Hidden Falls, page 11
“Yes.”
“I had no clue!”
“What do we ev’ah really know?” she murmured as she tipped her cup above her lips to drink the last drop of tea. “This tea is good, isn’t it? They sell it at the Ma’ket Basket. You should bring some home. It’s only $3.25. It’s a good deal.”
“They sell tea in Portland, Mum,” I said. “That must have been like 20-to-1 odds. Is there like a million dollars hiding in that safety deposit box?”
“No, ya fath’ah was afraid the Russians would kill him befo’ah they’d pay him, so he talked them down, maybe to nothing,” she explained. “I don’t really know. He didn’t want me to worry. He always told me the less I knew the bett’ah off I was.”
My brain was spinning and rattling like a carnival ride. The excess of booze, honesty, perfumed tea, and betrayal had me on the verge of vomiting. My sinuses were filled with dust and my hands smelled of turpentine. I closed my eyes, searching for some peace, but it only exacerbated the spinning sensation.
“‘Ah you going to be sick?” my mother asked.
“I think so,” I managed.
“Well, why don’t you go do that in the bathroom and then go get some rest?” she proposed matter-of-factly. “Sarah and Ben are going to be here early, and you don’t want to look and smell like a hobo.”
“Wait. What? Sarah’s coming?”
“She called the house tonight while you w’ah at the ba’ah,” she explained, giving me a pat on the back as she walked by on her way to her bedroom. It was a rare show of affection.
I didn’t know what to think, and I was less sure what to believe. I felt the need to write it all down—craft it, rearrange it, find the threads that ran deep through my life. It was the only way I could make it all seem normal. Saliva began to well in my mouth and I rushed to the bathroom.
10
#10 JOSEPH “JO JO” WHITE, POINT GUARD, BOSTON CELTICS
I was suspended between sleep and waking. For an unreasonably brief moment, I felt wonderful. I was untethered from the responsibility of my desires. The voice that nagged, prodded, questioned, judged, and second-guessed my every motivation was either asleep or still drunk from the night before. I was free from the burden of being Michael Quinn. I teetered along the fissure between realities until gravity pulled me into consciousness. I landed with a thump and my thoughts began to move like Jell-O through cheesecloth. Pressure swelled at the backs of my eyes and my ears rang with an electric hum. My joints ached—my gut twisted. I thought about lifting my head from the pillow, but I couldn’t find the courage. It was the morning of my father’s wake, and like a good Irish Catholic, I was hungover—it was the only part of the catechism I ever fully embraced.
My son and ex-wife were in an airplane somewhere closer to the Hudson than the Mississippi as I lumbered out of bed. Sarah’s last-minute decision to accompany Ben had my brain in a knot. She wasn’t coming to be supportive. She had some other motive, and it would be wise for me to figure out what it was. I anticipated the areas of conflict and began formulating counterarguments. I prepared for attacks on all fronts. I didn’t know what kind of fight I was in for, I just knew that before noon, Sarah would make my father’s death about her and demand some recompense.
Sarah always knew what she wanted and had a plan to acquire it. During our marriage, she got pregnant and then told me she wanted kids. When we lived in D.C., she accepted a job in Oregon, resigned as a congressional staffer, and then “asked me” if I wanted to move. When we got to Portland, she carried on a year-long affair and then told me she wanted a divorce on the same day she told me she was moving in with her lover. The world existed to give Sarah what she wanted. If she wanted the same thing as you, life could be grand, but during our relationship those coincidences were extraordinarily rare.
Ben was in Pre-K in Washington D.C. during 9/11. One of his classmates lost his mother during the attack on the Pentagon and since then, he associated flying with great loss. He got very nervous whenever Sarah or I went on trips. Oddly, he had no fear of being in a plane himself—he only got scared when Sarah or I traveled alone. I would call as soon as the plane arrived to let him know I landed safely. After smartphones became ubiquitous, I started texting him goofy selfies with something iconic from my destination: a Dunkin’ Donuts in Boston, a monument in D.C., and when we returned to PDX I’d send a picture of the famous ’80s teal carpet that replaced the neon White Stag sign as Portland’s kitschy icon. I realized I had forgotten to send a text when I landed this time, and I felt awful. I wondered if Ben would text me after his redeye landed at Logan.
