Beyond Nostalgia (9 page)

As far as my father was concerned, I can't say that I totally blamed him for everything that went wrong in our family. It was my mother’s far-out behavior that drove him out of our apartment every night. He'd volunteer for every church function he possibly could, just to get away. Six, seven nights a week he'd go down to Saint Leo's to help at bingo, say Novenas, do the stations of the cross, or pitch in at bazaars and Las Vegas nights. He'd help out at Sunday masses too, either by ushering or lecturing, and was a devout member of the Holy Name Society. Only four years after converting to Catholicism, he was named 'man of the year' in our parish. 

Too bad he couldn't have spent more time at home instead. Sure, I know it could have been worse. He could have gone out and got drunk all the time like most of my friend's fathers did. He could have chased women too. Maybe he did. I don't know. One lady from the church used to call our place all the time, making sure dad would be going to this meeting or that one. But, then again, it was possible that nothing went on between them. Either way, it wouldn't have changed things at home. 

I don’t know maybe he was a bigger man than I realize, just for coming home every night, for bringing home his paycheck each Friday, or for making all those TV dinners, because Ma would not cook. You see, she was terrified she might get germs on our food that would, in her mind, ultimately kill us all. Sure, Dad could have easily given up, just deserted us, but he didn't. Despite all his shortcomings, he hung in.

Still, life in apartment 1B was a real trip. With Dad's trigger temper and Ma's irrational behavior, even on the occasions when things seemed almost mellow, you had to be real careful. At the drop of a hat the ambience could change. The slightest irritation could get my old man going. Sometimes he’d go from almost docile to ballistic in a nanosecond. It was like we were constantly walking on blasting-cap eggshells instead of cheap linoleum and that remnant carpet. 

A perfect example of Dad’s volatility took place the first time Theresa came to our place. I knew inviting her was risky, that things could, and probably would, turn into a first-class fiasco, but I had hope. I kept after Ma until she finally agreed to make us a Sunday dinner. I wanted to show her off to my parents just like Theresa had wanted to show me off to her mother that 'lovely night' I met her. I thought maybe, if I got lucky, some of the neighbors would see my prize too. 

I told Ma how much Theresa meant to me, pre-pleaded with her to try to act normal. And she did, try that is. For the first time in months, she got out of that stained robe, got dressed, and actually cooked a small London broil. Boy, did she cook it. She cremated it.  So long, and in an oven set so high, it was impossible for anything short of a pit bull’s teeth to penetrate it. This too was part of her illness. The way she saw it any meat that wasn’t totally scorched would definitely kill her family, trichinosis, salmonella, whatever. Lord only knows how many times before Theresa came over that day Ma washed and scrubbed our dishes, and her hands. Nevertheless, despite all the careful preparation, it still wouldn't be enough for her. Knowing Ma like I did, I knew she'd have new unfounded worries to add to her repertoire after we'd eaten. Maybe an extra rosary later on, after Theresa and I left, might save us all.

I remember sitting in the living room with Theresa that day, waiting for Dad to come home from another day of hustling his cab all over Manhattan. Arm-in-arm, we sat on the rickety wooden-legged sofa, while Ma, a nervous wreck from thinking about what her cooking was about to do to us, sat across from us in her chair. I remember the grievous look she shot at me after I got up and opened the shade over the dark room’s only window. Of course, she was sly enough not to let Theresa notice, but I picked up on it. I knew exactly what Ma was thinking:
Are you crazy! Why'd you do that? God knows what germs you just picked up by touching that dusty thing.
I saw her open her mouth to say something about my mindless, surely fatal, gesture but managed to catch herself. 

We went on making small talk the best we could, but still there were uncomfortable breaks in the conversation. Eventually I got up and turned on the television, hoping a little noise might fill the holes in our forced, hollow conversation. Then as I started fiddling with the rabbit ears, the door opened and in came Dad. That’s when Ma stopped holding back. That's when it really hit the fan! 

Ma refused to believe that this man walking into our living room was Dad. Theresa or no Theresa, she totally lost it. It happened that quickly! She insisted on inspecting the back of my father's neck with her germ-scrubbed hands, appendages all red, raw and shriveled from hundreds of daily scalding washings. She needed proof, demanded to see the scar on his neck, the one he'd gotten years before when he'd had a carbuncle lanced. She truly believed my father was an imposter, somebody in disguise, some mafia capo who'd undergone a series of painful operations just to trick her.   

Though I'd forewarned Theresa to expect anything, she couldn't believe what was happening. 

I tried to lighten the outrageous predicament. Feeling like an asshole, acting like everything was going just peachy, I said, "Dad, I want you to meet Theresa."

"Hi honey," he managed, in a fatherly tone unfamiliar to this son's ears. "Nice to meet you."    

"It's very nice to meet you, Mister Cassidy."

Then Mom butted in again, as if Theresa wasn't even there, "This isn't your father, Dean. Who the hell ARE YOU? You’re not Frank."

My heart back-flipped one time, then buried itself deep inside my gut. 

Theresa looked at me. 

"He is so," I said. "It's Dad, Ma."

"No-he is-not," she said in that characteristic, all-knowing tone of hers. Then she rose to her feet. "Come here, YOU." she ordered this imposter, this murderer, this mobster.

Standing there, about to pop an artery, Dad said "Felicia, don't start this shit now, OKKK? I'm warnin' ya."

"I want a better look at your neck, BUDDY. Come here in the light."

That's when my old man really lost it.

"Shit, man … (When he started a phrase with that you knew the rest was going to be profound, it was time to get out of his way) … I told you not to start in, now." He would have stormed out of there right then, empty stomach and all, hauled ass up to Saint Leo's, if it wasn't for Theresa being there, shifting and squirming next to me on the sofa. 

