Taking A Stand

Alison’s morning sickness had kicked in, and not for the first time I wished we had a second bathroom. She quickly left in disgust after hearing my name suggestion of Luke Skywalker.  The woman has such an infinity for not scarring our children even though I pointed out that the movie would be long forgotten. She reminded me of the three resurrected sequels, and she had a point.

I was determined to name this baby.

As she left—looking better than she had in days—the ringtone, the soundtrack from Jaws, ominously came from my phone; it was my sister calling.

“Hello, Di.”

“Hi,” without taking a breath, “I just talked to Dad, and he isn’t taking his statins.”

“Hi, Em. How are you doing? I’m fine thank you, and, how are you?”

“Cut the bullshit. I don’t have time for that.”

“No, he is not taking his statins.”  I sighed with resignation.

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t want to.”

“That is bullshit.”

“Can’t believe you’re a lawyer, and that is the only swear word you know.”

“Em, stop evading the question.” I heard the growl in her tone. “You’re supposed to be taking care of him.”

“Look, I make sure he eats, get him to the doctors, and make sure he gets out of the house,” I said with exaggerated patience. “First: he is an adult. Second: his body is failing, but his mind is as sharp as ever. Third: his reasons are understandable, and most importantly, he has the right to control his own body.”

“He needs to take it,” she practically shouted.

“Okay, if that is the case then you can’t ever get an abortion.”  I knew this was a low blow, but part of taking care of my father is standing up for his rights and wishes. She was silent on the other end.

“He could have a heart attack.” Her voice was soft. I knew she didn’t want to lose another parent so soon.

“And a whole other list of problems, but it was affecting his quality of life.” I pinched the bridge of my nose waiting for the lawyer to pop up.

“I will take him to court and have him deemed incompetent.” And there it was.

“Di, don’t even think about it. It is going to cause a bigger rift between us than there already is, because I will fight back. I will not forgive you, nor will Dad.”

“You don’t have enough money to fight back.”

“But Dad does.” I sighed. “Look, Di. You handed me the job of looking after him, and you need to trust me.”

“How can I trust a man who gave up his career to sit at home and babysit.”

“I’m hanging up now. Have a good day,” I said through gritted teeth. This was the beginning of the arguments to come. She is a dog with a bone and a vicious one at that.

I walked into the living room. The girls’ soccer ball still sat in the middle of the floor. I swung my leg back and kicked it. It broke the lamp. That night I sat in the living room looking at the darkness where the sole lamp of the room should have been, the television my only illumination. I contemplated the beauty of Alison’s frugal nature. She hated the lamp that now rested in our trash can even after painting it twice, then decoupaging it—first with tissue paper and then with dried flowers that she and the girls had pressed from the garden.

“Hey, why are you sitting in the dark?” Alison asked when she got home.

“I broke the lamp.”

“Should I ask why?”

I took a pull on my beer and sighed. “Nope.”

“I hated that thing.”

“We can buy you another one,” I said and pulled my gaze away from the empty end table, “a gift for giving me a son.”

“Really, a push present? You do know most woman get jewelry.”

“You hate jewelry.” I picked up her hand and kissed the plain gold band; she wouldn’t even let me buy her an engagement ring when we had money. She just doesn’t understand how a man needs to mark his territory, and peeing on her shoes every morning—yeah, everyone knows how that would go over.

“True. I think a lamp would be good.” Her stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry.”

***

“Your sister has called me twice today.” Dad stormed into his kitchen where I had brought in the next day’s meals, his cane thumping with a solid beat on the floor. “That girl is more stubborn than a mule and more vicious than a fisher-cat.”

“Did she talk you into taking your meds.”

“Hell no.” My father grabbed a meal out of the fridge and threw it into the microwave with a twist of his wrist. No finagling needed to get him to eat tonight . He continued his tirade. “She gets her stubbornness from me, but that vicious streak, that she gets from my mother.” My father pointed at me to make his point.

“I see that talk went as well as the one she had with me.” I sat down with him at the table and saw him wince. “Need a Tylenol?”

“Yeah, damn hip,” he grumbled as he ripped off the cover. “I swear it flares up every time that girl calls me.”