My breath smelled like a dragon shat in my mouth, my eyes were bloodshot, and I was so dehydrated I thought I may have turned to a pillar of salt in my sleep. I was already feeling embarrassed imagining what Ben would think of me. He was brought up Jewish on the West Coast and was never indoctrinated into the rites and rituals of being an East Coast Irish Catholic. I was worried he’d mistake my obligation to get Viking-drunk in honor of my father with being irresponsible.
Sarah always took the Southeast Expressway and would get to New Bedford an hour after they picked up their bags and their rental. That meant I had less than two hours to cure my hangover.
I decided jogging might help me sweat out some of the nasty bile that was flowing through my system. I changed into basketball shorts, sneakers, and a cotton t-shirt. When I bent over to tie my shoes my head felt like a balloon being pulled underwater. The humidity was dense and the heat was rising. I was sweating before I reached the sidewalk in front of the house. It will be cooler by the ocean, I thought, and started in that direction.
Each footfall reverberated with regret, but as my heart rate increased the pain became more tolerable. It didn’t take long for me to reach the shore. The ocean was calm, the waves softly rippling across the breakers and gently kissing the seawall. The cool sea air made me realize how much I missed living by the Atlantic. It made me want to sail beyond the horizon and try to touch the sun. The urge felt so primal that I wondered if it was connected to the impulse that led the first sea creature to clamber up on land.
New Bedford was still a working port and jogging past the men toiling on the docks made me feel soft. It was ingrained in me as a boy that a man’s work demanded courage and a strong back. I thought I abandoned all my prosaic ideas about manliness in college, but they lingered. My adolescent-self questioned my complacency—he didn’t seem to understand that people aren’t forever teeming with energy, optimism, and the confidence that accompanies having nothing to lose.
My mind chased every random thought as I continued jogging along the seashore. I thought about my brother and how different we were. I wondered if we’d be closer if I’d never left New Bedford, or if he’d followed me to Emerson. I loved growing up in New Bedford. It was comfortable and predictable. I could have stayed and found a way to make a living, maybe coaching basketball, and been just as happy, maybe more, I thought, but I was so determined to get out and see what else I could become.
I was always worried Derrick and my parents thought I was running from them. They had no sympathy for the stigma I felt being one of the poor kids at college. I learned how to fit in at Emerson, but I’d forgotten how to fit in in New Beige, and after a while I didn’t feel accepted anywhere. At college, I always felt like someone who’d snuck into the theater without a ticket, and at home I felt like the guy who got caught pissing in a public swimming pool.
There was so much to figure out, about my father, Mary, Ben, and the money—all that money! But as I jogged along the docks, I skipped past all those things to wonder what would have happened if I’d never left New Bedford, if I’d stayed and married a neighborhood girl (I always had crushes on Laurie Whitmore and Susan Maguire—Susan and I would have made lots of freckled redheaded children) and put down roots where my people were buried. I’d still have the accent I worked so hard to lose. Quinns had lived in New Bedford since Fredrick Douglas still walked the streets and lamps were fueled by whale oil. I romanticized our maritime heritage even though my grandfather was the last to work on a boat over 60-years ago. The vocational continuity bonded generations. Fisherman were born into a fraternity. There was a sense of belonging and purpose. It gave life a solid foundation, and I mourned its loss. I felt nostalgia for a life I’d never known.
I missed the struggle of being a New Bedford kid. I missed the feeling that it was me against the world. I missed knowing nobody gave me a chance at succeeding. It fueled my need to prove that I deserved a place at society’s grownup table. I fought like hell to overcome class barriers and reinvented myself as a newspaperman. When I delivered the Globes and Heralds through all kinds of weather, I imagined one day my byline would be on the stories everyone wanted to read. But the thing I didn’t anticipate was that the prodding voice always telling you that you’re not good enough never goes away. I still felt like I had to prove I belonged in a world that valued clicks over quality, and speed over accuracy, and where writers were replaced by “content specialists.” I was still a columnist, but how long would it be before I became an “opinion specialist” and my job was to scan the incoherent ramblings in comment sections of stories and stitch the wisdom of Sparky99 and UncleChester into something that resembled intelligent human thought?
