Читать книгу Here Lies a Father - Mckenzie Cassidy - Страница 11

CHAPTER 1

WE ARRIVED IN OUR BORROWED CAR at the gates of the New Brimfield Memorial Cemetery, a series of hulking Gothic spires. The cemetery faced the vacant high school. It was a Friday in late spring and students were out early that day for a reason unknown to me. I stared at the school from our car and attempted to imagine what kind of student my father had been. Probably the opposite of what life was like for me, a fifteen-year-old sophomore with no idea what my future held. He was likely the “king of the school” in his day, with his sharp wit and natural charisma. Everybody adored him. He was a society man, although not high society. He was the type of man with a reserved barstool, a regular order of Dewar’s on the rocks set on a fresh cocktail napkin when he stepped through the door, and old drinking pals waiting in line for a tirade of dirty jokes.

Until recently, I hadn’t realized there were multiple versions of Thomas Daly. There was the public version, of course, the young, strong, entertaining man my mother fell in love with so many years ago, the worldly man, the intelligent leader who always had a comeback and knew the right thing to say in any situation. But there were other sides to him, ones the outside world never saw or wasn’t even aware of, and ones I’d never given much thought to until today. Frustrated, miserable, introspective, a raft lost at sea, weighed down by burdens I couldn’t possibly fathom. The last time I saw him alive he had transformed into a weak and brittle old man, dissolving before my eyes. I didn’t know he was sick at that point, but I should’ve known. I only suspected that after years of not taking care of himself nature had taken its due, not that he was dying. He didn’t tell a soul, but I should’ve known just by the look of him.

Beside the seriously brooding cemetery gate stood a short, chubby man. He wore a faded blue polo shirt that barely tucked into his belt due to a bulbous stomach. He was balding except for patches of gray hair that sprouted from the sides of his head and stood straight out, as if he’d suddenly awakened from bed and rushed out of the house without looking in a mirror. He waved at my sister Catherine and me. She rolled the car window down.

“We made it … finally,” she said.

“Hey there,” Uncle Neil responded, resting his hand on the car roof. He was alone. “Nice to see you two. I told you not to worry about time. The important thing is you’re here.”

“Where do we park?”

“Go ahead and use the school lot,” he told Catherine. “Nobody will bother you there.”

Catherine and I had driven miles from where I currently lived, a small town in upstate New York called Wellbourne, to Dad’s hometown of New Brimfield. Our trip had been rife with complications. We were two hours late, having wandered curvy, poorly marked roads, unable to see past a mist left over from an early-morning thunderstorm. Having lived upstate for most of my life, except for the two-year period when Mom dragged us to Florida, I was familiar with how most back-country roads weren’t marked for a driver’s ease and how most directions were given by word-of-mouth. We weren’t supposed to stress about being late but I could tell how much it bothered Catherine.

A gray package, about the size of a jack-in-the-box, sat in the backseat. Dad’s remains. He had died two weeks earlier when the snow melted and was cremated in Albany, per Catherine’s directive. The funeral director in Albany had handed Catherine his remains on the day she flew up from Florida, simple ashes in an overly priced box. I stood beside her as she received our father. I stared at the thick gold rings on the funeral director’s swollen fingers. Dad’s official cause of death was questionable to say the least, but one thing was certain. On his deathbed the doctor said that despite a half-century of smoking unfiltered cigarettes, Dad’s lungs were the cleanest and strongest he’d ever seen. Dad never would’ve shared that either.

Catherine guided our orange hatchback, which we had borrowed from one of her old friends, into a vacant parking spot facing the brick high school. Between the parking lot and the cemetery gate stood a smaller building that matched the school and likely held maintenance equipment. Catherine reached into the backseat and unbuckled the box of Dad’s remains. Worried that one wrong turn would send the box crashing to the floor, spewing ash all over the car’s interior, we had strapped it in when the country roads grew especially bumpy. She pulled it close to her chest. The two of them had always been so close, but I guess the same thing could be said about Mom and me. Catherine thought the world of Dad, no matter what happened to him. If he had been a mass murderer, she would’ve defended him to her last breath.

Uncle Neil eyed the box as we approached. “Is that … him?”

“Yes,” said Catherine.

He shivered and slipped his hands into his pockets.

