I could hear kids playing basketball a few houses down, yelling and screaming and trying to break the backboard with all the brick shots they were throwing at it. I lit up and watched the smoke leave my mouth and fly up to the sky. By the time Hank came outside with red eyes and started asking questions, I’d smoked three and a half.
I gave Hank a civilian version of all I have explained here, even finally admitting that I wasn’t his real father, and therefore not Ella’s real grandfather either, and that I had kept everything from him in the past because I was trying to protect him from the truth. I didn’t tell him that Brian had raped his mother, or that, consequently, I had killed his biological father. Instead, I went with the widely believed story that Brian had simply overdosed on drugs, and told Hank that I’d stepped up to the plate because he needed a father.
That was when he asked me about the title of the painting, which was apparently written on the back of the frame:
The Reason You’re Alive
I confirmed it was the original title. I couldn’t think up a good lie to cover for Jessica, so I just endured the awkward silence as Hank puzzled out the meaning.
Finally, Hank asked if his mother was going to abort him. Had I had talked her out of that plan?
For various reasons, abortions weren’t exactly easy to get back then, I told him.
Then finally Hank figured it out on his own. He looked me in the eye and—with a wounded expression that seemed to conjure little vulnerable elementary-school Hank—he said, “She was going to kill herself with me inside her.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer it. Instead, I lit up two cigarettes, and we smoked in silence.
Halfway through the smoke, Hank said, “Mom was an even better painter than you made her out to be.” Then he started up with his art-world bullshit talk, even asking if the Fire Bears had hung Jessica’s painting over the fireplace—apparently that was a big no-no, and meant that Hank would have to get our painting professionally cleaned. I understood he was talking about all of this shit so he didn’t have to talk about the harder stuff. I let it slide. Civilians exhale bullshit the way veterans exhale air. And I had learned that long ago.
Femke stuck her head out and said that dinner was ready, so I told Hank I should leave, but he said he wanted me to stay, and so did the rest of his family. I was doubtful about that, but then Hank asked Femke if she wanted me to stay for dinner, which is when she came outside and kissed me on the cheek. I thought for sure she was playing Judas until she said, “You did a good thing today and I won’t forget it.”
That was the nicest sentence I ever heard come out of the Dutch woman’s mouth, and it made me want to forget about her fucking a weatherman, even though I never could.
I had to laugh when Femke served me nothing but an entire plate of kale, sautéed radishes, and beets, just like you knew she would. And there wasn’t even salad dressing, just half a lemon squeezed over my plate, though at least I was offered a pinch of sea salt that the rest of my family could not have, because it wasn’t heart-healthy.
And I thought right then and there that white privilege did not cover food these days. The Indians and blacks and genetically Vietnamese people I had broken bread with ate so much better than my family. But I decided to keep my mouth shut and listen to Ella go on and on about the play her school was performing. Somewhere in there Femke asked if I would like a ticket, which meant she was trying hard to win me over. I knew my son didn’t have the balls to kick the Dutch out forever. I realized that I had better get political and so I said I would like a ticket, which made Femke smile.
While Femke was tucking in Ella, no doubt combing her hair like I did in Femke’s absence, Hank sat down on the sofa next to me and said he would always consider me his father, regardless of the fact that we weren’t blood. I just nodded, thinking Hank was using too many words again, making everything awkward, but I appreciated the gesture.
We were admiring Jessica’s painting. I could see what he meant about it being hung over a fireplace—in the light, you could see the smoke damage—but you couldn’t really blame the Indians for that. Being that they used to live in tepees with a fire in the middle, you could easily see how they would make that mistake.
Sitting there on the couch with Hank, I had a strange thought, and for some reason I let it escape my mouth. I told Hank that I had chosen him when he had no one else in the world because he was a baby, and here he was choosing me, now that the US government had sliced out part of my brain after spraying me with Agent Orange.
“So in the end,” Hank said, getting cocky, “you were saved by a liberal who voted for Obama. Is that what you’re saying?”
It was just like my son to bring everything back to his dumb politics, but I liked the fact that he was busting my balls a little. Maybe there was hope for him after all.
18.
I had a big fight with Sue. She didn’t want me to wear camouflage to her wedding but a monkey suit tuxedo instead. I told her I would wear my camouflage jacket and cargo pants and bucket hat just like every other day of the year, because tuxedos were for men weaker than me. Sue actually cried when I told her this, which caught me off guard. I had never seen her get so emotional before.
Big T entered the debate to work on a compromise. If it were up to him, he said, he would surely let me wear whatever the fuck I wanted, but weddings were for women, which is true, and so he wanted to give his woman whatever she wanted on her special day.
Big T had been spending more time with Hank, and had even gotten him to attend some springtime Phillies games with us, which I appreciated. I would always love Hank more than Teddy, but when it came to watching sports, truth be known, I enjoyed hanging out with Big T much more than I enjoyed hanging out with Hank.
Finally, I agreed to go to the tuxedo shop and see the monkey suit Big T had picked out for me. When the salesperson hung up my tuxedo on the display rack, I immediately noticed that while the pants and jacket were black, the tie and vest were camouflage. I looked at Big T, and he said, “I got you,” so I tried on the tux and acquiesced, which made Sue cry again.
She was goddamn confusing during the buildup to her wedding, changing her mind about everything a million times. Big T kept calling her Bridezilla, but only when she wasn’t around. Me, personally, I just couldn’t wait for the wedding to be over so that Sue would start acting normal again and we could all go on with our lives.
Finally the day came, and I walked Sue down the aisle. She was beautiful, in a white dress with a long train behind her and Ella walking in front of us, holding flowers, along with one of Big T’s nieces.