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  “Yes, sir, a tad warm,” my father agreed, amused, sauntering before us like a giraffe on the Savannah, unperturbed by the cotton-like air.

  The boys and I squeezed into the back of my father’s Belvedere, Don up front, and we set off for my younger sister Camela’s house. She had married a British engineer and birthed a daughter, the first female grandchild in the family. Don took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was more agitated than usual and I wondered if he had started smoking again. If so, he’d be desperate for a cigarette right about now.

  I had an uneasy feeling about this trip. We so rarely visited my family, caught up as we were with our speeding lives in Boston: Don’s blossoming art exhibits, his father’s retrospective shows, his mother’s portrait commissions of Supreme Court justices. His younger sister’s wedding to a fellow musician, the subsequent launch of their band, and release of their first album. My life was subsumed by theirs. I was the scaffolding, the backstage crew, the non-performer, the one who dressed the boys properly and drove them to the art openings and performances and ferried them home before the party was over, and the one who took the paying job with benefits so Don could remain free to paint.

  Recently, it had dawned on me that my husband and his family did not know me. Somewhere along the way I had become the one who did not have a dream—who was not aspiring to anything bigger than daily tasks. This truth had arisen harshly some months before when a longtime friend of Don’s family, a patron of sorts, offered to build a writer’s studio for me right in our backyard.

  “You need a retreat,” she had announced cheerily over the phone, startling me. I had not expected to receive such a gift. She was a childless divorcee who had inherited a fortune and had already given Don the money to build a magnificent art studio, with soaring ceilings, walls of storage bays for finished paintings, and drawers for artistic supplies. Tucked behind a knoll a few hundred feet from our house, his studio was a sacred place, the kind few can ever afford, insulated from the raucousness of growing boys and dogs and pet gerbils.

  Breathless and pleased, I had shared the news of my potential writer’s hideaway with Don, and he, in turn, responded tepidly. The next I knew, he had spoken with his father and the two of them had counseled the family friend that her money would be better spent on a family car for us, a solid station wagon that would replace the aging sedan I had been hauling the boys around in.

  “The car’s not safe; we need a new one,” Don had stated, taken aback by my silence at this news. His exasperated tone, laced with disapproval, implied I was selfish and sufficiently ungrateful. “You already have an office upstairs.”

  “We have an office,” I corrected.

  “You mean you’d rather keep that car and put the boys’ lives at risk?” Don said.

  I suddenly felt sick. I was outgunned and my husband had ceased to be my ally. Don went on to inform me he had promised the patron that he would clear out of the family office upstairs and let me turn that into my exclusive space. I knew this was an impossible promise: the one computer we owned was in that office and, out of necessity, he would have to enter, settle into the chair whenever he needed to tend to his art business, and leave his papers scattered over the desk. I had gathered those papers several times now, stacked them, and moved them to the kitchen table.

  I couldn’t fully blame my husband or my in-laws. My deep need for a close family, for a life of art and music, for a sense that I was centered among people who felt like my tribe had made me willing to acquiesce, to be patient. Add in my tendency to behave, to keep the peace as the child of a traditional family, especially one with a disabled child.

  I agreed to the car—we needed one, after all—and to the inevitable intrusion into my office space upstairs and all that this implied: I had not yet earned the right to a studio of my own. I did not deserve it.

  Now, riding in the sticky coolness of my father’s car, past miles of housing developments and dwindling orange groves, I felt more out of body and disoriented than I had ever been. We arrived at a security booth, showed our licenses, and were buzzed through the gate into a walled community, one of thousands in Orlando. My younger sister’s ample house appeared and I hastily leaped out of the car and made for the front door, diving into the air-conditioning and swooning from the chilling gusts of central air.