I had never met my paternal grandparents and was curious. When I asked, I got what I wanted, a story plus the realization what we want isn’t always good.

“Dad was as easygoing as wheat in the breeze . Not much bothered him, almost to the point of being a doormat.” He took the Tylenol and downed it with his beer. “But my mother was the most miserable person I have ever known. By the end, she wouldn’t even leave the house with Dad. He went to socials and church by himself, even had to do the grocery shopping.” He took a bite of the chicken Parmesan, which Alison had made. “As a matter of fact, the only time I heard him snap at her was on the way home from my uncle’s funeral:

“The car air was heavy; a storm heading our way filled  the air with waves of humidity. The windows were closed because Ma didn’t want to mess up her hair. It was easier for us to sit in a hot, stuffy car than to argue with her even if all three of us agreed.

“‘I can’t believe how his widow dressed,’ she said, ‘it was so trampy, a red dress!’

“‘It was my brother’s favorite color,’ Dad said.

“‘It was a funeral—for Pete’s sake!—and I told her as much.’

“‘You told her what?’ My dad had finally taken full notice of what his wife was saying.

“‘I told her that she was inappropriately dressed for a funeral and was dishonoring her husband.’ We two half-grown boys in the back stopped punching each other and started to listen. ‘And that eulogy!’ Ma’s hands left her lap, and she threw them in the air.

“‘What about the eulogy?’ Dad’s voice had a foreign, hard.

“‘It was so inaccurate; it should have told the truth,’ Ma continued. ‘Your brother was a sinner, his drinking and womanizing.’ She threw up her arms again in exasperation. ‘I told Mary that should have been in the eulogy.’

“‘For all that is holy woman, what has gotten into you!’ Dad yelled. ‘That is my brother you are talking about! I can’t believe you were so callous.’ His voice came down in volume, but the hard, unforgiving edge was still there. ‘John and Mary liked to go out for drinks with friends, and he didn’t cheat on his wife.’ The car was silent except for the engine’ whine.

“‘There were rumors about—’

“‘Don’t you even say it, woman,’ he growled out with an effort to keep his temper.

“‘Everyone should know where I stand.’ The words flew with righteous indignation from her mouth like a flag of honor.

“‘Why? What makes your judgement so damn important?’ He took a deep breath. ‘And, yes, we all know where you stand, but you’re clueless on what people’s opinions or feelings are.

“‘I just say what everyone else is thinking.’

“‘I know for a fact not everyone has such malicious and narrow-minded thoughts.’ Dad’s breath was coming in sharp pants. ‘Your truthful eulogy would say: She was a cruel harpy that blessedly is now the devil’s problem.’

“We all took a noiseless gasp and held our breath  for the next two hours until Dad pulled into the yard by our house. As everyone started to exit, he spoke one word: ‘Stay.’

“He turned to his wife, not even bothering to wait for my brother and me to leave, and his voice had a ring  of finality. ‘I’m done. Ever since the baby died , you have become more and more bitter, but that was ten years ago. Grief is no excuse for cruelty .’ Ma started to speak, but he interrupted her. ‘You will sleep in the sewing room, and—unless it is important information with something to do with the farm, the boys, or someone needing help—You. Will. Not. Speak. To. Me.’

“He turned to us in the back. ‘Go get changed, and get your chores done.’ He left the car with a tired sigh. ‘If I don’t get back in time, the two of you know what to do.’ Dad jumped in his pickup with his Sunday suit and anger still on.  He came back two hours later with a mattress and box spring.

“I never did hear them speak to each other again other than for perfunctory reasons.” Dad chewed thoughtfully on his meal. “She only got meaner.” He stabbed a piece of chicken. While he stirred the creamy sauce, he grew thoughtful. “When we were young, I remember them laughing all the time, and then it stopped.” He looked at me with a squint as if trying to see the past. “We never knew about the baby.”

“How did your father act after that?” I had to ask.

“Like the weight of the world was off his shoulders, but I caught him sometimes looking like he had lost his best friend.” Dad pushed his plate away. “Could never figure out if it was Ma or his brother.”

John Wayne’s words echoed in my head: “A man oughta do what he thinks is right.”