Catherine was cordial with Uncle Neil, but kept her defenses up. She thanked him for working with us on such short notice to finalize our father’s arrangements. There had been no real time to prepare. If anyone should have known it would’ve been her, but she gave no advance warning. I assumed she didn’t know, but I was always the last to hear of anything involving our family. Dad’s death didn’t feel real to me; rather, I was watching a movie about somebody else’s life. Uncle Neil didn’t seem shocked about my father’s death at all. He sounded more like an old classmate who hadn’t run into my father since they graduated high school.

“Not a problem, he was my brother after all, even if I hadn’t spoken to the son of a bitch in years,” he said, chuckling. “Ian, I don’t know if you remember this or not, but I spoke to you once over the phone. You must’ve been a little boy. Your father put you on the line. You probably don’t remember.”

I tried my hardest to remember, but I couldn’t. Whatever part of my brain was responsible for collecting and storing memories was defective. It seemed as if—with the exception of a few worthless recollections—major chunks of my memory were missing, particularly those before the age of ten. The ones that remained were drawn from tales Mom had recounted over and over again, and featured in the collection of photographs she hung proudly on our walls, sometimes even of strangers, to fill empty space. I desperately dredged the recesses of my mind, which seemed filled with dark mud, but came up with nothing. The truth was, I couldn’t remember what Uncle Neil was talking about, but I had to answer him, so I lied. I didn’t want him to feel insignificant, like his was a frivolous memory I hadn’t bothered to file away.

“You know what? I remember now, yes, I do,” I said, grinning. “I was standing in our kitchen, I think, the one with black-and-white tiles. Dad handed me the telephone and he was ecstatic that you had called.”

Catherine peered at me. She knew I was lying. I wasn’t as good as everyone else in my family and she knew my tells.

“Hmm, sure doesn’t sound like him,” said Neil, scratching his chin. “Usually, he was pissed whenever I called him.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that day he was in a great mood.”

“I see. Well, either way, it’s still nice to finally meet you in person after all these years.”

Lying was wrong, I understood that, as any reasonable person would, but I also felt good about having lied to Uncle Neil. He didn’t know the difference. Why make him feel bad by saying my father never mentioned a word about his brother? We had just met and I preferred keeping the peace. Uncle Neil smiled. I think it made him happy that I lied, whether he knew it or not.

“I took the liberty of picking a nice spot for Thomas,” he said, pointing to a squat hill in the distance.

“Are we going there now?” asked Catherine, checking her wristwatch.

“Yes, yes. We should get things started.”

Dad had been raised a Catholic, which didn’t exactly support the burning of one’s body for burial, yet his final arrangements were ultimately Catherine’s decision. Dad had no legal will, at least not that any of us could find. He never discussed being buried or cremated, but Catherine said she couldn’t stand pumping his body full of embalming chemicals for a morbid viewing and archaic ceremony. She’d rather he just return to the earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all of that. Not having met any of Dad’s family members until that day, and not having any grasp of their religious leanings, I couldn’t determine whether they would’ve disapproved of Catherine’s decision. Uncle Neil didn’t seem to mind, but he also could’ve been lying to keep the peace. By that point it didn’t really matter anyway; the deed had been done.

The three of us entered the cemetery and took a paved, well-manicured path to the hilltop that would be Dad’s final resting place. Our shoes got wet as we stepped onto the soggy grass and trekked up the hill. Without the headstones the landscape would have looked like a golf course, the sort of place to relax on a lazy Sunday morning. I looked out over the property. Newly installed headstones were laid out proportionately. Farther away were crumbling spires dating back hundreds of years, the names of their eternal guests barely legible. I thought about how the diggers must’ve toiled over spacing out the dead in such a finite space. Sooner or later the entire cemetery would be full and they’d have a problem on their hands.

Once at the hilltop, we waited patiently beside a shallow hole. Without a casket there had been no reason for the diggers to go deep. Uncle Neil scanned the horizon as a sailor would on the deck of a ship, and two blurry figures emerged through the distant cemetery gate. Two women came into focus, skipping over shallow mud puddles on their way toward us.

“We’re over here!” shouted Neil, as if they hadn’t seen him. He waved.

Except for us three, the cemetery was empty.

