My parents’ room was next, and I half expected to find my mother in pajamas stretched out on the comforter. The door was sticking. The trick was to lift slightly, turn the knob, and push.
The room was dark, and a hot smother of air came pouring out. The bed was made, and a thin webbing of dust crawled the walls like ivy. The curtains were drawn. I saw the closet was full of clothing, mostly my mother’s. There were also garbage bags on the floor, stuffed with what appeared to be her things. I bent down and found a yellow jacket. I put the jacket on a hanger, and hung it from the back of the door. I tried to imagine my mother, her arms filling the sleeves, her head. I took the jacket from the hanger, smelled it, and my stomach reeled. Stale and oppressive, it stank of age, of years and days and minutes of sloughing skin.
I flipped the light switch.
The quilted surface was scattered with short stacks of papers and more spiral notebooks. Barely noticeable at first, but they were in a sort of order, separate and organized. A pile of handwritten pages, scrawlings, and drawings. There were dated pages, like journal entries, and I recognized the uncanny logic and language of dreams. These were my father’s dreams. He was writing out his nightly visions. Flying, teeth falling out, being swept from a hilltop by God’s great palm, and taking heavenly tours. There were birth certificates and death certificates. Photo albums, and a pile of loose photos. I quickly flipped through the pictures. They were mostly old, ancient even, brown-and-whites, black-and-whites. There was the family photo album, but also albums I’d never seen before, pictures of people I didn’t recognize. I saw one of two men standing in front of a Spanish-style house, I figured southern California. They stood beside a long and beautiful car, like a Rolls-Royce, their feet on the running board. They hooked their thumbs back, making like two lucky hitchhikers. On the back was a handwritten note, “C. Russell and O. Laudermilk, Beth Sarim, San Diego, 1930.” The wooden cross in the kitchen. Beth Sarim. It seemed O. Laudermilk was the man at right in the photo, a youngish man about my age, his features partly blocked by the slanted brim of a dapper hat. Was this my grandfather? I’d never seen the photo before in my life.
I took the family album and the strange Laudermilk photo into the hall and set them on the floor by the bathroom door. I washed the wall and the tub. Stepping into the shower, I put my face in the cold rush of water. The spray and the water needling on my skin, I thought of rain, how different and dirty a falling rain on my body would feel. A barbed gray headache was starting.
Amad answered in just two rings.
“A big hello, my Josie! You did not call me yesterday. You forgot. What happened?”
“I miss you,” I said. “Believe it or not.”
“Where are you? You are in New York?”
“I’m standing here completely naked in my father’s bathroom, right out of the shower.”
Amad bit into what sounded like an apple. “The open-air lingam.”
“You’re eating an apple.”
“I am.”
“What’s an open-air what?”
“You right now are an open-air lingam.”
“My skinny business in the open air.”
“Exactly. Like a stalagmite.” Another bite. “Or stalactite, depending on your good mood, or bad mood. How long will you be staying?”
“Very nice,” I said.
“So short-tempered.”
“What’s the weather like out there?” I poked through the linen closet and picked a clean white towel.
“Perfect. Like every day in California. My least favorite thing about this place, no bad days.”
“How’s business?” I said.
“What business?”
“Very funny.”
“Very bad.”
“I’ll be back soon, and we’ll have that dinner. I promise.”
“My wife is not so impatient, but she wants to know what are we doing now. And I’m not sure what to tell her.”
“Tell her the storeroom is glorious.”
“How is your father?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? He says he’s fine, and he’s clearly not. I’m not sure of my role here. The man looks like he’s been hiding away in the hills.”
“It can be very nice in the hills.”
“Not what I mean.” I wiped at the mirror, clearing away the steam. “He says he’s fine.”
“I spent summers as a boy in the Zamuri hills, took my bath in the river. Wore only a light wrap at the waist. Turban. It was very pleasant.”
