An Absent Mind(4)

So there we were: the tough, son of a bitch father and the ne’er-do-well son, sitting alone in the living room, a restless silence filling the air. Not very different from when I lived at home, before I moved out to go to university.

I tried to pull his attention away from the television, but with no success. So I finally got up and turned it off. He asked me why I had done that. I told him I’d come over to talk to him. Again he said, “That’s great, just great!” I tried again to engage him in conversation, but he just sat there stroking Dugin. And then two minutes later, he got up and walked out of the room, like I didn’t even exist.

Now I’m worried about him. This is not normal behavior. When Mom told me about the incident with his pants last month, my first reaction was that he probably had a few too many. He’s certainly been known to do that. But seeing him today, I don’t think that’s the case. I’m going to give Florence a jingle tonight.





Florence





The Telephone Call


Joey called me earlier. I have never heard him so upset. He started to lash out at me, asking why I hadn’t told him how serious things were with Father. That was all I needed to hear. “How dare you talk to me like that?” I exploded. “I have been telling you that I’ve noticed there was something wrong with him for some time. And you didn’t even bother going over to see for yourself, or just to spend time with him. And why is it always my responsibility, not only to do everything but to do it to your specifications, and on your timing? I’m not on your payroll, damn it!”

I was actually quite proud of myself for blowing off steam with Joey. That’s not my typical modus operandi. I am usually the one who sits there like a good little girl and takes whatever is shoveled my way, whether it be from my mother, my father, my husband, or Joey. But lately, it has been too much for me. I’m like a soup pot that starts frothing and then floods over onto the stovetop.

I’m at the house more often than usual now. It’s bad enough that Father’s got, at least in my opinion, the beginnings of some kind of dementia. But I can never get Mother to discuss it. And, of course, I could never steal any of Joey’s precious time for him to check it out himself. I feel I am totally alone.

Father and I still go for a walk on most weekends. It’s always been our time together. We ramble down the hill toward the park and just hang around or go over to the dog run. Some days he is just like the father I remember; other days aren’t so good. I’m not implying that his life is over or anything like that. It’s just that there are those occasions, clearly not all the time, when he gets a bit strange, or quiet, or disoriented. But just when I begin to question his behavior, he’s back to his same old self.

After I finished telling Joey off, he quieted down rather quickly. I think he was as taken aback as I was by my harangue. In fact, he promised he would do whatever it took from now on to help all of us deal with this. My mouth was agape. I can’t remember him ever doing anything where there wasn’t an angle, and frankly, I’m not sure it will be any different this time.





Saul





Lost Freedom


The Gestapo showed up today in their winter coats and boots—Joey, Bernie, and Florence. Monique and I were pretty astute naming her, or is it that she has spent a lot of her young life trying to live up to the moniker we bestowed on her? Florence, as in Florence Nightingale, but by now I’m sure you figured out what I meant, has been at more bedsides than a paid executioner at hangings. And she does it for free and generally brings some goodies to boot. If you ever have to be sick, try to have a daughter like mine!

I asked her once why she didn’t become a nurse; that was before a question like that became sexist. Now we’d have to ask why she didn’t become a doctor. Regardless, the answer would have been the same. She gets sick at the sight of blood.

I used to wonder whether she inquired as to the type of illness before committing to visit a relative, friend, acquaintance, or fellow employee—she’s an accountant by trade, like my father was, but she’s a damn good one. If the truth be told, I tried to talk her out of it, not because she lacked the skills, but I just had trouble thinking of her in the same profession as my father. He seems to haunt me even from six feet under.

But I’m getting sidetracked again. So I’m sitting in the living room of our bungalow on Oakland Avenue. It’s nothing great, considering the other houses in the neighborhood. Westmount is the fancy borough of Montreal. It used to be a fancy city, but they did something to make it a borough, some kind of vote or something, although I’m not exactly sure I understood what it was. But now I’ve heard it may be a city again. Whatever. It really is of no importance. At least not to me.

Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, a dead end in most other cities, but Montreal is almost all French, so they like these French expressions. I’m an Anglo. That’s what they say to let others know I’m English-speaking. They use that word a lot and then break it down into Jews and Gentiles. And then there’s what they call allophones—that means everyone else, like the Italians, Greeks, and the rest of them. And then there are the Gentiles, like Monique, who convert to Judaism. It’s all really quite confusing.

I was describing our house. It sits on a Father Knows Best kind of street and is quite comfortable. We’ve been here since just before Monique gave birth to Joey.