One of the women was short and stout, with a tight silver perm and a pointed nose that reminded me of Dad. She also resembled Neil, so I assumed she was a Daly. The other one was tall and thin with long, midnight-black hair and tanned, leathery skin. They followed the same route we had taken to the hilltop and when they arrived we all stood awkwardly, waiting for somebody to make the first introduction. Finally, the shorter one introduced herself as Dad’s sister, Marie.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you finally,” said Marie. “I just wish it had been under better circumstances.”

I smiled.

“We feel the same way, believe me,” said Catherine. She nudged my arm.

“Yes, great to meet you too,” I added. “Thanks.”

As Marie spoke I glanced at the other woman, clutching her leather purse and waiting anxiously to be introduced. Her gigantic purse was black leather with gold rings. She stood a few feet back and nodded at everything we said. Marie paused briefly from her introductions and studied my face.

“You look like him, you know,” she said. Everyone turned to verify, but said nothing further. “Thomas, your father. I can see him in you.”

“I see that too, Marie,” said the other woman, reminding the group she was still there.

Her compliment should’ve made me beam with pride, but instead my stomach turned. I didn’t want them to see the look of disgust on my face, so I stared at everyone’s shoes. Uncle Neil wore scuffed penny loafers, Marie stood flat-footed in white walking sneakers, and the other woman leaned to the side in black high-heel ankle boots. I couldn’t explain why I reacted the way I did to Marie’s observation, yet once the day was over I’d push the thought out of my mind forever.

“Oh, how rude of me,” said Marie. “This is Carla.”

The dark-haired stranger, Carla, stepped forward and shook our hands loosely with her two longest fingers and thumb.

“Nice to meet you,” said Catherine. With a pointed glance, she demanded that Marie explain why this strange woman was present at our father’s funeral. Not being able to wait any longer, she started fishing for answers. “So, Carla, are you a member of the family or a friend or …?”

“Not exactly,” Marie answered casually. “Carla is Thomas’s ex-wife.”

Catherine’s face turned crimson, she scrunched it up questioningly, and she tipped her head to one side. “I’m sorry, I misheard you.”

“Thomas, your father,” said Marie, slowly. “Carla was his first wife.”

Catherine searched desperately for the truth in each of the faces gathered around Dad’s grave. I looked up to the sky, imagining I was anyplace else but in that cemetery. Back when I used to play outfield for the Wellbourne junior baseball team, I’d place my leather glove over my face like a mask and watch the game unfold through the stitch holes. The crowd in the bleachers used to scream at me when I missed a pop fly or struck out at bat, but I persisted because I wanted so badly to be a part of something, to make friends with the other players. I just couldn’t focus long enough to learn the fundamentals of the game. Eventually I quit the team.

“His first wife?” repeated Catherine. She had heard what Marie had said, but she wanted to give her mind time to process.

“His first wife,” said Marie.

Tears filled Carla’s eyes. She blinked and they streamed down her leathery cheeks, leaving a moist trail of orange spray tan. “I’m so sorry,” she said, sobbing. “I was afraid this was going to happen.”

“Afraid what was going to happen?” asked Catherine defensively.

“I was afraid you two wouldn’t have known about his other marriages. That he never told you. I shouldn’t have come. I’m so, so sorry.” Carla slung her oversized purse back over her shoulder and turned to leave.

“Stop. Stop. Don’t be crazy,” said Marie. She put her hand on Carla’s back. “You have as much a right as anyone else to be here. You were married to the man, for Christ’s sake.”

“Thank you,” said Carla, sniffing. “But … this just isn’t appropriate.”

“You got that right,” said Catherine.

Carla retrieved a balled-up tissue from her purse and dabbed her tears.

Marie turned to Catherine and me, and I could tell she was concerned. “Are you telling me your parents never mentioned any of this?” she asked.

“Other marriages?” said Catherine in a strained voice. She was an English major in college and knew the difference between plural and singular. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Marriages. Yes. Your father had a few,” said Marie, smirking.

Not long after Marie dropped this bomb, Carla also dropped the shy-and-withdrawn act. “Thomas and I had two children together, Mark and Ashley, before he left me. They’re much older than you, as you’d probably guess, and they have lives of their own now, but they’re your half siblings.”

