Forty, Love
Originally published
in Love Stories: A Literary
Companion to Tennis
An anthology of
stories about tennis featuring John Updike, David Foster Wallace, Vladimir
Nabokov, and other writers
I am going to see my father
for the first time in ten years. Whether he commanded it or requested it, I
don't know, because the news came through my mother, as all news of my father
has since I was thirty. A stroke.
When she first told me, the
word didn't register. It was tennis I thought of. Me, a nervous and wiry
fifteen, waiting. Legs apart, knees bent, my upper body swaying from side to
side. Watching my father. The ball flying, fear and movement--stumbling into
position, yanking my arm back. Stroke. The moment of contact. Relief.
But now, sitting in my rental
car outside the stone house with its white-columned porch, the word means
something else. I imagine my mother moving from room to room, alone against the
blue-scrolled wallpaper, cream carpets, and heavy furniture. My father bent and
broken in their king-size bed. Guilt floods through me.
Around me, the car is damp
with the vapors from my breath, chilly. I take my leather gloves from my coat
pocket, stroke their smooth folds. The supple surfaces and pungent scent ease
my nerves. Touching the gloves, I always feel an assurance; I feel the ease of
quality and comfort and success, how those things can be shaped into something
I hold in my hands. Outside, only the occasional car turns onto the street; the
Friday evening rush hour is over. Dusk is deepening the color of the sky above
the neighborhood homes, the quiet oaks and elms. The engine purrs. It's only a
rental car, but it's the same model I drive back in London. I press down ever so slightly on the
gas pedal. It seems I need the sound of a well-tuned BMW to tell me that I am a
successful man.
In earlier years, I needed my father to tell me. Why else
would I have let him drill me like that, hour after hour, day after day? Even
now, those high school days come back to me. I feel it in my arms, legs, back--even
my eyes. Hot sunny days, the shadows of the net and posts sharp against the
surface of the court. "Volley! Volley!" he shouted. "Why don't you run for it?"
He sliced his racket downward. I swung and missed, cursed my muscles. The ball
smashed into the ground beyond me and bounced on, fast and hard.
I kill the engine and jerk the door open. Stride toward the
waiting house. I was determined then, and I'm determined now. But now I'm forty.
I'm not cowed by him. I know this is just a weekend, not a match whose outcome
will determine my future.
"Mi-chael!" my mother cries as she opens the door. "Already
past seven o'clock. We were
waiting." She looks composed but fragile, a crown of white showing beneath the
black hair that sweeps back and curls neatly under her earlobes. "Why are you
so late?" she says. I imagine him in the dark hush of the family room behind
us, listening.
"Work." My eyes slide past her. A wood safety gate blocks
off the wide, curving stairway. The Chinese-style urns are gone from the foyer.
Meanwhile, my voice goes on as if things were normal, too loud for this subdued
house. "You know the New York
office. As soon as you get in from out of town, it's meeting after meeting-"
It's true, but it's also true that I didn't have to arrange those meetings.
"I'm sorry, Ma. You're alone with him all the time."
"No, the home help workers and the speech therapist, they
come." She unfolds a paper from her sweater pocket, touches an imaginary pair
of glasses, and shifts into the stance of a stout, chesty woman. "All raht,
Missus Kim, Ah've prepared a list of words your husband have trouble with. Ignorance, arguments, decisions-"
She refolds the paper, and her stance returns to normal.
I force a smile. "That accent is great, Ma. And your body
movements." It's a good thing she has her acting. I don't think a subservient
woman could have survived with my father, but my mother wasn't like that--she
headed the mostly-white PTA, organized fund-raisers for the local theater, even
acted in their plays. Has this stroke taken too large a toll on her
independence? I touch her arm. "This therapist sounds helpful."
"Yes, very helpful, this Carol Beth lady," my mother says.
"I just do small things. Practice the words with him. English, Korean-- Also I
help him change clothes. Put everything on the right side so he will notice it.
He has a little bit of left side neglect."
Left side neglect.