I dried myself with the towel, cell phone wedged at my bent neck. “Anyway. He’s fine, and he’s not fine. I’m fine. Are you fine without me?”
“Tip-top.” I heard something downstairs, Dad walking around; it made me think of a ghost and I wondered if people who believed in ghosts always believed in ghosts, or was it just something you felt one day and so you started believing.
I asked him, “What are you looking at right now, exactly?”
“A completely empty store.”
“Numbskull. Go outside. What do you see?”
“Hold on. Wait. I’m walking. I’m going outside as we speak and, like I said, it’s a beautiful day. Big deal. The pretty blond girl on her skateboard. Seagulls on the bench picking at a muffin.”
“You need anything at all, you call me. I gotta go and dry my godly member. I’ll call you.”
“Be praiseworthy, Josie.”
I wrapped my waist with the towel and walked back downstairs with the photo album under my arm. Litter grit stuck to my wet feet on every last step, and I saw my duffel bag was now with the garbage bags by the front door. I couldn’t remember if I’d drunkenly left it there, or maybe Dad thought it wasn’t worth keeping. I put the album on a step, opened my bag, and took out some undershorts. Towel around my waist, I tried pulling on the shorts but a large fly was buzzing around my face like a live wire. My foot got caught in the crotch of the shorts. I lost my balance, reached for the banister—
“What are you doing?”
My towel fell to the floor.
He was standing there, now wearing sandals and wide Bermuda shorts, which made his legs look storklike.
I pulled on my shorts. “Lost my balance.”
He went back for the kitchen, shaking his head.
I was suddenly very annoyed, and everything I’d been thinking boiled over and out of me.
“Why are there dirty plates beside the door? And why is there a sponge”—I saw a sponge—“a disgusting sponge, is it milk? It looks like milk. Why is there a wet, milky sponge on the floor?” I put on pants as quickly as possible, socks and a T-shirt; where were my shoes? I cursed the fact that I hadn’t brought sandals. Even he had sandals. I rubbed at my wet head and hair as I entered the kitchen, blinded by my hands, knocking against a wall. “You have nothing to say about this? The trash in this house? I mean, we haven’t even talked about the trash in this house.” I kept rubbing at my head. “It smells like a garbage strike in here.” The headache was back, my bones were sore, and all the worry I’d been feeling was mixing with my frustration at his refusal or maybe his inability to see the desperate state he was in. I was overflowing with anger and confusion and a terrible sense of helplessness, more than anything else, when I think about it, which masked itself as more anger and confusion.
I looked up—nobody there.
I pulled the window shade and it snapped up like a waking eyelid. The sunlight surprised me. I raised my arms against it and pulled the shade back down.
“There’s a dead mouse on your windowsill. Just so you know.”
I flipped the light switch. The bulb buzzed, it flickered. I crossed the kitchen and looked at the shield hanging on the wall. Nothing special, far as I could see.
I said, “And you have good water pressure!”
“I installed that shower!”
“So you can hear me.” I walked to the dining room, draped my towel o
n the back of a chair. “Do you have any aspirin? I’m starving. And it’s pretty ridiculous that we’re sitting around like there’s nothing wrong. I’m supposed to be doing something! You know I am.”
He was sitting at the computer. Lights out, drapes pulled shut, a bluish glow was painting him the colors of aquarium water. The light in the room lessened from dim and dimmer to dark, from kitchen, to dining room, then to living room. He was typing, one finger at a time.
“Dad.”
My bedsheet was balled up under the sofa. I dove to my knees and snatched it, snapped it, shaking it wide and white. Crumbs dropped like sand on the coffee table. I folded it, neatly, and set it on the back of the sofa. A cat tried to sit and make it its bed, but I smacked at its fat crispy bottom.
“Dad. Please.”
“What?”
“The house—look at me. This place is making you sick. I’m not kidding.”
“Don’t be mean to the cats. How was your shower?”
