to me, but he will always make an effort for Mrs. Kim, as well he should,
since she pretty much raised his child and probably isn't charging him market
rent.
"You're a genius."
"Yes, I am. How come I don't get a MacArthur grant? I ask you?"
"Dunno. Maybe you're not getting out of the house enough. I don't think the
MacArthur people are hanging out at Bingo World."
"No, they already got enough money. So when you getting married?"
Coke comes up my nose, I'm laughing so hard. Kimy lurches up and starts
thumping me on the back. I subside, and she sits back down, grumpily. "What's
so funny? I'm just asking. I get to ask, huh?"
"No, that's not it-I mean, I'm not laughing because it's ludicrous, I'm laughing
because you are reading my mind. I came over to ask Dad to let me have Mom's
rings."
"Ohhhhh. Boy, I don't know. Wow, you're getting married. Hey! That's great!
She gonna say yes?"
"I think so. I'm ninety-nine percent sure."
"Well, that's pretty good, I don't know about your mom's rings, though. See,
what I want to tell you-" her eyes glance at the ceiling "your dad, he's not doing
too good. He's yelling a lot, and throwing stuff, and he's not practicing."
"Oh. Well, that's not totally surprising. But it's not good. You been up there,
lately?" Kimy is ordinarily in Dad's apartment a lot. I think she surreptitiously
cleans it. I've seen her defiantly ironing Dad's tux shirts, daring me to comment.
"He won't let me in!" She's on the verge of tears. This is very bad. My dad
certainly has his problems, but it is monstrous of him to let them affect Kimy.
"But when he's not there?" Usually I pretend not to know that Kimy is in and
out of Dad's apartment without his knowledge; she pretends that she would
never do such a thing. But actually I'm appreciative, now that I no longer live
here. Someone has to keep an eye on him.
She looks guilty, and crafty, and slightly alarmed that I am mentioning this.
"Okay. Yeah, I go in once, 'cause I worry about him. He's got trash everywhere;
we're gonna get bugs if he keep this up. He's got nothing in that fridge but beer
and lemons. He's got so much clothes on the bed I don't think he sleeps in it. I
don't know what he's doing. I never seen him this bad since when your mom
died."
"Oh boy. What do you think?" There's a big crash above our heads, which
means Dad has dropped something on the kitchen floor. He's probably just
getting up. "I guess I'd better go up there "
"Yeah." Kimy is wistful. "He's such a nice guy, your dad; I don't know why he
lets it get like this."
"He's an alcoholic. That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: Fall
apart, and then keep falling apart."
She levels her devastating gaze at me. "Speaking of jobs..."
"Yes?" Oh shit.
"I don't think he's been working."
"Well, it's the off-season. He doesn't work in May."
"They are touring Europe and he's here. Also, he don't pay rent last two
months."
Damn damn damn. "Kimy, why didn't you call me? That's awful. Geez." I am
on my feet and down the hall; I grab my backpack and return to the kitchen. I
delve around in it and find my checkbook. "How much does he owe you?"
Mrs. Kim is deeply embarrassed. "No, Henry, don't-he'll pay it."
"He can pay me back. C'mon, buddy, it's okay. Cough it out, now, how
much?"
She's not looking at me. "$1,200.00," she says in a small voice.
"That's all? What are you doing, buddy, running the Philanthropic Society for
the Support of Wayward DeTambles?" I write the check and stick it under her
saucer. "You better cash that or I'll come looking for you."
"Well, then I won't cash it and you will have to visit me."
"I'll visit you anyway." I am utterly guilt stricken. "I will bring Clare."
Kimy beams at me. "I hope so. I'm gonna be your maid of honor, right?"
"If Dad doesn't shape up you can give me away. Actually, that's a great idea:
you can walk me down the aisle, and Clare will be waiting in her tux, and the
organist will be playing Lohengrin...."
"I better buy a dress."
"Yow. Don't buy any dresses until I tell you it's a done deal." I sigh. "I guess I
better go up there and talk to him." I stand up. In Mrs. Kim's kitchen I feel
enormous, suddenly, as though I'm visiting my old grammar school and
marveling over the size of the desks. She stands slowly and follows me to the
front door. I hug her. For a moment she seems fragile and lost, and I wonder
about her life, the telescoping days of cleaning and gardening and bridge
playing, but then my own concerns crash back in again. I will come back soon; I
can't spend my entire life hiding in bed with Clare. Kimy watches as I open Dad's
door.
"Hey, Dad? You home?"
There's a pause, and then, "GO AWAY."
I walk up the stairs and Mrs. Kim shuts her door.