I imagine all the other terms I've never heard, a whole thick medical file of
them. My mother smiles at me, her eyes still light inside their gentle folds of
skin. "A few days ago I have to put special pads in his underwear--not exactly
like the young, romantic days." She covers her small, lipsticked mouth with her
hand for a moment--just a fleeting second of vulnerability that makes me think,
Korean wife--and then she slaps my
bottom gently. "Go. You have been a bad son so many years. See if he has a plan
for how you can make it up."
My father had a plan for everything, which was forward, upward. Forward and upward, faster and harder. Direction and discipline
had gotten him from his father's stationery store to medical school to a
country club membership and the most respected surgical practice in Fairbridge, Connecticut.
He was a solid man with a heavy chest and shoulders, a man who got up at five each
morning to do a hundred push-ups and swim a mile. I was a caterpillar before
the force of his breath and will. Despite the demands of his practice, he
drilled me in spelling and math and the butterfly stroke, tennis and calculus
and the SATs. I still remember those drills. Hour after hour. Serves, volleys,
drives, backhands. The sky darkened and the wind cooled while I sprinted for
the ball, trying to make out the yellow-green smudge in the falling dusk.
Afterward I labored under the glow of my fluorescent lamp, working math
problems in blunt pencil on the rough paper of the SAT prep books. My father
sat beside me with a stack of medical journals. I felt his heat and bulk,
breathed the muffling odor of kimchee and beer. Sometimes fatigue filled me
like hot air. I struggled to hold my eyes open. Then a loud snap shocked me
awake: my father slapping the desk with his journal. "Concentrate! Keep
working!" I stared at the page, my eyes watering. Mute anger and obedience
roiled inside me. I was numb; I was a soldier stumbling forward. My father was
a force that could not be stopped.
But a body is a machine. And it can only be pushed so far.
In the family room doorway, I pause. A twin bed and dark TV
have replaced the sofa and mahogany coffee table, the Korean-style writing
table that sat along the far wall. Only the lacquered altar and leather
reclining chair are left. Silence lies over the room like a husk. I can barely
look at the circle of lamplight in the corner.
"Mi-chael?" My father's voice cracks the stillness.
"Yes." I step forward, and the habit of respect bows my
head. At the edge of my vision I can see his feet propped on the reclining
chair's footrest. He wears gray hospital socks with non-skid stripes across the
sole. To the side I see the thin metallic legs of a walker. I think of the
strong thighs that carried him across the court, bounding to whatever spot I
sent the ball.
"Well. So now you final-ly--" The sounds are slack, yet also
forced; his muscles have struggled to make the sounds. "You finally come to
your father," he says. I force myself to look at him.
He is wrapped in a blanket. Above it, his face pokes out. He is ruined, I think. He is a proud
Indian chief with black eyes that stare out from beyond a paralyzed droop of
skin. His hair sticks out in gray and white tufts.
"I'm sorry, Dad." The words come from my mouth before I'm
aware of them. Sorry? Is this what I feel, when he insulted my wife and said my
son should not be born? Even the word "Dad" sounds strange, wrong for our
formal, removed relationship.
"No," he says.
"No? What do you mean?"
He shakes his head. His mouth tries to form a word. He
struggles to shape the necessary muscles, then lifts his hand in a short,
dismissive wave.
"Come on. You have to explain what you mean."
His eyes look out at me. Nothing.
"I don't understand." Does he mean, No, you're not sorry? Or, No,
I do not accept an apology? I have come all this way, I am not even sure I
want to talk to him again, but he cannot reject me without saying why. If this
is a rejection. "Dad, I don't understand No."
Anger fills his unblinking eyes. The same anger that burned
across the court when I screwed up a shot.
"Dad, tell me!"
His mouth tightens. Nothing. He will let me feel the full
weight of his stare; he will let that No
hang there, a force I can't counter.
"Dad!" I put my hand on his shoulder and shake. "You Have To
Tell Me. I. Don't. Understand."
"Michael!"
I whirl when I hear my mother's voice. Drop my arm in shame.
"What are you doing?" There is shock, disbelief--disappointment--in
her eyes.
"I was just trying to understand him. He was saying
something--"
"Do you understand that your father is sick?"
"I do. Of course."
She looks at me as if I'm someone she doesn't know. I drop
my eyes and turn and walk from the room, defeated.
