by David Layton
“Well, that’s not the strange part. When Trujillo arrived, he went on in Spanish, and Stern, who’d been translating, kept his mouth shut. Did you ever wonder what he was saying?”
“No.”
“He was talking about the Haitians, how they were black and reproducing at a rate that the Dominicans couldn’t defend against. We’re the answer.”
“I’m not sure I understand what the question is.”
“A white migration. That’s what he was saying.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, now that we don’t need Stern to translate for us anymore, the answers aren’t hard to come by.” Felix pulled a creased newspaper clipping from his pocket. It was from La Información. “‘The Haitians, a black race,’” Felix read out, “‘are immensely more prolific than our race, a race of white and mestizo people. How can the Dominican Republic defend itself against this huge danger? The answer has been said a thousand times, by bringing a white migration.’”
“We’re the white migration,” said Felix. “We were saved by a black dictator, because we are white. Our glorious saviour, Dictator Trujillo, who wears makeup to make himself look whiter, brought in Jews, brought in us, to whiten the population. We’re meant to breed with the Dominican women, like prime cattle.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It may be. So are the Nazis, but they’re dangerous too. They thought we were dirty Jews, the Americans in New York thought we might be Nazi spies, but now we’re simply white. At least things are improving.”
“If we’re so favoured, then why did our trucks get confiscated?”
“That’s just the price of doing business, and a small price, if you ask me. Do you know that the man who saved us sends an American limousine out to the countryside looking for young, pretty virgins? Mothers push their daughters in front of the windows, so that they will be picked and saved from poverty.”
“Did you read that in the papers too?”
“Here’s something else you won’t read in the local papers. We’re here because others died.”
“Who died?”
“The Haitians. They’re the Jews of the Dominican Republic. They cross the border to find work, just like us. But they’re not white, and the Dominicans don’t like them. A few years before we got here, they were slaughtered by the thousands. Men, women, children even.”
Karl knew about the Haitians, had watched them mainly from the road as they toiled away in the sugar cane fields. He’d heard rumours about the tensions between the Dominicans and the Haitians, and a few deaths here and there years ago, but nothing specific and nothing that would make it the business of the colonists. Nothing about a massacre.
“Whatever you’re talking about has nothing to do with us.”
“Of course it does! And we know it. How else to explain the need we have to justify ourselves, to show them we’re good people. To show us we’re good people. Don’t you see? We’ve disregarded the dead. We are as guilty at Trujillo. In all the time we’ve known each other, we haven’t said a single thing about our families. Not one word about what we did to escape. It’s probably why you want to spend all your time with the Weinbergs. A second chance?”
“Leave them out of this.”
“Or is it Ilsa that has you so interested?”
Felix was taller, but Karl was stronger; he’d developed a core of muscle that was his reward for hard work. A quick snap of his arm dropped Felix to the ground. It happened so quickly, they both stared at each other in surprise. For all the time Felix spent on the beach, he was as white as snow and seemed to glow against the dark, unpaved street. Karl had wanted to hit Felix for a long time. His friend had always been on edge, but lately he seemed to be worse than usual.
“You wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for me!” Felix’s voice cracked childishly.
Karl, walking away, heard him call out, “She won’t be with you. Not in the way you want her to be.”
That was the moment he decided to move in with the Weinbergs.
13
AARON WOKE UP ON THE COUCH, HIS body overheated beneath the sheets, and peeled away the thin blanket. He kept the temperature in the apartment high for his father, who needed a warmth his own body could no longer supply. It was his father, and not the heat, who woke him up.
“Morning, Dad.” Father, Dad, Daddy, Pops, Papa—the words surfaced on Aaron’s lips like submarines, armed and malignant.
His father wore padded headphones and stared at the TV. Hands on the armrest, wearing a jacket, his prominent brow disdainfully bounced back his son’s greeting along with the inane images emanating from the television screen. Aaron raised an arm off the sheet and wiggled his fingers in greeting but stopped when he recognized his actions were devoid of friendliness.
It was disquieting to see his father in front of a television so early in the morning, and Aaron wondered if there might be something deliberate in his actions, his way of showing just how low he’d sunk since moving into the apartment. In some perfect world, a father would be grateful for his son’s sacrifices, but this wasn’t a perfect world, certainly not for his father, so there was no point expecting Karl to behave differently.
He’d had a lawyer draw up power of attorney papers, which his father steadfastly refused to sign. The only option was to declare his father mentally incompetent. He’d taken Karl to the doctor for a diagnosis, a first step in finding out what was wrong with him and what might be done about it, but also for building up a medical file Aaron could use to gain legal control over his father’s affairs. Regrettably, the dividing line between normal incompetence and mental incapacity was narrow and not easily defined. The lawyer explained it this way: “A man with three children can leave all his money to an animal shelter. You might not agree with his decision, but the law isn’t looking for what is reasonable or just. The state only becomes involved when a citizen is a threat to others or themselves.”
The lawyer had asked various questions pertaining to Aaron’s relationship with his father. How often had he seen him over the years? Did they get together for special occasions or religious services?