  “I’ll be darned, they’re here!” trilled my mother, coming from the kitchen and reaching to hug me. She was turning gray and her aging spine had begun to shrink so that she stood barely five feet tall. Cami, on the other hand, was taller than both my mother and me.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Cami said, coming forward with another hug. Dressed impeccably, she wore a crisp collared blouse and white slacks, her feet strapped into elegant sandals that highlighted her slender feet and pale pink toenails. Having grown up in this tropical climate, she knew how to dress in airy fabrics and string shoes. As we all chatted about minutiae, Cami slipped away to the next room and then suddenly reappeared, this time with my brother. There he was, forty-three years old, heavy-browed and frowning, his eyes on the floor.

  “Hi, Rod,” I said, softly.

  “Hi, Moss.”

  I had seen my brother only a few times since the debacle at Dave’s Diner ten years before. I gave him a light hug and a kiss on the cheek, which he didn’t like, and then I turned and gestured to my sons. “Do you remember Dylan and Zachary?”

  “Yaas,” Rod said, sharply. I wasn’t sure if he was mad at me for speaking, or mad at the boys for not visiting more often, or simply mad at everything.

  Uncertainly, Dylan and Zachary said hello, but neither stepped toward Rod or attempted a handshake. They had been young children when they saw him last. For all they knew, their uncle would shout and slap them if they stepped closer; he looked dark enough to do so.

  “And you remember Don?” I went on, turning to my husband. Don’s features were oddly arranged, a mixture of pity and distaste.

  Silence.

  “He’s my husband,” I prompted, anxiety leaking into my voice as perspiration dampened the collar of my blouse.

  “Hi, Rod,” Don said, his bulky frame all but hidden behind the boys.

  “Hi!” Rod barked.

  Long ago, I had noticed that Rod was easier around women. He had grown up surrounded by sisters and the lighter voices and gentle touches of females soothed him, more so than the hearty deep voices of males. Dogs and children similarly unnerved him, though for different reasons: as bundles of raw, open emotions and sudden, unpredictable movements, they set him on edge.

  Awkwardly, we stood bunched in the foyer, not knowing what to do next. An overwhelming sense of chagrin flooded through me. Why hadn’t I come here more often to visit my family and my brother? Deep down, I knew why. It had been easier not to come. My husband didn’t like it here, and neither did I, though for different reasons. Don had grown up in an erudite, liberal Jewish family, not a rifle-packing coal mining Baptist fundamentalist one. It had been easier for me to adapt to his side of the fence than for him to adapt to mine.

  As a consequence, my children did not know my brother or my parents or my younger siblings, something I had never intended even as I allowed and perpetuated it.

  “Have a seat at the table, Rod,” Cami said, finally, diffusing the moment. “I’ll get you some iced tea.” She was thirty-three years old, fifteen years my junior, and had grown up underneath Rod, without me or Barbara Ann nearby. She was the daughter who had stayed near my parents, living at home as she went to college and then settling in the next town over. She had become the on-site sister, the one who looked after Rod when my parents traveled, who sometimes picked him up from his group home on the other side of Orlando and brought him to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner, and who a few years into the future would, along with her husband, assume Rod’s guardianship, taking on the morass of state and legal accountabilities for his welfare.

  “Okay!” Rod shouted, darting from the doorway and yanking out t
he chair.

  The room tensed and drew back. This was not going well.

  “Now, Rod,” my mother said, reaching out her hand to pat his back.

  Something new about this moment disturbed me. I felt a dimensional shift in my perception as if I were peering through binoculars. I had first gotten to know my brother as a sweet, cuddly baby, a normal little boy. For all of his encroaching handicaps I had not forgotten who he was underneath his cloak of disability. I held the sound of his delightful laugh when I tickled him as a small boy, the quietness of his voice as he handed me his ladybug and said, “Fix it.” The touch of his gentle grownup hands lotioning my back. That’s who I saw when I thought of him.