*
I know this is not the way to return. Whether I want to vent
a righteous anger, undo the things that happened years ago, or seek absolution,
I have not done it. And cannot, like this. I never knew how to deal with my
father. I could stumble along and do my best to keep time with his onward
press, but I could never leave the forced march. Of course, I had my own hopes.
During my sophomore year of high school, I wanted an after-school job to pay
for a car, gas, dates with the girls I would take out in my car. I had never
before succeeded at swaying my father, but this time I was determined. I laid
out logical arguments, pointed at the straight As on my report card, mapped out
schedules to show that a job would not interfere with my studying or my sports.
He brushed it aside: "Don't
waste your time. We provide for you. Anywhere you want to go, your mother will take
you. You concentrate. Study hard."
I didn't let up.
"You are ridiculous!" my father exclaimed, looking up from
the spread pages of my calculus homework. "You put a job and a car ahead of
everything. How can you succeed in life? You aren't even serious enough at
tennis to be good."
I stared down at the handwritten equations. "I'm getting
better," I insisted. "I am."
"Hah. You think that is good enough?" He picked up my latest
test and slapped it down in front of me as if to say, Only a 92. "At tennis I can beat you straight, no points for you."
He stared at my stubborn face. "What do you say about that?"
I flushed. "You've had more practice!"
"Practice, then. You practice until you can beat me--with no
points for me. If you can, I let you get a car and a job. Provided your grades
don't drop."
I practiced all fall and winter. I stayed after school to use
the courts and spent hours at the concrete backboard down the road. I remember
leaves skittering across the asphalt, the sting of wind against my curled
hands, evenings when I tasted the first snowflakes before I quit. In the winter,
I moved to the Y. Forehand drives, backhand slices, volleys, drop shots, rushes
to the net. I practiced serves, topspin lobs, hitting the same spot five times
in a row. Icicles melted, and water trickled from the eaves. I enlisted the
tennis team captain in my mission. By March, I thought I had a chance. In
April, the first blossoms appeared on the trees by the school, and I beat the
tennis team captain for the tenth time. Finally, at the end of April, I faced
my father on the court.
There he was, the man who had been setting the standards all
my life. He was all solid chest and arms and thighs. Thick locks of hair pushed
past his sweatband. My body seemed suddenly made of wrists and oversized feet.
He bounced a ball with his racket and laid down the rules. I had one game to
beat him. I would have the first serve. As long as one of us won consecutive
points, we would keep score as usual. But, if the other took back the serve,
the score would reset: love, love. We would play until someone lost.
I nodded, turned my racket in my sweating hands.
I can still feel those moments. I toss the ball up. My
racket connects, and the ball cuts through the air, a direct line to the spot I
want. My father's eyes widen, but he reacts, returns the serve. The ball comes
to me and I stretch out to meet it. My racket carves the air, clean and strong,
and thwock--the ball sails back
across the court. Once, then again, and then once more. Perfect placement,
every time. My father runs, pivots, leans for a shot--he plays as well as I've
ever seen him play. But I win the point.
"Fifteen, love," I say. I try to keep my voice calm, but
inside I'm leaping and bounding. You see,
you see, you see how I've improved. I can do this, you know I can.
We play, and the blue sky comes down to meet the court. My
muscles open, my arm hums with power, the ball sings through the air.
"Thirty, love," I say. And then, "Forty, love."
Game point. The day shimmers around me; we are playing on a
game board perfectly balanced at the top of the world. Behind me, the hours of
practice slope away. Ahead, the future rises to meet me, and I can see my car,
my girlfriend, my life. I look at my father. He is strong, tan. He is the best
doctor in the county, and I love him. Then I see the nervous way he grips his
racket, the way he swipes at his brow. He is afraid, I see. And proud, so proud
of me, prouder than he has ever been. But still, he is determined.
Something in me twists. I don't think I can bear it, to see
this man who stands so proud, who came from Korea to work in his father's
store, who pulled himself through college and med school and pulled his whole
family with him--I don't think I can bear to see this man defeated.
I gather myself in and toss the ball. But this time my
racket wavers, the ball lands just beyond my intended spot. Still, I play well.