“Why?” I was going through my pockets; where were my cigarettes?
“They’re on the dining table. You can smoke inside, you know.”
“Oh, can I?” I came back lighting a cigarette, and from the side of my mouth, I said, “Because I don’t want to make a mess and dirty up your beautiful home.”
He looked up. “I don’t remember you being this funny.” He clapped his hands together. “I found it!”
I sat beside him in the marine light, the screen framed by yellow-going-green sticky notes.
“Read it,” he said.
“What?”
“They have it.” He pointed at what looked like an auction website. “Read it.”
I read out loud, “The Apocryphal Scripture.” The word “apocryphal” was vaguely familiar.
“Of the Old Testament. By R. Charles.” He beamed bluish in the light. “First edition, 1913.”
“You’re buying this.”
“I’m trying. It’s inscribed!”
This struck me as strange, from a man who refused to own an answering machine. But it also made sense that he’d be attracted to the book.
“I haven’t done this yet,” he said. “How do you do it? I order mostly groceries so far.”
I tapped the ash on the rug, and I didn’t give one shit about doing it. He looked at the white ash on the dark floor, and then at me. He gave me a cheeky smile, like he very much approved.
He said, “I haven’t done this yet on the computer. You make an offer, I think.”
“You’ve been looking for this book.”
“Junior, the computer is a miracle. Look inside and find what you need. And don’t worry, I know what else is in there, too.”
“You’ve read this book?”
“I showed you.” He pointed back to the dining room. “The big one on the table.”
“You have it already.” I was confused.
“But this is from 1913, the real deal first one. Inscribed! By Charles’s own hand! Mine’s brand-new; I ordered from a college bookstore.”
“Since when does my father collect books? Or anything. Wine bottles, toothbrushes.”
“This is scripture! God’s Word, older than most of the Bible, bet you never knew.” He looked at me. “If I could crawl inside and find this book and bring it back, I would.”
Sarah had talked to me about this, and I had no idea at the time what she was talking about. I don’t think she did, either. She was reporting whole sentences he’d said, telling me that he told her during one of his recent phone calls that he was no longer interested in “endings,” only in “the first things,” “beginnings.” What first things? He said he was reading about Gnosticism, and Judaism, and he was intrigued, because what’s a first thing if not Judaism, right? He wanted to know if she would help him facilitate some kind of understanding if not a full conversion to Judaism because he was sure she knew someone on the inside.
I stood up, and said: “No more. Enough! This house isn’t good for you. It’s bad for me, and I’m only here two days. We’re going on a trip, a quick trip. And I’m gonna call up a doctor. I can’t take this sitting around anymore.” I was moving in small circles, not going anywhere. “What if you have symptoms and you don’t even know? What if you’re sick, if you have something? God forbid, but look at you! This is ridiculous. And I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
“I’m going the way of all flesh.” He fell back down to the sofa.
I said, “This isn’t normal.”
“Physician, heal thyself!” He was very proud of this line.
I put out the cigarette on my shoe and threw it on the table.
He took the cigarette butt from the table and tossed it across the room. He grinned at me. “Hah!”
“What?”
“Let go, Junior!” He tried standing again. I helped him. “Just let go!”
“I need to make a call.”
He was laughing. “You think I’m nuts. It’s perfect, really, perfect!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Revelation!”
“I can’t do this.”
“If anyone can talk Revelation, it’s my boy.”
He was standing there, swaying as if a crosswind were blowing through the room. I thought he’d fall any second now. And I’m not sure if I said it to hurt him, or really just to get his attention, like slapping somebody in the wild throes of a breakdown. Either way, I just said it: “I was a kid. I made that shit up. And you know it.”
He reached out for the computer screen, and steadied himself. He held fast to it, for support, and his chin fell into a tremor.
“I’m not stupid,” he said, and waved me away. “Just tired.”
