his plane was supposed to have landed at LaGuardia, but two days had passed and he still hadn’t even bothered to call. We didn’t discuss it; I knew better than to press her for details, but sometimes I’m just reckless. We were walking silently from the subway towards the restaurant, holding hands. “So, your father’s here already, right?” I asked, attempting nonchalance. “What’s he been up to?” “I dunno, Anna,” she responded sharply, dropping my hand, “I don’t keep tabs on him.” “Right,” I said, falling into silence. Case closed. The chilly autumn dusk felt lonelier than usual. I touched Christine’s lower back gently to make sure she was still there. I had gotten under her skin, so Christine changed the subject to something just as volatile. She told me that her therapist had suggested going on Zoloft, just to get things under control. Peering sideways shyly, she paused for validation. I gave her none. Instead I pulled my jacket tight. This was the one place where she seemed vulnerable and I repeatedly capitalized on it. She continued, guiltily, “Drugs are an initial step that might get me over the hump. Once I begin eating normally, I can go off.” She stopped walking and turned to look at me. I didn’t say anything, even though my silence drove her crazy. We’d had this conversation countless times before. I knew Christine would go on the drugs and then get frustrated after three weeks. I knew Christine hated the idea of putting chemicals in her body, but worse, she might never feel normal without them. I stared intently at her perpetually made-up face. I could see minute imperfections—foundation not rubbed in thoroughly, globs of mascara pinning two lashes together. I loved her more than ever. I was waiting for Christine to say, this time I’m really going to give them a chance, when suddenly, she darted her eyes. “Holy shit. It’s my dad,” she whispered. He was an old man in the street, a total stranger. Still he’d lived with this woman next to me for almost eighteen years. His few threads of hair had been combed over his bald spot, leaving four greasy strands spread like fingers on his skull. He was too thin. His nose was long, and it came to a point, which emphasized the angle of his jaw. When he smiled he squinted, and he smiled from the moment he spotted his daughter. He and Christine bantered together politely about the strange coincidence of running into each other, about moving day logistics, and household items left to be purchased. He’d rent a minivan, they’d drive to IKEA and buy a new couch. Christine wouldn’t get her set of keys until eight a.m. on Friday morning, so he’d keep the van through the weekend to help her move. I’d never seen her like this before. For the first time I glimpsed Christine’s larger timeline, as a child, as an adult. Her voice was strangely tender and patient, bordering on condescension, and her father was this meek man with a tenuous hold on her. In the presence of such a figure, I began to tune out, turned into a child staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. And then Christine’s father began to apologize to me, for tying us up, for taking our time, for not including me. “No problem,” I said, automatically, out of the fog of my brain. Suddenly, we were subjected to the electronic version of Für Elise. As though it were a car alarm, we tried to ignore it, and yet we were frozen in silence, listening. But Christine’s father didn’t answer the phone, or reach to turn it off. It rang a second time. The second ring is the most painful. He just stared at Christine and I, and we back at him. A third ring. He was still squinting and smiling, the scene growing eerie. It was as though he couldn’t hear this particular selection of classical music. It was as though he’d made a joke and he was looking at to see if they’d gotten the punch line. A fourth ring. Finally, to my relief, Christine exploded. “Christ!” she shouted, breaking the night’s stillness. “Dad—aren’t you going to get it?” He appeared to be completely unfazed. He started to turn away, the phone ringing a fifth time. He said he’d see Christine the next morning. Then he walked away, while she and I stood there for a moment watching his back. She turned to look at me, and I thought for a second that her clear eyes would provide me with an explanation, but they glazed over before I got one. Then she turned and began to walk towards the Indian restaurant as though nothing had happened and I dragged half a step behind, blinking, as Christine lit a cigarette.