I play with all my skill, all my body. But my father wins the point. And the
score resets: love, love.
From there it is downhill. I win back the serve. I win a
point, then another. But I can't keep it going, can't keep my father from
coming back. We are fifteen, love. Thirty, love. And the score resets. The
score resets, again and again. The sun streaks the sky with brilliant color and
sets. The sky darkens. I ask if we should go home. No, my father says, keep
going! You want this, you can't give up. I begin to hold my arm between
points. And despite the deepening chill in the air, my throat is so parched
it's hard to breathe. Dad, I say. I want to stop. Can we try this again another day? But my father serves the ball
again. Where is your willpower? he
growls. Where is your will to succeed? I
hit a backhand. Another. I try to slice and my racket veers; the ball smacks
into the net. Please, I say. I can
see by my watch that it's 9:00.
Only a lone streetlamp casts light in our direction. I picture my mother alone
at the table before the untouched bowls of kimchee. My father is indefatigable,
invincible. Nine-thirty passes, and then 10:00. I trip and see my elongated
shadow stumble across the court. We aren't even stopping to rest between
points. I'm sore and tired, hungry, angry; I don't care anymore. It's 10:45; the score has just reset once
more. I don't know how to end this; it's clear I won't get the car or job or
anything else I dreamed of, and I just want a way to go home. I wonder if he is
doing this to end the bet, to make sure I never stand up for myself again. Please, I say, one last time. Let's go home. My father stares at me as
if he hasn't heard and serves the ball. And then I do something I am ashamed of
to this day. I stumble forward and hit the ball into the net. What was that?! my father roars, but I
don't look at him. Your serve, I say,
and toss him the ball. The ball comes smashing towards me. I can't jump out of
its way--I can't be as blatant as that--and with that thought I swing, wildly.
The ball bounces off the side of my racket and rolls into the fence. Love,
thirty. Love, forty. This is it, my
father shouts. The ball flies over the net, bounces into the service court, and
rises towards me. My father has run to the net; he is holding his racket as he
stares at me, slack-jawed; and I know that a quick turn of my racket will put
it where he can never return it. I run toward the ball, raise my racket in
surrender, and watch it sail past me, out of bounds.
My father said nothing as he watched the ball go. Then he
dropped his racket arm and shook his head. I'll never forget the way he looked
at me as we left the court. I have not played tennis since that day.
*
In the morning I make myself hurry down to the family room.
My mother is standing by my father's reclining chair, balancing a plastic basin
on a small side table. I stop. My father is rubbing his face with a washcloth.
With his glasses off and his eyes squeezed shut, he looks vulnerable, like a
boy. I feel the air leaving me and drop into a chair beside him.
My mother takes the washcloth from my father, then lifts the
basin. Her shoulders sag forward. The suggestion of fatigue makes me ashamed. I
stand up to take the basin from her. I will be the dutiful son. I will get
through.
"No, I am okay." My mother stops me with one hand and takes
the basin away.
I lean over to pour my father a glass of water. "Do you need
anything?" I ask.
He lowers his head towards the side table. I pull a tissue
from its box.
"This? No?" I move my hand toward his glasses. "These? The
phone?" He shakes his head. "Or this?" The soft cloth for his glasses. The TV
remote. A device made of a breathing spout, a tube marked with millimeter
lines, and a squared-off handle with a smiley-face lodged inside. "What do you
want?"
My father lowers his head further and gestures beneath the
side table with one hand. I bend down and see a translucent plastic container
with a round snap-on lid.
"Yes, yes. This," my father says, and I pick it up.
"What is it?" I say, but he doesn't answer. He makes another
gesture, impatient, and I give it to him. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," I
say.
Behind me, my mother says, "He doesn't want you to look." My
father is already lifting the sheet draped across his lap and sliding the
container underneath. I flush with shame and turn away, not knowing whether I
should take the container when he finishes or pretend it doesn't exist. I turn
the TV on and flip past golf, a cooking channel, some Saturday morning
cartoons, trying not to hear the sound of liquid streaming against plastic.
