My father loved ordering goods through the mail, which he began in childhood with Sears, Roebuck. He continued this practice during the 1950s and ’60s with his purchases of porn advertised in the classified pages of men’s magazines; in the 1970s with Frederick’s of Hollywood and Lew Magram; then videos in the ’80s and DVDs during the ’90s. In his final years he ordered tens of thousands of vitamins guaranteed to keep him alive longer than medically possible—which apparently worked.
Anyone who has ever purchased goods through the mail understands the daily tension that builds as the hour nears for the mail to arrive. Finally the long-awaited parcel arrives. The true connoisseur—as my father was—doesn’t tear into it immediately, but sets it aside to be savored after the rest of the mail has been opened. Then the package can be examined by weight and size, shaken slightly side to side, head cocked to listen for evidence of the tantalizing contents. Next is a penknife’s precise slit along the edge, allowing only the tip of the blade entry to prevent accidental cutting of the cargo. Last comes the slow withdrawal of a shirt, a book, a packet of gemstones, a tripleX videotape, a pair of slippers, a time-saving gadget, pamphlets of privately printed porn, a solar-powered calculator, a flashlight that never needs batteries, a German porn magazine, a complex hand tool that replaces every item you own, a cup that won’t tip over, a pack of fetish photographs, a lightbulb that will never burn out, French porn, a clock that keeps perfect time, a selection of porn paperbacks, a swatch of cloth that cleans anything but never needs cleaning itself, bondage comic books, a knife that always stays sharp, vintage nude pinups, rechargeable batteries, porn from Italy, a magnifying glass that reacts to individual eyesight, dozens of items guaranteed to be unbreakable or your money back. Countless such gadgets filled every closet and drawer in the house.
The golden bird’s nest with four eggs embarrassed my mother. She’d spray-painted it many years ago and was immediately admonished by Dad for doing so. Mom believed its presence in the hidden compartment was intended as a posthumous reprimand directed at her. Her guilt saddened me. I wanted to protect her from her own emotions.
I told her that, as a kid on the farm, Dad had placed fake eggs in poultry roosts, hoping to induce hens to lay more eggs. This farming custom gave rise to the term “nest egg” as a sum of money earmarked for future use. Maybe Dad intended the nest and four eggs as motivation for his kids to go off and earn their own money. This satisfied my mother, but ultimately I discarded the premise.
My father’s sense of humor was influenced by fraternity parties in the fifties and Johnny Carson in the sixties—clever, naughty, and knowing—aimed at the middle ground, distinctly sophomoric. He liked being the fellow who’d make an inappropriate comment for the sake of a laugh. Dad enjoyed visual pranks such as a rubber snake nestled in a windowsill, toy soldiers in the Christmas crèche, or a fake birthday gift consisting of an empty box. I believe the bird’s nest was intended as a joke, carefully hidden before his health prevented him from climbing the steps. I imagined him chuckling as he stood on a chair, his long arms easily reaching the trapdoor overhead. He tucked the nest in the tiny cubbyhole, enjoying the thought of us finding a genuine golden nest and four eggs. I loved him for the diabolic arranging of a prank he’d never see to fruition. Every time I think of the nest, I grin. Up there, gold for the family.
Chapter Eight
THROUGHOUT THE summer I felt bad for compelling my mother to participate in the steady dismantling of her home, and I sought small ways to make her happy. She read mystery novels at a fierce pace and kept them in stacks on the floor of various rooms. After clearing the living room of my father’s books, I displayed Mom’s collection on the shelves. She admired them daily, saying, “My books. You put my books up.” Her joy moved me, as I understood that the house was at last becoming hers.
During meals I did what I’d always done—entertain Mom with jokes. She was a good audience, a skill developed from decades of living with a man who liked to talk. After I left home, it was hard for me to trust information I received from Mom. Due to the difficulties between my father and me, she always tried to present Dad in the best light—on the phone, in person, and by letter. After he died, she quit.