“Not really” was Aaron’s answer.
“Would it be fair to say that you are estranged from your father?”
“In what way do you mean ‘estranged’?” Aaron asked, because there seemed to be something legal and therefore precise about the word. He felt he needed to be judicious.
“In the way of not seeing him that often.”
Aaron accepted this might be the case.
“So under the circumstances, your father’s wish not to give you power of attorney might be construed as a mark of clear judgment.”
It was a trap, but a good one, the sort of thing he expected from a competent lawyer.
“We’re spending Thanksgiving together,” Aaron said in his defence.
The lawyer hadn’t seemed all that impressed.
They’d never spent Thanksgiving together before, or he couldn’t remember ever having done so, which amounted to the same thing. It wasn’t a holiday his father had taken seriously.
“What time is it?” Aaron asked his father now.
A weak light filtered through the curtains, indicating it was early morning and probably overcast. Aaron rose from the couch and pulled back the curtains. The sun streaming through the window startled him.
“Jesus,” he said, shielding his eyes.
“We’ve been waiting for you to get up,” Karl said, without pulling off the headset.
“It’s ten past nine,” Petra answered from the kitchen, which meant it wasn’t early at all.
He heard the hot sizzle of bacon hit the frying pan. “Smells good,” said Aaron, even though he’d never adjusted to the smoky stench of fried pig.
For most of Aaron’s working life, he’d been the first to rise. He’d taken pride in pulling back the warm covers, while others were still asleep, planting his feet upon the floorboards as if claiming new land.
A
aron went into the kitchen, leaving his jacketed father bathed in magnanimous light.
“Do you want an omelette or sunny-side?” Petra asked.
“What are you having?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“What did you eat?”
“I had some toast,” she said, losing interest. She’d asked him a question, and he’d responded, as parents often did, with questions of his own.
“I made some coffee,” Petra said.
The sight of her pouring him a cup intimated some future domestic activity that made him wonder how long he’d have her for. He felt time slipping out of his grasp, whole chunks of it disappearing from view. There were times when you needed to take stock of your profits and losses, and Aaron decided that this Thanksgiving was one such time. As with his father—perhaps because of his father—the day had never meant much to Aaron, and the celebration might easily have passed him by if not for his daughter.
“I’m sorry Mom couldn’t come today,” he said.
“No you’re not.”
“Well, your grandmother is coming.”
“I have everyone I need,” said Petra.
Aaron was surprised that such a small, awkward gathering could be enough for her. Surprised and a little saddened, too, that he couldn’t offer her anything more substantial.
After breakfast, he showered and then went into Petra’s room—his room when she wasn’t visiting—and pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt from his part of the closet. She didn’t have a lot of clothes in the room, but he’d given her most of the space. There was a large gap between his garments and hers, as if to underscore their distance in other ways.
When he returned to the kitchen, she and her grandfather were playing cards. While he prepared the turkey, the air was punctuated with repeated shouts of Schnapsen!, until, forty or so minutes after the bird went in the oven, the apartment took on a warm holiday glow.
He might even have a slice of meat today, especially as Petra seemed so enthusiastic to be sharing Thanksgiving with her family. After learning of his lactose intolerance, Aaron had wanted to avoid becoming one of those precious foodies, overly delicate about what went into his stomach, so he began relaxing his food standards, enjoying fish and the occasional piece of chicken. He didn’t think of it as a concession to his daughter’s changed habits but secretly hoped she’d see it that way.
Aaron spread a white tablecloth he’d bought for the occasion and set the table with napkins and cutlery and, for a final festive note, two candles, which he lit moments before his mother arrived.
She’d brought a pumpkin pie. “Hello, Karl. It’s good to see you again,” she said before putting it down.
“It’s always good to see you, Claire. Especially when I know where I am.”
No one had expected humour, and their laughter caught them all by surprise. Aaron suspected his father had mustered his energy all morning long to deliver the line.
“I can see our son is taking good care of you.”
“He’s cooking a turkey” was all Karl said.
“It smells delicious,” she said, this time to Aaron.
His mother smiled, and he spotted the missing tooth. Because it was located toward the back, the gap was noticeable only when she showed signs of happiness.
“Would you like something to drink?” The question came from Petra. “White?” she asked. “We have red wine too, and whisky or vodka, if you want something stronger.”
Aaron did not appreciate her ability to grade alcohol content. She must be drinking now, had probably even gotten drunk a few times. He thought about the boy in the mall and hoped she wasn’t doing drugs. They were all doing drugs, weren’t they?
His mother accepted a glass of white wine. Aaron accepted the vodka. His father took a shot of whisky, and Petra drank a glass of Diet Coke he feared might be laced with something stronger. He’d never seen signs of impairment, which was a good thing, unless it merely indicated she was clever enough to hold her liquor when around adults. It was all a dim perception, his daughter’s life conducted on the far margins of what Aaron could see or hear or touch.
