“I’m not sure . . .”
Father Dennis smiled. “Well, if you think you’d like to help out, let me know.”
Michael looked up one more time at those carvings of Jesus’ last moments on earth. “Well, I should go help the kids some more,” he said, walking away.
He didn’t want anyone calling him lazy. That word tore at his spine. Michael winced, remembering the dark days of living in Queens, defending his sanity against the daily verbal battering.
“You’re not even trying to find a full-time job, you lazy jerk!”
Michael sat there quietly in the living room recliner. Silence was his most effective weapon in the Richmond Hill house. His older sister would not get the satisfaction of knowing she got to him. Of course, she couldn’t see his knees rising slightly as his toes curled into the carpet.
“Look at me! When are you going to get a job?” she demanded.
I am working, Michael thought. He had a part-time job writing for a weekly football publication in Port Washington. Since he had no car and it was such a long trip by bus and train, on the weekends he slept overnight on the floor beneath his office desk. That’s not working?
He knew he could have tried to do something noble and become a policeman or fireman or gone back to school to become a teacher. But he really loved sports and was willing to work his way up by doing all sorts of part-time work. For some reason, to his sister Connie this just wasn’t enough.
“Say something!” she screeched.
“Okay,” Michael shouted, boiling over, “how about ‘shut up’?”
“Don’t talk to her that way!” his father bellowed, rushing in from the kitchen.
Michael instinctively stood up and pushed past him as he made for the stairs. Great, now he gets involved.
“Get down here!” his father screamed. “Get down here, you moron!”
Michael didn’t obey him; instead, he slammed his bedroom door. He listened to his father run up the two flights of stairs, wondering whether the old man was going to come through his door and finally confront him. He knew it wouldn’t be much of a match: Jim was fifty-three years old while Michael was only twenty-two and in the best shape of his life. He lifted weights constantly and had little fat on his body. Meanwhile, his father smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and spent his nights drinking scotch.
But he’s still my father, Michael thought, listening to him climb the stairs. Michael’s stomach tightened as he leaned his 180-pound frame against the door.
“Let me in. Let me in!” Jim was trying to barrel through the door.
Michael didn’t answer; instead, he planted his weight more firmly against the wood.
Thump! Thump! Thump! His father was angrily throwing himself against the door. Michael grew afraid that he might physically hurt the guy if he got in. He knew his father had such an overstated view of his own importance that he wouldn’t be expecting Michael to fight back. I’d like to punch him . . . although he’s my father.
Still uncertain, Michael continued to lean against the bedroom door, his hands clenched tightly around the doorknob. He listened for any movement, then cautiously opened the door. His father stood there glaring at him. Michael hesitated, then stepped aside and let his father into the room.
“What are you doing talking that way to your sister?”
“Why are you always defending her?”
“You have to stop mouthing off to your sister. Are you going to stop it?”
Michael didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and flung himself facedown on the bed.
Jim took another step into the room. “Answer me,” he demanded.
In an effort to avoid his father’s menacing stare, Michael focused on the torn curtain covering the only window in the small room.
“Do you hate me?” Jim nearly whispered.
Stunned, Michael grimaced. Are you serious?
“Look at me,” his father said forcefully as he moved closer. “Do you hate me? Are you angry about your mother? Do you hate me for what happened to her? Don’t you think I did my best?”
Michael was silent for a few seconds before turning to him. “I know you did your best,” he finally replied weakly.
Jim walked to the bookshelf, his thumb scrolling across the book spines, with his back to Michael. “Then why do you hate me?”
“I don’t.”
“Then why won’t you be like the rest of us? Why won’t you be part of this family? Why won’t you talk to me about how you’re feeling?”
Michael looked up slowly. “You’re always yelling. You never listen.”
Jim spun back to him quickly, his hands clenched in front of him. “Stop acting like a child. Then I’ll listen.”
Michael shook his head slowly.
“Do you miss your mom?”
“Of course.”
“You’re so silent and quiet. You’re never around us. You never go out with us for dinner. It’s like you’re not even here.”
Michael rolled onto his stomach, his head resting on his pillow. Glancing down, he noticed some crumbs that had fallen from his dinner last night. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to kick the crumbs under it.
He sighed. “I miss Mom. But I love her in my own way. I’m not angry at you. Just because I haven’t cried in front of you doesn’t mean I don’t care. I’m angry at the way she died. Okay?”
“I tried, Michael. I really did.”
“I know, Dad. . . . I guess she’s in a better place now.”
In one explosive motion, Jim whipped a book off the top of Michael’s dresser, hurling it against his closet door. “A better place? What do you mean by that, you dumb—”
“Nothing!” Michael shouted.
His father scowled at him. “Yeah, in a better place. Better than here. Yeah, I know you don’t like it here. You’ve made it very clear.”
Michael shook his head and gave up. “Go away. You’ll never understand. Please just go away.”
“Sure, whatever. You’ll just use this as another excuse. I wonder if you really cared about her at all.” With that, Jim left the room.
Michael leaped up and slammed the door. He crumpled onto the floor, glancing at the contents of his tiny room: the steep piles of sports books around his bed, several empty soda cans littering the desk and bookshelf, even Bruce Springsteen’s The River album, nestled under his dresser. A Springsteen poster draped the back wall while a photo of tennis star Chris Evert hung crookedly over his bed.
He thought about what he’d said. He’d meant heaven, but his dad had totally misunderstood. I didn’t mean it that way, he thought. He wondered why he could never properly communicate with his father. It had always been difficult, but it was bleak now without his mother.
It seemed like only a few minutes later when he heard a soft knock.
“Michael, Father Pete here. Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Father Pete was a friend of the family’s, particularly his father’s. They had grown up together, and Father Pete handled all the family religious functions such as weddings, funerals, and baptisms. He was often over at the house during the holidays.
Michael stood up and opened the door. He cleared some papers from his desk chair and invited the priest to sit.
Father Pete wasted no time. “Michael, your father thinks you need psychological help.”
“My father is the one who needs the psychological help.”
“Why don’t you talk to him?”
“I can’t talk to him because he never listens. He’s always yelling.”