  Now, I was seeing him from a distance, as a neighbor might view him, as my sons and my husband saw him: imperfect, hard to look at, unpredictable, impossible to accommodate. Hang onto your hats, I thought, sardonically. Just wait until you see him eat. I winced at the cut of these words. I didn’t like myself. I was not good at this, straddling two completely different worlds, two cleaved and conflicting lives. I didn’t know how to ride both at the same time and keep myself from falling off. This was why I had stayed away and why I wanted to get away again.

  True to form, we sat down to a trying and awkward dinner. Both of my boys reached for their milk glasses instantly, but hastily withdrew as Cami said, “Mom, will you say grace, please?”

  We bowed our heads and my mother sang out, “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bountiful table and especially for bringing our family safely here today …”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zachary crack his eyelids and cast a perplexed look around the table. Dylan did the same thing, and I made a silent sign to them both to bow and be still. From the moment we finished grace, Rod turned frantic, shouting “Yaas!” to everyone, spooning extra helpings of sweet potatoes, blurting “Okay, Dad!” each time my father said “That’s enough.” Blessedly, Rod never shouted when he was actually chewing food, so at last, he fell silent, hunkering down to eat what was piled on his plate. By then, we had all withdrawn into ourselves. In those minutes of quiet, I struggled to find conversation. How to make up for years of disconnect at one meal? How to help my sons get to know their grandparents, when all we wanted in that moment was to wolf down this meal and scatter from the table?

  “Are we in for any rain this week?” I asked.

  I couldn’t help but think of our gatherings back home in Boston, on Sundays and holidays, with just Don, the boys, and me, or with Don’s parents and sisters. The conversation was full of art, politics, music, story-telling, joking, laughter.

  Rod hung his head over his plate, agitated, mincing his mashed potatoes into miniscule bites. From what I could tell, nothing had changed since Dave’s Diner. My brother was utterly miserable, a seething and frustrated young man, either catatonic or bellicose.

  My parents were convinced there was a conspiracy afoot. Several, actually. Aside from the communist plot to fluoridate drinking water and government lies about the ozone layer, now there was a widespread mission to drug handicapped children.

  “They just want to shut ’em up,” my mother often said, nodding in agreement with Dad.

  They were adamant Rod not be treated with any medications whatsoever, whether or not he was suffering from depression or anxiety. If he needed to shout, let him shout. They did not believe a carefully monitored dose might actually bring him some relief.

  “You know, he might need some help, Mom,” I had ventured on a recent phone call. I had dialed my parents in April to wish Rod a happy birthday, and he had bellowed answers into the receiver until I grew weary and asked him to give the phone back to Mom. “His symptoms seem worse.”

  “Well, maybe so,” my mother responded. I knew she wouldn’t act on this idea, even if she thought it had merit. For one thing, she would not counter my father’s opinion that doctors and especially therapists were not to be trusted. And for another, her treatment of choice was prayer. When she felt helpless, or her children were suffering, prayer was her action item; it made her feel empowered, as if she were doing something.

  Getting up to clear the dishes for dessert, I asked if anyone wanted coffee; I couldn’t wait until this meal was over and we’d all said goodnight. But no one else rose with me and I realized I was supposed to stay seated until Rod had cleaned his plate, even if it meant another thirty minutes. He was not to be rushed; the fallout wasn’t worth it. Sinking back into the chair, I poured myself more water and waited. Once again I was a petulant teenager, impatient to leave the table, to leave my family. I looked at my sons, Zachary fidgeting, Dylan glancing around the table. No one spoke. The week ahead yawned like an enormous open maw.

  If Barbara Ann were here, she would apply practicality to the situation. She had the uncanny firstborn ability to take charge and treat predicaments like renovation projects. Unlike myself. As the second-born, I detached and sank into a familiar torpor of resignation. Over the next few days, sweaty and overdressed, at odds with the elements, I ventured with the boys and Don out among thousands of other tourists braving the lines at Universal Studios and Epcot and dropping stressful amounts of cash. By mid-week we had transposed into native Orlandoans, staying indoors from nine in the morning to well after dusk. Even after the sun went down we sought canned air and walled-in spaces. The oppressive heat and humidity turned us into sloths, slow to rise and even slower to chew. We had no appetites and were generally out of sorts. I wondered how long it would take us to simply cease moving. The only exception was my father, who rose to play tennis every morning, unfazed by the heat. He had grown up in the steam bath of the Appalachian Mountains and, like his Pappy, he had little use for air-conditioning.