Then I feel callous and turn back for the container. My father ignores me and
hands the container to my mother. I occupy myself with rearranging the items on
his table. From the powder room comes the sound of liquid pouring, then the
toilet's flush. When my mother comes out, she has a pink flower in her hand.
"For the hero," she says, holding it out to my father.
"A cripple," he retorts. "Not a hero."
"Your father is a temporary crippled crank," she says to me,
but she is smiling. She kisses him on the mouth and slips the flower into his
hand. She isn't wearing her usual pink nail polish and rings, but her nails are
neatly clipped and glossed. Her stretchy jacket curves in neatly at the waist.
Three weeks of helping him, and she still looks so composed. Pramila would have
locks of hair straggling around her ears, a stained sweatshirt that went with
her hangnails but not her Lady Rolex. Pramila squeezes dozens of
accomplishments into each day, but she is rarely organized.
"Silly," my mother says to him as she straightens up. My
father's lips twitch, and he struggles to smile with both sides of his mouth.
He stops, self-conscious, and puts the flower behind his ear. When her eyes
meet his, he bows slightly. My mother flushes and raises her hand to her mouth.
They love each other.
In all these years, I have never truly seen this, too distracted with cars and
jobs and my own choices in life. I feel a twinge: Now it is too late for me to
absorb their wisdom and good habits. I will go back to Pramila, the friction of
our lives, the distance that's widened into a decision to divorce. In sickness
and in health, we vowed. But I have failed. Pramila will never take care of me
like this.
We were married overseas. Pramila and I were posted in London the year I was
thirty. I knew the time was right: We had been together for a year, the main
office gossip mill was across the ocean, and her London family had given me the nod. But
before I proposed, I wanted to call my father.
"I thought you might decide this," he said. "But really, I
do not think it is good."
"Listen, Dad. Just come out and spend the holidays with us."
I had a vision of Pramila stepping into the candlelit entrance of an old
church, snowflakes on her eyelashes, laughing and glowing from the cold as she
pushed back the fur-trimmed hood of her coat; and I ached with wanting my
parents to see this too. "Pramila's like you in a lot of ways--intense, driven--"
"I'm sorry, Michael. We have many things to do here."
"Just the holidays, Dad. Some family time. Christmas."
"I don't think so."
I tried to swallow and leaned my forehead against the
window. Across the street, two Pakistani teenagers were waiting outside the
kebab place. One of them stood with his shoulder sticking out, vulnerable. The
pose reminded me of Pramila's youngest brother.
"Then we'll come visit you," I said.
"No," he said. "I do not want you to. I cannot--what is the
word?--condone this marriage."
"You can't--" I felt as if I had been punched in the
stomach. That he would be so direct. That he would not even give it a chance.
"I'm getting married. And you don't even want to meet my wife." My voice was
flat. "Okay, then."
There was silence, and then my father spoke. "Michael.
Believe me." I could hear the emotion in his voice. "I am thinking of you."
He was thinking of me. If only he could understand. "Dad, I
hear you. But listen to yourself. You're being racist."
"No. Of course we would like if you marry a Korean, someone
with the same background." He paused. "But if you don't like Korean ladies, I
prefer you marry a white."
"That's enough, Dad."
"Michael, I know your emotions are involved. But I have
experience, I am an outsider. I tell you, society is not so simple--"
I hung up the phone. My hand was shaking. I needed some air.
I pushed the window wide open. A constable came out of a coffee shop and
glanced at the Pakistani kids. They slouched defiantly; he gave them a warning
look. I turned away. I detested politics, but it was clear. The British were a
bunch of bastards high on their feelings of superiority, and the Americans were
just a friendlier version of the same thing. You only had to remember the
condescending way soldiers had talked about Korea when they returned from the
war. How could my father take part? The phone rang, and I grabbed it.
"Yes?"
"Listen, Michael. I know you don't like what I say, but I
say it anyway. It is not just that your wife is darker, your children will be
darker too."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"You know what I experience in America. I'm sure Mommy tell you--"
"Thanks, Dad. But I don't want to hear how my kids with
Pramila shouldn't be born. And I don't want them hearing that from their
grandfather."
"So you have already decided. You don't even ask my
opinion."