I followed him to the bathroom, asking him, “Please, just please let me in.” I tried to follow him inside. I wanted to help. He pushed me away. I threatened to remove the door from its hinges, to which he said: “I am still your father.”
* * *
I sat at the kitchen table flipping through one of the photo albums. I saw pictures of our family at the park; on vacation; at church services and congregation barbecues. I saw school portraits of me from kindergarten on through high school, nearly every year, on two pages, my hair longer and less conservative from junior high on, a taxonomy of coiffured rebellion. There was one year, eleventh grade, when I briefly sported a meek attempt at a Mohawk, the sides not entirely shaved. I lacked nerve. The photographer had to tamp down the central tuft. This was soon repaired by way of Dad’s electric clippers.
And there were pictures of my mother. I chose two, peeled them out from under the laminate, one of her in a high 1960s beehive, beaming like a supremely happy young woman in the passenger seat of a white convertible. She looked like a real lady of her day, ecstatic. Must’ve been taken before Dad. The other was a mom I knew, sitting in the sun with an arm around each of her boys, Dad and me, holding on to us like she’d never let go, no matter what, forcing a smile. I used to get the feeling that Mom wasn’t afraid of anything at all, and that as long as she was here Dad and I would be well taken care of, that she kept us grounded. But really, I think Mom was afraid of something, of Dad’s insatiable hunger for God, and if not for her and her fear I believe we all would have spun off into space and lost our minds already. It occurred to me that maybe Dad knew this, too.
I kept looking through the album, at the faces of people long gone, at cousins I’d never see again, at the faces of fellow congregants playing Frisbee at Bible-study picnics. And then I saw the face of little Issy. It sent a chill through me, literally. It was a class photo from elementary school, along with other class pictures of kids I knew from church. He was a boy, just a kid, seated next to an American flag respectfully draped over a globe, a golden curtain behind him. Of course I’d seen the photo before, but I’d completely forgotten about it, and somehow it was immediately the distillation of my every memory of him. This was Issy. His lips partially constricted, his hair a little mussed like he had just sc
ratched at the back of his head. Everything about the face suggested a little boy, thoughtful and completely lost. Yet here he was. Right here. I peeled away the photo and put it with the others. I still wanted an aspirin.
I looked at the phone on the wall. It was avocado green and right where it should’ve been. This was the phone Mom answered when the school called saying I was absent. Yet again, your son isn’t here. I used to wonder what made her angrier: that I was cutting school or that I was spending my time with the “Hindu girl.” I wanted more bread and butter. The weary and wine-sugared brain cells were in need of funneling. I needed focus. So I poured a glass of cool water and took out the butter dish and bread.
I’m not a butter person, and yes there are what can be called butter people. French food, to this day, makes my stomach rumble. I know it’s because of the butter. I don’t like the slick it leaves in my mouth. Sarah used to say food is the truest mirror, and never trust the man reveling in Buffalo wings, with no regard for sauce on his fingers, with the pile of red-soaked Handi Wipes beside him as if emptied from an autopsy bin. I don’t like things too rich. Yet I lavished the stiff bread with butter, knifed it on smooth and soft. I put a small pat in the freezer and let it harden. I ate the pat whole and started to feel a little bit better. Dark marbles of cat shit and white foam kernels of packing littered the floor like monstrous nodules of salt and pepper, and entire populations of cellular villages in my blood were running, ecstatic, as planes dropped boxes of butter from the sky. I opened the window shade as my father walked in.
“Good morning, sir. Again.” I sipped from a glass of water. “You know it’s nearly noon.”
Hands at his eyes, and batting for the light switch, he said, “What’s this?”
“It’s called daylight. And as long as I’m here and you insist on living in a cave, I will have one room where I can go and live like a person.”
“I was sleeping.”
“I should have called a psychiatrist by now.”
He rubbed at his eyes.
I held up my bread. “Can I please make you something to eat?”
High as the Horses' Bridles: A Novel Page 19