Maybe my father was right. Maybe figuring out how you want to be remembered is more important than what you do for a living. I wanted to stop second-guessing my own motives and privilege. I wanted to just be me, but it had been a long time since I knew who that was.
So how do I want to be? I thought as I turned around and headed back toward my parents’ house. How do I want to be remembered?
I could smell bacon cooking before I walked down the driveway. Glorious! As I came into the kitchen through the sunporch, the scent of bacon was joined with that of frying potatoes and brewing coffee. My mother was clearly making a regal breakfast in anticipation of her grandson’s arrival. She was excited to see Ben. We didn’t need to be at McMahon’s Funeral Parlor until 3:00 p.m., but she was already dressed and ready to go. She was wearing the Red Sox apron that my father used to wear whenever he grilled, and I caught her just as she was sprinkling Old Bay and garlic powder on the eggs, her secret ingredients. There was a sizzle-pop as the bacon grease spattered from the pan, catching my mother’s wrist and making her jerk it away from the heat. As she turned, she saw me and jumped again. She was clearly also nervous to see Sarah.
“I’m making Ben his favorite breakfast,” she said, quickly stuffing the Old Bay back in the cupboard and shutting the door. “He’s always loved when I make him eggs. Will he still not eat you’ahs? I didn’t have any rye bread or bagels, so I hope white toast will be okay for Sarah.”
I wasn’t sure what to address first, her jab at my cooking or her blatant Jewish stereotyping. I decided to address neither. It was the day of my father’s wake and I needed to carve out space for us to mourn. I guess this is how she copes, I thought, with slights and small aggressions.
“I usually scramble them for him,” I replied as I gently rubbed her back in circles. “No one can fry an egg like you, Mum.”
“‘Ah you going to be okay with seeing Sarah today?”
The question took me by surprise. It was the first time since the divorce that she’d asked about my emotions regarding Sarah.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “You know we still see each other all the time, when we’re picking up and dropping off, and at Ben’s events. We still like each other well enough.”
“Just not enough to stay faithful,” she countered.
And there it is, I thought. She’s like Ali! That was the classic Rope-A-Dope. Make them think you’ve gone soft, get them to let down their guard, and then hammer them with a straight right to the chin. Well played, Mum.
“Yeah, something like that,” I sighed. I wondered why we’d fallen back into our typical dysfunctional roles. Why were we able to have an almost normal conversation the night before? Was it because I was drunk? Was she drunk, too? I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to talk with Mary. I wanted to know there was a place for me in the world where I could let my guard down and not suffer for it. I didn’t know what time she was flying back, but I really wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to see my son. I wanted my life to be different, and I wanted it to start in that moment.
I went upstairs to take a quick shower, then came back downstairs to find my mother plating food as Ben and Sarah knocked at the back door.
Ben was wearing the Ted Williams replica Red Sox jersey my father sent him for his last birthday. It had only been weeks since I saw him last, but he seemed older. I was somehow expecting a younger version of him to walk through the door. His once curly hair was now wavy and neatly combed. He was taller and thinner, and his baby face was now marked with high cheekbones and a strong chin. Sarah looked as beautiful as she always did, but her beauty no longer affected me. What I once saw as a magical talisman promising happiness was now recognized as a failed experiment.
My mother shut off the stove with a loud click of the knob and took off her apron as she rushed to her grandson. “Oh, look at you!” she cooed. “You ‘ah all grown up. Come give me a hug.”
Ben shuffled toward my mother as she draped her apron over a kitchen chair. She promptly hugged him and kissed his cheek. I wanted to hug him, too, but his body language told me not to try, so I just put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, bud. Did you get any sleep on the plane?”