  The day before we were to leave Florida, I plunged into laundry and packing, flitting from the dryer to the bedroom, fussing at the boys to organize their clothes. In the late afternoon, my mother and father arrived without Rod. He had already returned to the group home he lived in from Monday through Friday, and his penchant for routine made it better not to disrupt him again. I would say goodbye to him over the phone.

  My father had barely come into the door before he opened the newspaper in his hands and announced that the Space Shuttle Discovery was scheduled to launch Thursday morning.

  “Think your boys would like to see that?” he asked, looking over the paper at me, glasses perched on his nose.

  “We’re supposed to leave tomorrow, Dad,” I said, put out and edgy, cramming socks into the pockets of my suitcase. Instantly, I was sorry.

  It occurred to me that my father wanted company. For the most part, his passion for aeronautics had gone without companionship. I had been the only child of five to accompany him to model airplane contests as a fellow flier. My mother traveled with him now, going for days to Pensacola and other towns for model airplane meets, and had even learned to track and retrieve the planes, but she was there for my father, not for the planes, not for the love of flight.

  I looked at Don, who was pointedly silent. He expression told me there was no way he would stay here another day. Then, I called to the boys to come out to the kitchen.

  “Cool!” Zachary chirped. “Let’s go see it blast off!”

  Relief flooded through me. I wanted to see it, too, partly for my dad, partly to feel awestruck again, a feeling I hadn’t had in a long time. In moments, it was decided: Don and Dylan would fly back as planned; Zachary and I would change our tickets and stay for another day. My father would cover the difference in price.

  The day of the launch, I awoke in the dark to an empty bed. It was 3:00 a.m. and we’d have to leave soon to make it to Kennedy Space Center by launch time. I groaned and rubbed my face. An odd feeling seeped through me—a premonition, rousing the memory of an argument. I had wanted Dylan to stay, arguing that seeing a space launch was rare and this was a time for grandsons to be with their grandfather.

  “Don’t be insensitive,” Don had snapped as he clipped the latches of his suitcase.
“Dylan shouldn’t have to stay if he doesn’t want to.”

  Don had been doing this a lot lately, insinuating that I was insensitive. I knew Dylan might balk at first, but after he took in the launch, I knew the experience would be the first thing he shared with his friends. I suspected this wasn’t really about Dylan, but more about Don simply wanting to get away. He could not abide my family even for a few extra hours. Somewhere, deep down, I felt Don pinching his nose: your born-again parents, your hillbilly ancestors, your dad’s guns, your exasperating brother who ruins every family gathering and every meal.

  Gently, I shook Zachary’s shoulder and prodded him awake. He was so groggy he turned down cereal and even chocolate milk, but soon rallied as we got on the road, peppering my dad with questions about the launch. How heavy is the Space Shuttle? Why is it going up there? Where is it going?

  “Two hundred sixty-two thousand and thirty-five pounds,” my father answered instantly, as if this were an everyday answer to have at the tip of your tongue. “This’ll be the first shuttle flight to dock with the International Space Station. It’s filled with cargo for station outfitting.”

  My father had done this enough times to know how to get close enough to see the launch without security clearance. With our last-minute seat-of-the-pants arrival, we’d get nowhere near Kennedy Space Center, but my father was unperturbed. He headed the car down an open-sided road that had a clear flat view for what seemed a hundred miles straight out to the ocean. As we got out and crossed the road, we joined a bunch of other people, jostling and making room so we could all see. Then, we waited, propped against the guardrails, tearing into granola bars. With all eyes tilted skyward, we watched as color smeared across the sky and morning dawned on our side of the earth.