"Believe me, no one has to seek your opinion. You're ready
to volunteer it whether we"
"Michael, don't talk to your parents that way. Your mother
and I--"
"Leave Mom out of this."
"Mommy is my wife."
"And Pramila's going to be mine," I say.
It was after this conversation that I decided. He was an insidious
growth seeping from my bones, taking over my muscles and my blood. Some things
have to be sliced out. Sometimes it's incredibly painful. Sometimes you think
you'll die. But it has to be done.
How, though, do you remove someone from your life? If
they've shaped you so deeply, they are everywhere. In places, in situations. No
matter how far you go.
"Oh, Mike, look. Wouldn't a game be perfect now?" That was
Pramila as we were walking one afternoon. Our son had just turned six, and we
had left him with a baby-sitter for the first time. Our first full day alone in
years. She turned to me, her eyes dark and shining. "The weather, Mike. Look.
The sky. And look at that court."
"Pramila. You know how I feel about it."
"Come on, just a few strokes. Nothing serious."
"I'll pass."
She eyed me. "I'm telling you, you really need to talk about
your father. Get it out." She pushed a few wisps of hair from her face. "I'm
here, you know."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Sure there is. You can't even walk onto a court and swat a
ball back and forth."
"I've analyzed all that," I said. "I just don't play tennis
anymore."
"Fine." She shrugged. "Don't clear up the things that stunt
you." She turned from the court and began striding down the sidewalk.
"Stunt me?" I said, angrily. I caught up to her. "Look, if
you're going to insult me-" I felt stupid hurrying alongside her. "Listen, you're
the one who's with such an emotionally stunted husband."
"I know," she said.
Caring for a stroke survivor is work that goes on and on. I
drape a towel around my father's neck. My mother hands me the electric razor
and I shave him, trying to cover all of his cheeks and jaws and chin. I imagine
the razor vibrating against the nerves on his left side, loosening the fibers
that thread back into his stubborn brain. My father winces and I jerk the razor
away, guilty.
My mother sets the basin in front of my father again and
hands him a toothbrush; he brushes. Thank God he's right-handed, I think. My
mother brings a tray laden with round white bowls: soft rice, salted seaweed,
marinated soybeans, golden mushrooms steeped in sesame oil, green onions in hot
sauce, anchovies. He mashes spoonfuls of food against the inside of his bowl
before bringing them to his mouth. I'm relieved to see that he eats by himself,
but it's hard to watch his efforts.
We bring him a shirt from the closet and help him put it on.
The shirt is a soft flannel; all the buttons have been replaced by Velcro
strips. I turn on the TV, help him shift when he's uncomfortable. My mother
directs most of these things, and I am thankful, because at least this way my
ignorance is obscured. I'm reminded of how Pramila directed me in taking care
of Philip. He was so small I was afraid I might hurt him just by touching him
the wrong way. I remember feeling he was so much mine, so much ours--I would
shelter him, feed him with my body if I had to. There was none of the
ambivalence I feel with my father. And still, this is the son I brought to
tears.
He is eight years old, and he has had training wheels for
two years now. Far too long, in my view. So I took him to the park. Pramila
came with me, something she's rarely done of late.
"Today's the day," I said. Philip looked at me, scared. He
knew what I meant, and he watched with wide eyes as I unscrewed the bolts and
detached the small wheels. As I removed them, the wheels seemed sad and
vulnerable: for a moment, I wondered if I were doing the right thing.
"All right, Philip. Up you go." I watched as he straddled
the seat and stretched his legs and toes to touch the ground. "Right. You can
let go now."
Pramila watched silently.
"Go," I said. "Philip, go." He looked at me, scared, then
glanced at Pramila. She smiled encouragement. He screwed up his face. I could
tell he was gathering courage. I held my breath. He picked up a foot, then
pushed off.
Yes, I thought. I
closed my eyes, grateful for the whir of spokes in the breeze.
"Philip-" Pramila said. Her voice was high, strangled. My
eyes popped open. There was my son, running in strange tiptoe fashion, swaying
from one toe to the other, the bike pulled along beneath.