Marie clearly had no idea of how this shocking news would plow through our psyches, leaving craters the size of volcanoes. Speaking openly about our personal lives didn’t come easy for my family. Before leaving town Mom and Catherine had specifically told me not to give them an inch, to keep my eyes and ears open about whether any of those backwoods kooks were trying to profit from Dad’s death. If there had been money floating around, Mom said, we’d better figure out if they’d fight over it or not. Money was funny business in my family; we refused to admit we cared about it, but there was never a time when it wasn’t the topic of conversation.

“Is this a prank?” asked Catherine, struggling to crack a smile to show she was in on the joke. Considering Dad’s dark humor, it was fair to assume he got it from his family. “My father did not have other families or other children, and if this is a joke I’d appreciate it if you all stopped carrying on with it. It’s not the time or place.”

Marie, unruffled, responded calmly to Catherine’s outburst: “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish it was a joke.”

Catherine and Mom never included me in the important matters of the Daly family. As if I’d been bestowed a nonessential status, it wasn’t important for me to know what was happening or why they had made certain choices over the years. They excluded me because they wanted to protect me from the harsh realities of this world. How could I fault them for that? But now I was hearing something live, at the same time as Catherine, and we were left to figure out whether it was true. Dad’s family had no reason to lie, nothing to gain.

If it were true, and at that moment I thought it might be, it meant Dad had lied to me—to everyone—for years.

“Hey, these confessions are great and all, but don’t forget we’re all here for a funeral,” said Neil. “Let’s get on with it and we can all catch up later.”

“I agree,” said Marie. “We have all of the time in the world.”

“Yes. Fine. Let’s just do it already,” said Catherine. She gently placed Dad’s box, which she had been hoarding since we had arrived, at the bottom of the shallow hole.

Carla reached inside her behemoth purse and pulled out a handful of roses like a Las Vegas magician. She told us she’d bought them fresh at a grocery store on the way to the cemetery. She handed one to each of us. I remembered how Mom hated roses because they reminded her of funerals, but Dad bought them for her every Valentine’s Day regardless. As much as she complained, he kept buying them. He never listened, she said. I wondered if he bought roses for every woman?

Uncle Neil explained that the diggers would fill the hole properly that evening, but the dirt inside of the white buckets could be ceremoniously spread across the top of Dad’s box. He reached into one bucket and pulled up a handful of dirt, sprinkling it on the box like he was seasoning a stew. He passed the bucket around and each of us took our share. We also dropped the roses onto the uneven mounds, which had transformed into mud upon hitting the wet ground. I thought it all defeated the purpose of buying fresh flowers. Some of the soil stuck to my hands, so I wiped them across the wet blades of grass by my feet.

“I think that about does it,” said Neil.

“Should we say something?” asked Marie, her hands folded and resting on her stomach.

“Like what? I’m not a goddamn priest,” he said.

“No, Neil, she’s right,” said Carla. “I can say something if—”

“No, that’s quite all right, Carla,” Catherine blurted. She could barely speak through a clenched jaw. “You’ve done quite enough. He was my father, so I can take it from here.”

We all bowed our heads.

“We are gathered here on this peaceful and beautiful hilltop today, somewhat overcast, to say goodbye to Thomas Daly. He was a good man. He cared deeply about his family, friends, and the community in which he lived. Anyone who had the good fortune of spending time with him loved him. He will be greatly missed and I only wish I could do more to help celebrate his tremendous life. Amen.”

A cold breeze blew a pile of soggy leaves down the hill. We took a moment of silence, yet my mind was screaming. Thoughts of death bounced across the empty spaces. I had only faced it one other time in my life, when my grandfather passed away and I was too young to understand. My younger cousin and I had climbed up to the lid of his coffin to wake him up from his nap, something I had done a hundred times before. I tried to visualize the day of my maternal grandfather’s funeral too, but like most of my memories, they were murky and disjointed. I remembered how people were packed elbow-to-elbow, all in black, sobbing and sharing stories about him. He had a full wake with cold cuts and my grandmother sat in the living room to greet the people who came to pay their respects.

In the end, Dad’s funeral was five strangers standing awkwardly around a two-foot-by-two-foot hole, tossing handfuls of dirt into an unmarked grave with grocery store roses. I decided on that hilltop, staring at his partially filled resting place, that when I died I wanted hundreds of people at my funeral—a great party where everyone shared their fond memories of me, and stayed late into the night because they couldn’t stand to let me go. I didn’t want to die alone.