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| Daniel on wood in acrylics (based on Michelangelo) by R. Kilroy |
Meeting Dad and Other Calamities
by Richard Kilroy
For years my father was off limits. He was damaged, presumably by my mother who,
while pregnant with me, picked up and left Dad in the middle of the night, their five
children in tow. Besides, he didn’t need an unseen son from another lifetime bothering
him. Dad was troubled enough I was told. “You don’t want that Jimmy in your life.” Mom
would warn if I even hinted at contacting him. But I missed him no matter that we had
never met. And it took me until I was in my mid-twenties to even consider trying to reach
him. I suppose I was troubled enough too by that age and thought, well, at least he and I
have one thing in common.
I wrote to my father – a very kind and hesitant letter saying that I know what it must be
like to know of a son but not be ready to acknowledge him. How I knew the feelings of this
man – or rather, how I thought I knew of these feelings falls in to the realm of what I call
my superself, the gift of knowing what others are feeling at all times and knowing exactly
how to handle every situation because of this rare yet burdensome gift.
I wrote on for a few paragraphs – careful not to frighten Dad with expectation of result.
All of it sculpted, manicured, to reach the quietness. The quietness of the damaged man.
Inside this quietness I will reach him. I won’t use too many verbs. Verbs can be
confrontational. I’ll use whispered words and they will settle – snowflakes to a drift –
gently creating a larger slope. He won’t be offended or frightened because I will acclimate
him– he will see that my superself has found his silent self and I am offering him a chance
to step out of his cellar for just a moment. I can see this without even knowing him
because I can find thoughts inside the mind of the sufferer. I have these super powers and
have cleverly hidden them from the world so as not to be exploited by the government or
to be tested on news programs from lesser channels.
The letter will be brilliant and he will finally, finally respond. I’ll hear his words – know
the style of his handwriting (or would he type his reply?). We will have made contact.
Alien craft – fathership to send greetings to the earthson. I also enclosed a small color
copy of one of my paintings – the prophet Daniel. My father has never seen any of my
artwork and I figure this will certainly prompt a response. A prophet sent to do a
forgotten son’s bidding.
Weeks and months passed and he never replied. Too much expectation on him. I overplayed
my hand, my downfall. My superself always forgets my superweakness: I try too
hard. Instead of being patient and subtle, I create a flourish. Why paint landscapes when
you can paint Michelangelo?? Light the candle with a blow-torch. He won’t want to see me
now. He’ll believe I’m like Mom’s side of the family, boisterous, piercing. I’ll laugh an openmouthed
laugh and slam my hand on his knee when doing it. I’ll be too much. As he now
must see it, I’m probably hoping to be, God help me, an entertainer – that would really
send him fleeing.
But something happened months later. I get a call from someone I've never spoken to in
my life, Aunt Pat. She says, “Jimmy wants to meet you.” Kaboom.
I hear almost nothing after those words – my head is inside the liberty bell and someone
just clanged it. Aunt Pat is distant like a voice yelling in a storm.
“Are you still there?” I hear. But I’m not the one saying it, she is.
“I’m here. Just a little …”
“I know. I’m as surprised as you are.”
“When?”
“Let’s make it on the weekend of Christmas– that way your cousins will be there too. You
can meet all of us at one time” she says.
Good idea I think. Dad won’t be the focus; there will be other family for me to meet.
Decorations. Egg nog. It won’t be so freakish and Jerry Springer-like. I won’t cry when
Dad emerges from the side curtain, stage right – passing bodyguards with their hands
clasped behind their backs. It will be subtle and classy. Like polished rose cedar. The
meeting of family in the living room of Aunt Pat’s at Christmas. I like this a lot.
I was began wondering what it would all be like. What will it sound like? Will there be a
stereo playing or will Aunt Pat hire a chamber group? Maybe they’ll play Vivaldi when I
finally meet my father – ‘The Four Seasons” – clichéd?, yes – but damned effective.
I felt buoyant. 28 years of wondering what he would look like – sound like. Does he have a
deep voice? Would he be proud of me? Will he think I look like a Kilroy or fret that I look
too much like Mom’s side? Does he wear cologne? If so, does he wear too much of the
wrong cologne like my math teacher in fifth grade – the one who always smelled like
burnt rubber bands? Does he dress well or will he be one of those men who wear his pants
up above his navel like Fred Mertz? Oh! The questions I have! Will he bother to shave
when he meets me? Will I shake his hand or do we embrace? The first moment has to be
perfect! We waited 28 years for this and I’m not going to have it fall flat with a fumbled
hug. Vivaldi for certain, I can bring a CD.
