I loved that owl. Mom loved that owl. Dad loved it more than anyone.
The owl was the beginning of the dream. It was the night when we all sat around the dinner table and talked about how good I was at art.
First grade. That was the beginning of the dream.
Maybe before Lichtenstein painted Sleeping Girl he made an owl that was superior to his classmates’ owls. Maybe it was made out of dots. Maybe in that owl he kept his muse—the beginning of his dream. Maybe before the soap lady got buried in alkaline she had her own dreams, but now she’s just screaming forever over on 22nd Street encased and on display like art.
This isn’t like the headpiece. The headpiece wasn’t the beginning of anything. The headpiece mattered but it was the end. The owl was the beginning. And now that it’s gone, I want to draw a picture of it so I can remember it. All the ruined things in my life, I want to draw. It’s like Carmen’s tornadoes. I suddenly understand her more than I ever have before. I get this feeling bigger than just anger—I think it’s rage. I think after so many years numb and quiet and smiling and faking, I am finally feeling something uncontrollable.
Let him hit me. The police are on the way. Let him smash me on the tiles in front of the woodstove. Let him just be a rat.
I push past Mom and walk into the house. Dad is standing by the shelf with all of our DVDs on it.
“You’re going to end up in jail, Dad.”
“I’m already in jail.”
“Okay.”
“Put that umbrella down!” he says. “It’s bad luck.”
“You think?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I just know that you’re acting like a crazy person.”
“I’m not the one calling the cops.”
“Can you see yourself?” I ask. “Can you see what you just did? Look around, Dad. You have problems. Okay?”
“At least I have a high school diploma.”
I shake my head. If this is what living with Dad was like for the last twenty-some years for Mom, I don’t know how she did it. “Touché, Dad.”
He stops looking at the movies and walks toward me. Fast.
I brace myself for whatever he’s about to do but he stops short. He puts his hands in the air. Laughs. “Didn’t work. You’re just a kid. You can’t make me hit you. Bring your mother in here. She’s the one who did this. She’s the one who wrecked all your stuff.”
He reaches over and grabs my umbrella. He twists my wrist to get me to let go. He turns it inside out, rips the fabric from the metal spokes and bends the handle over his knee until it breaks.
I realize now that all my older Sarahs must have a different umbrella from this one. I could never tell the difference. I guess it doesn’t really matter what kind of umbrella you have—as long as it keeps the bullshit off you.
I hear talking outside.
I leave Dad in the living room breaking my umbrella and go to the door. Two police officers are there asking Mom about what’s going on.
I say, “He’s lost it.”
Bruce says, “Everything will be fine. Trust me. I do this all the time at work.”
The cops go inside. I am now without my umbrella. And my owl. And my dream. And my headpiece. And soon, my dad.
“I’m calling off tonight,” Mom says. “I think this qualifies as a family emergency.”
MEXICO—Day Seven: The Windmill