The first thing that hits me is the smell: something is rotting in here. The living
room is devastated. Where are all the books? My parents had tons of books, on
music, on history, novels, in French, in German, in Italian: where are they? Even
the record and CD collection seems smaller. There are papers all over, junk mail,
newspapers, scores, covering the floor. My mother's piano is coated with dust
and there is a vase of long-dead gladiolas mummifying on the windowsill. I walk
down the hall, glancing in the bedrooms. Utter chaos; clothes, garbage, more
newspapers. In the bathroom a bottle of Michelob lies under the sink and a
glossy dry layer of beer varnishes the tile.
In the kitchen my father sits at the table with his back to me, looking out the
window at the river. He doesn't turn around as I enter. He doesn't look at me
when I sit down. But he doesn't get up and leave, either, so I take it as a sign that
conversation may proceed.
"Hi, Dad."
Silence.
"I saw Mrs. Kim, just now. She says you're not doing too good."
Silence.
"I hear you're not working."
"It's May."
"How come you're not on tour?"
He finally looks at me. Under the stubbornness there is fright. "I'm on sick
leave."
"Since when?"
"March."
"Paid sick leave?"
Silence.
"Are you sick? What's wrong?"
I think he's going to ignore me, but then he answers by holding out his hands.
They are shaking as though they are in their own tiny earthquake. He's done it,
finally. Twenty-three years of determined drinking and he's destroyed his ability
to play the violin.
"Oh, Dad. Oh, God. What does Stan say?"
"He says that's it. The nerves are shot, and they aren't coming back."
"Jesus." We look at each other for an unendurable minute. His face is
anguished, and I'm beginning to understand: he has nothing. There is nothing left
to hold him, to keep him, to be his life. First Mom, then his music, gone, gone. I
never mattered much to begin with, so my belated efforts will be
inconsequential. "What happens now?"
Silence. Nothing happens now.
"You can't just stay up here and drink for the next twenty years."
He looks at the table.
"What about your pension? Workers' comp? Medicare? AA?"
He's done nothing, let everything slide. Where have I been?
"I paid your rent."
"Oh." He's confused. "Didn't I pay it?"
"No. You owed for two months. Mrs. Kim was very embarrassed. She didn't
want to tell me, and she didn't want me giving her money, but there's no sense
making your problems her problems."
"Poor Mrs. Kim." Tears are coursing down my father's cheeks. He is old.
There's no other word for it. He's fifty-seven, and he's an old man. I am not angry,
now. I'm sorry, and frightened for him.
"Dad." He is looking at me again. "Look. You have to let me do some things
for you, okay?" He looks away, out the window again at the infinitely more
interesting trees on the other side of the water. "You need to let me see your
pension documents and bank statements and all that. You need to let Mrs. Kim
and me clean this place. And you need to stop drinking."
"No."
"No, what? Everything or just some of it?"
Silence. I'm starting to lose my patience, so I decide to change the subject.
"Dad. I'm going to get married."
Now I have his attention.
"To who? Who would marry you?" He says this, I think, without malice. He's
genuinely curious. I take out my wallet and remove a picture of Clare from its
plastic pocket. In the picture Clare is looking out serenely over Lighthouse
Beach. Her hair floats like a banner in the breeze and in the early morning light
she seems to glow against a background of dark trees. Dad takes the picture and
studies it carefully.
"Her name is Clare Abshire. She's an artist"
"Well. She's pretty," he says grudgingly. This is as close as I'm going to get to
a paternal blessing.
"I would like...1 would really like to give her Mom's wedding and
engagement rings. I think Mom would have liked that."
"How would you know? You probably hardly remember her."
I don't want to discuss it, but I feel suddenly determined to have my way. "I
see her on a regular basis. I've seen her hundreds of times since she died. I see
her walking around the neighborhood, with you, with me. She goes to the park
and learns scores, she shops, she has coffee with Mara at Tia's. I see her with
Uncle Ish. I see her at Juilliard. I hear her sing!" Dad is gaping at me. I'm
destroying him, but I can't seem to stop. "I have spoken to her. Once I stood next
to her on a crowded train, touching her." Dad is crying. "It's not always a curse,
okay? Sometimes time travel is a great thing. I needed to see her, and sometimes I
get to see her. She would have loved Clare, she would have wanted me to be
happy, and she would deplore the way you've fucked everything up just because
she died."
He sits at the kitchen table and weeps. He cries, not covering his face, but
simply lowering his head and letting the tears stream from him. I watch him for a
while, the price of losing my temper. Then I go to the bathroom and return with
the roll of toilet paper. He takes some, blindly, and blows his nose. Then we sit
there for a few minutes.
"Why did