Maybe our meeting will turn his life around – and mine too. We’ll both find that missing
staircase in the house. The upstairs is ours. I’ll meet my father and will suddenly know
how to throw a baseball in the correct manner, knuckles slightly bent I'm guessing. Father
will meet me and soon after - seek employment with Lockheed, his ambitions fulfilled
after knowing he has a son with superself powers and the ability to paint prophets.
I take a walk after the phone call to ease the crowding in my head. It’s getting dark early
now – it’s not even five and Christmas lights wink in the windows of homes along my way.
I look for the perfectly timed image of a young father lifting his little boy onto his
shoulders in one of the dining room windows. That would be really effective right now. It
doesn't happen. It occurs to me while passing under a canopy of knotty branches: Do I
want this? Really want this? What if my imagination filled in a better image of Dad than
the reality? Will I be so disappointed that I may spiral? I’ve never tested my ability to
deal with actually knowing my father – I’ve only known the unknown.
And it got worse: what if I lose my sadness that I’ve come to cherish? Why cherish
sadness? My God, I am like Mom's side, so dramatic. Who wants to hold on to their
suffering? It makes for a good story, that's why - just like me never having any art
lessons, such a story. How amazing! How sad! Poor Richard! He paints and the poor
wretch never had one lesson! Isn’t that awful! He was so destitute that he made paints
from mud! Mud I tell you! He painted on the paper bags he found in the laundry mat
dumpster. Just look at him go! A ghetto Goya!
Tell someone: 'I never met my father' -- and you get a hug. If not physically – you get one
with their softened eyes. Tell them – well, I did meet him once … and then what? Who
cares to hear the rest of that tale? But what about those first 28 years? I still suffered
without a father, right? Doesn’t that still matter? No. You ruin the story if you meet him.
You destroy the mythology. Tell your father, ‘thanks Dad but I pass.’ That’ll show him. It’s
my great sad story and he’s not about to fuck it up.
I fly to Portland on an airplane with an image of some Eskimo wincing on the tail wing. I
hate flying.
When I arrive at PDX Uncle Jim stands waiting - no one else in the entire building it
seems. This is the quietest airport I’ve ever been to. It feels like zombies have taken over
the city and no one bothered to tell me. Maybe it’s a trap. I notice that Uncle Jim looks
like that actor – the one in ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’. Jason Robards Jr. He has
kind, bright blue eyes and I’m feeling a bit better - not because he’s one of the family I’ve
never known but because he looks like an actor from I film I once liked.
The drive to Aunt Pat’s home is quiet. I’m still nervous. Worried I wore the wrong shirt.
I’m wearing a button up, it’s blue. I’m Dad's boy so I wore blue. That’s pushy I now
thought. Why am I hitting my father with symbolism when I should just relax? Maybe I
can change shirts in the bathroom before Dad arrives. He’s due for dinner at 8. It’s only a
little after six and I’ll have time to change shirts.
Before Dad arrives … I can’t believe I formed that sentence …
Uncle Jim knows the weight of this night but talks about gardening or his church or
something. Maybe he talked about a church garden. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m meeting
my father in less than two hours. Wholly Good God.
I just now remember that my sister Terri was with me. How did I forget that? – oh yes,
she was on the flight with me and she sits in the front seat of Jim’s car. I’m in the
backseat. She was so quiet and respectful that I’m only now remembering her being there.
Terri fills in the silences that I can not. I’m too distracted, too inside my head.
We pull up in the drive of an upper middle class house. Neatly shingled with white
shutters. Flagstone walk to the door. They live directly across the river from Mt. St.
Helens. I try not to find the symbolism in that as I take to the walk.
When we enter the Patton’s home there are cousins and other familyish people there. A lit
Christmas tree at a bay window. I don’t know anyone. I’ve never met my father’s side of
the family until this night. I don’t even know my Grandmother. Her name is Rose. She’s
beaming. A little woman, no taller than a garden statue – and she’s dressed in pink pants
and a wool sweater. She smiles among other smiling family. A rose in a rose garden. She
has a pumpkin broach. She’s hugging me. I don’t know what to do. I hug back trying not to
crush her small bones.
I’m stared at like a specimen, not unfriendly stares at all. They won’t dissect me – they
just want to know what world I rocketed in from and do I like their customs? They are
kind to me. The whole of them know this meeting was in the works since my birth. They
know I’ve never said one word to my father. They know how odd my father is. (but he
really only became odd after my mother left him I’m told)
I’m offered a drink. I thought it was alcoholic but it turns out to be Canada Dry. I’m
wishing it was hard liquor. Southern Comfort would do nicely. Of course it’s soda – Uncle
Jim is a pastor! Pat’s a pastor’s wife! My Grandmother has a pumpkin broach – these
people don’t drink, that’s your mother’s side. Remember your setting Richard.