"Philip!" I shouted. "Stop it. Put your feet up. There's
nothing to be scared of!" But my son kept toeing his way down the road.
"Philip, goddamnit. Pedal! Pedal!"
When he stopped, my son was in tears. Pramila gathered him
in her arms, turned her back on me, and began walking in the direction of our
flat. And I stood there squinting into the afternoon sun, burning with anger
and fear, and love.
During my father's midafternoon nap, the phone rings. My
mother answers.
"Oh," she says. "Nice to hear from you. Did you two finish dinner?
You must be so busy, take care of everything by yourself." I stiffen. My father
is blinking awake. Pramila and I live in such thick silence, I'm shocked she's
even called. Perhaps it's for my mother's sake. The two of them have always
tried to build a normal in-law relationship, and over the years they've gotten
fairly close, though knowing each other almost entirely through phone calls has
put a certain formality into their conversations. I try to read my mother's
body language, her words. Is it possible Pramila is changing her mind? My
mother knows about the decision; maybe she can magically bring Pramila back.
Maybe with me far away, Pramila will remember how much she likes my mother, how
she wouldn't want to lose a mother-in-law.
My father struggles to readjust his blanket. He frowns at
me. Surely he's wondering why Pramila keeps talking to my mother, why she doesn't
speak to her own husband. My mother has promised not to tell him, but still--what
has he figured out? What has she let slip? I move towards my mother, trying to
signal subtly for the phone. She smiles at me and continues talking. She nods
at something, laughs, waves for me to wait. I stare out into the room, then
realize I am tapping my foot. I stop myself, give my mother another significant
look.
"Well, I think Michael is ready to talk to you," she says.
Then, "Oh. Not even for one minute? Oh, of course. Of course you must be very
busy."
Heat rises in my face. I can't even look at my father. How
can Pramila do this to me? For the first time, the divorce begins to seem real.
I can barely look at my mother when she hangs up the phone.
"She is just so busy," my mother says. "Going crazy. She
just want to find out how Daddy was. Or maybe she is paying you back for so
many business trips." My mother smiles. "In the past I think of doing the same
thing to your father when he stayed at the office too long." She pinches my
cheek affectionately. "Spend more time with her." I smile and try to make it
look real.
"Right," I say. "Maybe I have to make an appointment to
spend time with her." I wonder if our joking has covered up anything.
"Oh!" my mother says. "Speaking of appointment." She glances
at her watch and looks around for her purse. It takes me a moment to realize
what she is doing.
"You're going out?" I try to conceal my horror.
"First time in three weeks!" My mother smiles. "I need a
break from this old man. I have to color my hair so I don't look like his old
wife."
"Mom, you can't." The naked urgency in my voice shocks me.
"Oh, Michael. I give you and your father a chance for a
reunion." She touches my cheek: a joke, a reassurance, a piece of motherly
advice. Then she leaves.
After the door closes, silence takes over the house. My
father hitches himself forward. I can feel him looking at me.
"Well," I say. "There must be something better on TV." Professional
wrestling has been playing silently for the last half hour.
"What is the situation?" my father says. I ignore him, turn
up the sound with the remote, but he raises his voice. "Your wife does not talk
to you?"
A commentator yammers into the space between us.
My father pushes his chin forward, as if he has to stick his
neck out to raise the volume of his voice. "You know, in marriage there must be
flexibility."
On the chair arm, his hand is still wide and tanned. Once it
could grip a tennis racket and squeeze until I hurt looking at it. This man
knows nothing about flexibility. I restrain myself from talking.
"Look at me," he says. "You have no respect."
Respect, I think. He had no respect for me. His will washed
over me, and neither my body nor my mind was strong enough to stop that wave.
Now I have become like him. I have drowned my wife and child.
"I know what you are thinking. Blaming me." The old force is
in his voice. "You are shortsighted. Why struggle with me? My life is over. I
did my job in the world. Now this has happened, maybe some people say, a
tragedy. I say, what tragedy? I finished my job. Can you say the same thing?"
Tears come to my eyes. I can't look at him. I can't cry in
front of him. I cross the room and press my forehead to the cold window. The
sports announcer goes on and on, then abruptly mutes.