It was like that with his parents as well. Even when they were right in front of him, when he could hear and see and touch them, they might as well live a thousand miles away. His mother, wearing what she would consider her second-best outfit, remained standing with her glass of wine, as if it were intermission at a play she was attending, while his father sat like a second-hand piece of furniture.
Aaron took a sip of his vodka and tonic and coughed. Petra had poured half the bottle into his glass.
“You look freaked out,” she whispered.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“No, you’re not.”
“I hope everyone’s hungry,” Aaron said to the room.
No one replied. His mother pointed out again how well he was taking care of his father.
“How’s the house?” Karl asked her.
“As it was when you last saw it.”
“Good.”
Aaron escaped to the kitchen. He took the turkey out of the oven and let it settle, feeling as if he needed to do the same. Diluting his drink, Aaron took another sip, a large one to cancel out the effects of the dilution, and stood beside the turkey as if to appraise its death.
“Let’s eat,” Aaron said finally.
While he brought out the food, Petra rounded up his mother and father and placed them not at the head of the table but at the sides, as if to enshrine them as guests.
“Well, this is a feast.” His mother smiled again, and again Aaron saw the gap between her teeth.
He felt sorry for her and then, quickly, selfishly, Aaron felt sorry for himself. His mother had failed to maintain a posture of hope and had long ago given up on any new relationship. Aaron knew how difficult it was to find another person to share a life. Did he really want to live with someone else? If he did, how would he find someone? Maybe he should go on a dating website or sign up with a matchmaker agency.
He was ashamed to admit that during his marriage, he’d spent almost every holiday with Isobel’s family, always happy to sit back and relax and let another family do the work. While they’d been at the table, drinking and eating, his mother, he supposed, had sat alone. He couldn’t blame that one on Karl.
It was his daughter, he acknowledged, who had brought them all together today. With Petra here, he had felt he could invite his mother. It would have been awkward without her, too intimate with just himself and Karl.
As a child, Petra’s favourite toy had been an elephant she’d named Sweetgum. On Sweetgum’s birthday, she threw him a party. She’d been selective with the guest list, attuned as she was to the inner and outer circle of doll friends and the intricate relationships among them. She’d sat there with Sweetgum at her small plastic table, feeding him imaginary cake, with only two other doll guests in attendance. “He doesn’t have many friends,” she said. “No one likes him.”
Except Petra. She liked him. It was her decision to befriend and isolate. But when Aaron had a harder look at Sweetgum, whom he’d taken to be just another stuffed animal with the customary expression of dumb happiness on its face, he saw the problem. Sweetgum’s eyes didn’t sparkle with affection but were opaque and inward-looking, and his trunk was raised not in cheerful greeting but lowered like a shield. Sweetgum looked old and withdrawn and exhibited few of the attributes associated with cuddly toys. He looked, in fact, a little like Aaron’s father.
“Do you want to say something before we eat?” he asked Petra. Because this ceremony was unfamiliar to him, he’d decided to defer to his daughter.
Taking her role seriously, she said, “Here’s to family.” Petra raised what he saw was a glass of wine, but that was okay; it was her toast, her assemblage. She had every right to celebrate.
“To family,” they cheered back.
“To everyone else who couldn’t be here.”
“To all the family,” said Aaron, beca
use it was important to acknowledge that he and his ex-wife had once been family and for Petra would always be family.
Petra looked at Karl, who’d been the first to raise a glass to his lips, but his eyes were focused on the candles Aaron had lit, the flickering light softening the steely grey of his eyes.
“We thank God for what we are about to receive,” said Petra, which really was taking things a bit too far.
His father, who’d never uttered a religious sentiment in his life, answered with “L’chaim.”
It might have been the tryptophan from the small amount of turkey meat Aaron had eaten or the alcohol, but he felt a pleasant fatigue as his mother brought out the pumpkin pie and sliced it at the table. They talked a bit more, in the stilted language of a fractured family until, placing the rest of the pie in the fridge, his mother decided it was time to go home.
“I’m driving,” Petra said, after they’d walked out of the apartment, and he’d slid a key into the car door lock.
“Sorry, old habit,” he said.
Petra drove, her grandmother beside her up front, Aaron in the back seat. They’d left Karl behind, all of them claiming he looked tired, when in fact, no one had wished to test today’s pleasantries within the limited space of a motor vehicle.
Karl could get out of the apartment, if he so wanted, but the real problem, thought Aaron, was that he’d still be there when they returned.
They passed a church close to his mother’s house, and it was Petra, driving with a practised confidence, who pointed it out. His mother played the trombone, an instrument Aaron had always regarded as mildly eccentric. She’d joined a seniors band a few years before he left for university, and the members still got together to practise everything from Schubert to Abraham Goodman in the church basement. Occasionally, they were brought upstairs to perform for community events. They also played in parks, where people who came to listen brought striped lounge chairs of the sort you found in England.
Those older folks were all dying off, and new members were hard to find, or so his mother was telling Petra. The church sat there squat and solid but neglected, which was not unlike his mother’s condition.