Soda is fine, I don’t wish to dull my senses anyway. I want to be clear eyed and present for
every minute of this night. Tonight I’m a celebrity. They have no idea what I’d look like.
Mom was never the kind to send relatives our school photos.
Again Terri saves me. She fills in the blank stares – answers the questions – speaks for me
even but I don’t care. I need this help tonight. I need to be relieved of one of my faculties. I
have to channel my energy, conserve it, focus it on being the normal son. The best son in
the entire world.
I can do this.
I’m being hit by all sides – information pouring over me about my father, things I never
thought I’d know – things I almost didn’t believe. I’m told that my father had the 3rd
highest I.Q. of any student tested during his fifth grade. 3rd highest in the country. I
never heard that before. Mom wasn’t the person to tell me such things. She admitted he
was intelligent but usually to illustrate her point that he was crafty and sneaky. 3rd
highest? That is something. Maybe my father is a genius! Maybe I’m one too! Father and
son geniuses! We could go on tour! The smarty-pants tour! Madonna could open for us.
It’s nearly 8. People are picking at celery and dill dip. Grandmother Rose is still beaming
at me. Everyone is dressed for church. I start to get the feeling this is a rite of some kind.
There should be an altar with candles burning. I’m in the center of this amazing mass.
People I don’t know are asking me how I feel. These people all sort of look like me too
which makes it that much more disconcerting – but I decide that I like this. I can get used
to this attention. Maybe I could fly up to Portland more often and we can all recreate this
amazing night on a yearly basis. But I'll bring hard liquor next time.
The phone rings. Aunt Pat answers. She looks over at me with a stare I can’t decipher.
I’ve known Aunt Pat all of two hours and I don’t know how to read her cues, her
expression. My superself powers utterly fail me.
I feel electricity. I’ve touched one of those tesla globes of lightning – the kind in Dr.
Frankenstein’s laboratory. My hair must be shooting out in all directions. I know it’s him
– it’s Dad. He’s on the other end of that line. He’s going to be late – prolong the agony. He’s
saying things to her with a voice she’s used to - but to me, I haven’t a clue what he must
sound like.
Aunt Pat motions for me to step over to the phone. The room goes quiet. My God, I
thought Mom's side of the family was a dramatic bunch.
Aunt Pat says to me in a voice like a whispered prayer, ‘it’s your father.’
Suddenly I know this has been all wrong. Too public.
I can’t take my very first phone call from my father. I can’t do this in front of 20 strangers
in tasteful sweaters. They're all watching. They know how weird all of this is and I can’t
believe it’s all on display. It feels staged. I feel like an actor. I feel I should be noble and
move slowly so everyone can absorb the impact and remember it always. I hate that I’m
in slow motion. I hate that I wanted Vivaldi.
I’m shaking. I can’t help myself. The receiver weighs 50 pounds. It’s now at my ear.
“hello?” I say in a voice that suggests I just regressed to four years old.
“It’s your father – look, I’m really sorry but I have a stomach cold and just can’t leave the
house. I’ll make it up to you.”
What? What? I think.
Is that my father’s voice? It sounds small and shaky. He sounds four years old. Stomach
cold? Who has a stomach cold? What is that like?
A reply flies out of my mouth: “No problem – Hope you feel better soon. Don’t worry about
it. We’ll try again real soon.”
I forgive him without question. My inner voice defends his stomach cold, his life of
mistakes and phobias without another thought.
The room is staring at me. Eyes widening as they spackle in what must have been told to
me on the other end. They know better than I that I’m being stood up. It’s not sinking in
for me but they know.
Too much information. Too much sensory information. I’m on the phone with my father –
I’m meeting rosy Grandma and her pink pants – aunts, uncles, cousins, Jason Robards Jr.
- volcanoes just across the river and now I’m hearing my father turn me down. It’s all
happening too fast.
I say goodbye to him, hang up and look at Terri. She’s crying. Great timing Terri. I rely on
her to be my pillar and in this moment of true need, she loses it. I see a lot of misty eyes –
a pall is cast over the room. Over this house. This city. The whole city is crying for me
right now. Even the Christmas tree looks forlorn.
I tell the room – no one in particular – his side of the story. I say I understand and I defend
him again. I say it was all too much of a public meeting and he got spooked off. I get it. I
should have known better but I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t planning. His family knows
Jimmy – wouldn’t they know this was all wrong?
A cousin spoke, she had Dorothy Hamill hair and a moss-green wool sweater with a
Charlie Brown zig-zag - ‘oh, this is so sad …’ she said.
We had dinner without him: ham with a brown sugar glaze. I poked at my food, no one was
offended by this. Dessert was pumpkin pie – Grandmother Rose served it on mustard
colored plates with green holly leaves painted on them.
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