“Some,” he said.
My mother rushed back to the stove where four plates of food were getting cold. Sarah stood in the doorway, looking a bit cold herself. I turned to her after greeting Ben. She was waiting to be invited in, but that was a formality that didn’t exist at my parents’ house. The back door was always open to friends, and ex-wives were a subcategory.
“Well,” she finally said as she stepped into the kitchen, “it’s good to see you, Adeline. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
My mother put the breakfast plates on the kitchen table and forced what she thought would pass for a polite smile. I’m sure Sarah just read it as gas pain, if she noticed at all. I extended my arms to hug Sarah and immediately realized she was stepping toward the table, not me. She grimaced and leaned her shoulder into my chest for an awkward, uncomfortable hug.
“Thanks for dropping everything and bringing Ben out like this,” I said.
“I wanted to do something,” she said. “Your father was always so kind to me, and Ben, of course, adored him, so yeah, I’m glad it could work out.”
“Sit down and eat,” my mother insisted. “You must be famished aft’ah flying all night.”
Ben and Sarah exchanged awkward glances. “Oh, we were, so we went through a drive-through on the way here,” Sarah said. “Had I known you were cooking us such a wonderful breakfast I would have spared us the agony of eating fast food.”
“It would have been good to know that you ate,” Mum muttered, looking at me as if I was complicit in their plot to trick her into making bacon, eggs, and potatoes. “Did you know?”
I shook my head.
“I certainly won’t let it go to waste,” I finally said, trying to lighten the mood. My mother began to clear the plates off the table just as I pulled out a chair to sit down. “Mum, what are you doing?”
“Well, they’ve already agonized ov’ah take-out food,” she said as she stacked the plates on top of each other.
Sarah sighed. “Look, Adeline, Ben was hungry—”
“And you didn’t have the common courtesy to call and let us know you w’ah eating when you knew we w’ah waiting for you!”
Sarah squared her shoulders to my mother, the way she did when she was getting ready for a fight.
“Adeline, you’re obviously under a lot of stress,” she began.
“That’s right. I am. All the more reason for common courtesy, but like usual all you can think about is ya own needs,” my mother snapped, then quickly looked away.
“This was a mistake,” said Sarah. “I’ll just go.”
“Stop this immediately, both of you!” I shouted. It surprised everyone in the room, including me. I very seldom raised my voice, and it felt good.
Ben pulled up a chair at the table to watch the rest of his family act like children. I took the plates from my mother and put them back on the table in their proper places. I scraped food from Sarah’s plate onto mine and put her plate in the sink. “Sarah, would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” She folded her arms and continued to pout.
“Mother, sit down, please, and get caught up with Ben,” I demanded, and for the first time in my life, she capitulated.
“Ben, would you like something to drink?”
He seemed very confused. “No, thank you,” he said.
“Did you have enough to eat?” I asked. “Grammie made your favorite eggs.”
“I could eat a little more,” he admitted.
“Attaboy,” I said. “Now, we’re all going to sit here and start this over, because life is hard enough without seeking out needless misery. And please, let’s remember that we are here to bury my father. Your husband. So, let’s just put aside whatever baggage we’re dealing with until he’s in the ground.”
I wasn’t really sure where that came from, but I felt my father was somewhere smiling in agreement. I looked around the table, toward the eastern and western fronts, waiting for my outburst to come ricocheting back at me, but there was nothing. Ben took a bite of egg.
“These are good eggs, Grandmum,” he said with a smile that was returned by everyone at the table.
“See, we can do this,” I chimed in.
“Do you want to bet on that?” my mother deadpanned, which caused me to belly laugh. She flashed me a death stare and I realized her joke was inadvertent. As soon as she figured out why I was laughing, she rolled her eyes and one corner of her mouth slightly lifted into something that resembled a smile. Sarah and Ben were completely confused, and I couldn’t explain the joke to them, so I just ate. We sat for a while in this relative state of peaceful discomfort. I devoured every morsel on my plate as Ben and my mother picked at their food and made small talk.