With impeccable punctuality, Christine’s father honked outside my apartment and we pulled into the empty lot at IKEA the moment the store opened, ten a.m. the next morning. Christine had begged me to come along, act as a buffer. Given the stadium-sized parking lots, we thought Christine’s father might stop somewhere near the store entrance, but he didn’t—of course. Instead he drove to the furthest corner of the lot and parked the car. Then he told us that he wasn’t going in. Christine stared at him for a second in irritation, but she didn’t question him. I suppose out of training. I felt like interjecting on Christine’s behalf, but her father’s demeanor was so stiflingly commanding that I simply waited for my cues. His lips were together lightly, his temper entirely even. He looked at us blankly and waited for us to leave. So Christine and I got out and started walking. Christine looked for what she needed distractedly as we wandered through what might as well have been Disney Land, minus the rides. I barely spoke except to give her a few short words of advice. I knew that having her father around was screwing up our communication, but I had no idea how to make everything all okay. It was as though I were simply watching actors on stage and my only job was to sit quietly and react when appropriate. I watched Christine belabor over which new soap dish and toothbrush holder, or whether an indoor plant for the living room. I mumbled an opinion in response to the couch, and then I trailed after her to the checkout line. We waited and nibbled on a soft pretzel with mustard. I made small talk with the man behind us in line and flirted with his toddler. Finally I helped Christine carry out the futon couch, its heavy wood pieces packed tightly into a box that we balanced upended on an ornery cart, along with the futon itself and her other items. Christine huffed. I knew she was irritated because she had been hoping that her father might foot the bill, a fatherly gesture. Across the parking lot, we could see him standing outside the car. Fatherly gesture, I thought, sarcastically. He was on the telephone with someone, his chin was pointed down, and as we approached, he backed away. He opened the car door to get in, and by the time Christine and I had loaded the purchases into the trunk and were seated, he had already hung up. Asshole, I thought, but still said nothing. “Who was that? Mom?” Christine asked. “No.” He maintained the same cool stare. It was as though the hour in the store had not passed. “Who was it then?” He started the car and changed the subject. He asked her about IKEA. Which curtains had she chosen, the pale green ones or the sheer?
In the evening I knew Christine had binged. I knew because when I came home from my run, Christine was vomiting it up in the bathroom. I stood at the door and rested my head on the frame, placing my arm across to block the exit until she noticed me. When she did, she kept her eyes lowered and pushed past. My elbow gave and I spun around to catch her, but Christine slipped into the bedroom. I called out to her through the locked door, my lips practically touching the wood. “Christine,” I tried again, “You’re so much stronger than your father. You know that, don’t you?” I waited for a long moment. She could hear her breathing there just on the other side of the door. “I don’t know,” she answered, finally.
According to Christine, her father was one of the most frugal men in America. When they were kids, if they ever went out to dinner, they had to remember whose turn it was to choose the dish they’d share. He’d figured out that if you ordered two large orange juices, it was cheaper than buying five small orange juices, but just as much juice. He’d created a complex system of side orders and a la carte combinations that could save as much as 20 cents at local family restaurants. He had even written a simple computer program to calculate various permutations of items relative to their approximate food mass. Over a number of years, he said, this could amount to big savings. On Tuesday, Christine’s father said he’d take her to Super K-Mart for some last minute items. This time I didn’t need coaxing to come along; I figured she needed me whether or not she acknowledged it. Why he wanted to meet us at the southwest corner of Central Park, we didn’t know. But we didn’t ask, either. Just be polite, I kept reminding myself. We spotted him prior to reaching our meeting point. He was coming out the glass doors of the ritzy Mandarin Oriental Hotel, a place I’d never stepped foot in. In that instant, I flashed upon the memory of her father’s computer program and the permutations of food items. Without thinking, I blurted, “Isn’t your dad staying at some Motel 6?” Christine darted angry eyes at me. “Shut up, Anna.” Then she bounded across the street before I could stop her. I followed. Christine practically knocked into him but he met her squarely, a fake smile spread across his face. “Dad, what’s going on? The fucking Mandarin Oriental?” I couldn’t believe how completely she’d blown her façade. She gave me a look that meant get lost, but all I could think to do was turn my back and try to blend into the smooth walls of the hotel. I wished I had a cigarette to light, an umbrella to open; any prop. Meanwhile I watched their reflections in the dark hotel glass. He looked straight at her while the seconds became a microcosmic lifetime. The two of them were merely representations, sealed for me in a glass world. Then he asked Christine how her morning was, whether it had been any sunnier on her side of the river. They stood frozen on the sidewalk while a hurried businesswoman swept past wielding a laptop. The woman responded with an irritated look. A cab honked loudly. “Dad, seriously, what’s going on? You’ve been acting so strangely. And—the fucking Mandarin!” She repeated, sputtering. “Or are you visiting someone here? I didn’t think you knew anyone in Manhattan.” He tried to move to the curb, but Christine blocked his body with hers. “Dad.” Her dark hair fell into her eyes, and she wiped it back quickly with her left hand as she grabbed hold of his elbow with her right. “Seriously—have you been … seeing someone?”
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