When my sweetheart's grip tightened on my shoulder, I glanced at her face. I saw apprehension, fear, embarrassment, shock, an entire gamut of miserable emotions, and I became enraged. The bad blood I'd inherited was boiling in my veins now. Realizing that we'd reached the point in this scene where it was too late to turn this ugliness around I said, "Welcome to the Cassidy's happy fucking household, Theresa."

"Oh my God, DEAN, don't talk like that," Ma pleaded. And, hoping she could intercept my words on their heavenly flight, she followed up with a lightning-quick sign of the cross. 

"Come inside, Goddamit!" Dad said to Ma, relenting to her sick hunch now. 

She'd worn him down. That was her way. My mother could wear down anyone. She probably figured she could wear down Jesus Christ with her prayers, and I wouldn't be surprised if she was making progress. Anyway, she followed Dad into the bedroom, her eyes not budging from the back of this phony's neck. 

Alone at last, I asked Theresa if she wanted to split. "We could just run out the door, not have to deal with this shit anymore."

"I'd love to Dean. But we can't."

For two or three minutes, we sat in silence, listening to the indiscernible angry whispers in the next room. Then I told Theresa that with Dad's short fuse it defied all logic that he'd been able to hold back like he had, and that he actually submitted to Ma's sick demand, even with a guest in the house, had to be the world's eighth wonder. 

Eventually Mom finished her probe and, reluctantly, told us to come on in and eat. 

Nobody spoke at the table. It was a typical, atypical breaking of bread at the Cassidy place. Theresa and I ate little, and we ate quickly. I saw the fear grow in Ma's eyes with each bite we took. When Theresa and I both passed on desert, a packaged frozen pie, she was visibly relieved. Again I knew exactly what she was thinking. Anybody could have poisoned that damn thing, a disgruntled worker, some delivery clown, a hit man! Yeah, that’s it, a hit man must have infiltrated the plant where they bake the damn things. The lengths those sneaky bastards will through to get you!

I wasn’t about to hang around for an after dinner smoke. I stood to leave and Theresa followed suit. I almost popped a gut when she thanked both my role models for having her then told Ma that the food had been very good. 

A minute later, when we stepped out of the apartment into the hallway, I yanked the door closed, and instantaneously all hell broke loose inside. The slam of the door had the same effect as a starter's gun as Saint Leo's 'Man of the Year' began screaming and cursing his way out of the state of grace. Talk about disgusting words! My dad knew them all. And being a creative sort of guy, he made up some pretty darn good original ones too. His booming profanities, both the clichéd and the copyrighted, thundered throughout the first floor hallway and probably could be heard all the way up on the fourth. 

I swore I saw the foot thick plaster walls undulating as Theresa and I hustled, speechlessly, she wide-eyed, down the three hallway steps. Man, were we relieved to be the hell out of there. 

But then, just when I thought the worst was over, I freaked.I leaned on the building's behemoth entry door and saw through the glass a bunch of our neighbors, most of them parked on lawn chairs, right outside our kitchen window. As my luck would have it, the spring evening was flawless, clear and balmy, and for the first time that year half the damned building's tenants were camped out there.

Old Mrs. Frankle, the self-perceived matriarch of our building, sat stoically on her webbed chair watching life pass by on Sanford Avenue just as she'd done for the past forty-six summers. The De Fillipos from 4D were there too, along with Donny Sculley’s mother and nosey old Mrs. Jacoby. Mrs. Strunk was the only one standing. Of course her husband, Mister Strunk, wasn't there. Surely by now he'd be struggling to keep his balance atop a barstool at Paddy Q's, one of the old man's bars down on Bowne Street.        

With Theresa in tow I laid a group hello on all the busybodies. Then I had another stroke of bad luck. Before they could return my greeting, Dad's booming, hoarse profanities erupted onto the avenue. For some reason they had moved their shouting match into the kitchen. My father was yelling so loud you could hear the panes vibrating on the kitchen window just six feet behind the crowd. Old lady De Fellipo was so shocked she nearly flipped her lawn chair. The profanities coming out of Dad's big mouth were so loud they momentarily drowned out all the other city noises, kids yelling and carrying on, the cooing of soot-gray pigeons up on the third floor fire escape, all the traffic racing by, even the music blaring from the Mister Softee truck across the street by the schoolyard where a swarm of little kids pushed and shoved in line. From where we were, none of this racquet, nor all of it, came even close to competing with Dad's nicotine-stained lungs.   

Embarrassed as all hell, hyper-humiliated once again, I dropped my jaw, turned my head the other way and rushed Theresa past the neighbors, not bothering to introduce her. My Father's disgusting words chased us down the sidewalk, "YOU SLUT, WHAT’D YOU FUCKING START THAT FOR? YOU CRAZY-ASSED PIECE A SH … " 

Head down like a halfback, dragging Theresa in my wake, I picked up yardage fast. We skedaddled as quickly as my Converse hightops could lead us, short of breaking into an all-out run. 

"There he goes, Theresa! Listen to him! Saint Leo’s finest at his best!"

Finally, down near the corner where the sidewalk slopes toward Parson's Boulevard, we were out of earshot. Theresa and I slowed down. A relieved smile now wide across my face I asked my sweetheart, "Well...all things considered, what do you think went smoother, my meeting your mother or your introduction to…to June and Ward Cleaver?"

"I’d say it was close. Maybe we should have a run-off, do it all over again some time." 

We shared a long hearty laugh and, as we continued down the avenue, I leaned over and kissed my new soul-mate on the forehead.