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Peter B. Unger
Both Berta and Jim were products of a working-class background. Berta’s father had worked for many years as an auto mechanic. His last job, as he neared retirement, had been at the newly opened Ford plant. Berta’s mother had worked mainly as a homemaker. She had a natural intelligence and reflective nature that she had passed on to her daughter. Berta’s father was a kindly affable man. Alberta had inherited the best of both her parents’ traits. A warm, loving person with a quick smile and an easy, gentle laugh, Berta was also a natural nurturer. Don was close to his mother. The two would often sit and talk at the kitchen table for long periods. Their conversations started with Berta asking about Don’s day. More recently Berta had been asking Don how his studies were going at the local community college, where he was nearing the end of his first year. Their conversations would then naturally flow in a variety of directions. The big questions of life held an interest for both Berta and her son. For Berta this had always been framed by her deep faith and involvement at the First Baptist Church off Main Street in the center of town. Berta had an open-mindedness to hearing ideas that others from her background might find threatening.
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After his father left, Don remained seated for a time. He remained unable to absorb the news he had just heard. To do so would be to admit that he would never again see the two people he loved most in the world, who made his life worth living. Time seemed to stand still as Don sat frozen at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Finally forcing himself to take some action, any action, he called the pastor of his church to alert him. The pastor’s wife answered. Clutching the phone and speaking in an obviously traumatized tone, Don asked to speak to Pastor Tim. Sensing how upset Don was she responded in a gentle caring way, “I am so sorry, Don, Tim is not in right now, I will have him call you as soon as he gets home.” The pastor did call a short time later, but Don was in no condition to answer the phone call. His father later made the phone call to the pastor to make the necessary arrangements. Don had mumbled, “Thank you,” to the pastor’s wife, and then said, “I am sorry I have to go.” Don had only a blurred, hazy recollection of what he did after hanging up the phone. He vaguely recalled stumbling into the living room, grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniels out of his parents’ liquor cabinet, and then stumbling back to his room. He drank until he passed out, wanting to escape the nightmare his life had just become. Don awoke in the middle of the night feeling extremely nauseous. He stumbled into the bathroom and began to throw up violently.
The shock and numbness Don continued to feel allowed him to function on autopilot through the memorial service at the church and in the days and weeks that followed. During the week after the accident he saw his father cry for the first time. Sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, his father had sobbed in a convulsive, uncontrollable way. The emotional distance that separated Don and his father had prevented him from approaching or offering his father any comfort. Don too had felt the full reality of the loss hit him a couple of times during the weeks following the accident. Still he did not allow himself to break down until he was alone in his bedroom at night. When he did, he threw himself onto his bed and muffled his sobs by sinking his face into his pillow. Pills the family doctor had prescribed for Don dulled the pain and deepened the numbness and zombie-like behavior that lasted most of the summer.
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