Flatscreen (17 page)

“You have four sons,” Mark reminded him.

“The other two I’m not so thankful for,” Dad said, laughed, so everyone would know he was joking.

“He’s joking,” Pam said, concerned.

“I’m joking,” Dad said, insincere.

“I’ll joke you,” Steve said, idiotically.

Doug picked his nose.

“Well, I’m thankful for the fifty bucks I’m about to win on this football game,” Mark said.

“And I’m thankful for the fifty bucks you’re about to lose when the Pats win,” Steve said.

“Boys,” Pam said, like she would say it to the twins.

“Doug and I are thankful for having such wonderful relatives to invite us over for Thanksgiving,” Kathleen said.

“And I’m just thankful for everything,” Judy said. “With all that’s going on in the world these days, in the Middle East, and Iraq.”

Everyone got somber. Or at least, with the exception of Uncle Sal, who was already somber, they pretended to.

“Maybe we should have a moment of silence,” Kathleen said.

We did. Figured Mrs. Sacks was thinking about Eddie Barash, Benjy about Erin, Dad about Pam. Already drunk, imagining the body that lay in wait when the guests had dispersed, twins gone to bed. He’d been such a good husband, backing her up on the thank-yous, not letting Steve be an ass. No one was thinking about the dead and dying in Iraq. And what about Israel—our own people—Tay-Sachs carriers the lot of us: killing, dying?

“Now can we eat?” Mark said.

“Yes,” Pam said, forgetting we were still supposed to be offering thanks.

“Wait,” Sherri interrupted. “I still haven’t said what I’m thankful for.”

I thought: Oh, fuck.

“Well, go ahead, sweetie,” Pam said.

Mrs. S. and I made brief, brow-raised eye contact.

“I’m thankful I have two wonderful parents who love each other so much that they can look past each other’s shortcomings, and make their marriage work even after…”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mark cut her off.

“The sweet potatoes,” I said, got up to go check.

On my way, I said, “Hey, guys,” to the twins.

“Hey, pothead,” Paul said.

“Hey, stoner,” Cole said. “Gotten stoned lately?”

“He’s stoned now.”

“You guys don’t even know what stoned means.”

“You’re a drug addict.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone.”

“Fuck,” I said.

“You said fuck,” they said.

“Shh…”

“Eli said
fuck
,” they screamed. The table turned to look at us.

“Eli!” Pam said.

“Eli’s an expert on fucking,” Sherri said.

“Sher, please,” Mrs. Sacks said.

“Eli, you big dog,” Steve said.

“I’m not an expert,” I said.

“Got that right,” I imagined Mrs. Sacks mumbling.

“Yup,” Sherri said. “He’ll fuck just about anything. Just like you, Dad.”

“Stop saying fuck,” Pam said.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” the twins said.

“You fucked my daughter?” Mark said.

Uncle Sal stared out the window.

“Are you kidding?” Sherri said.

“This is awesome,” Steve said. Doug nodded.

“He fucked your wife, you schmuck,” Sherri said.

“You fucked Eli?” Steve said to Judy.

“I did no such thing,” Judy said.

“She didn’t,” I offered.

“Not her—
Mom
,” Sherri said.

Mrs. Sacks clutched her chest the way Jewish women do when they want you to think they’re having heart attacks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” the twins said.

“Enough!” Pam yelled.

Too late. Mark had walked over to my side of the table.

“You ruined the sanctity of my marriage,” he said, punched me in the face.

Fell backward, taking Sherri along with me, who then knocked over one of the twins. My uncles held Mark back. Twins were still on the ground, wincing in pain or faking it. Sherri on the ground too, sitting, laughing like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Pam crouched above her boys, kissed their boo-boos. Sal sipped water, inspected the chandelier.

“That fucking hurt,” I said.

“There’s more where that came from, you little shit,” Mark said.

Mrs. Sacks was crying. No one made a move to comfort her.

Benjy stood in the corner on his cell, talking to Erin, telling her about his insane family, it wasn’t his fault, nothing was his fault, nurture had ruined his nature. A different kind of brother would have had my back, punched Mark’s mug until it spurted beet-red blood.

“This is insane,” I said, walked away, through the kitchen, out to the yard. Swimming pool tarp covered in leaves like a booby trap. Yard was huge: trees, tree house. Wondered if he’d built the tree house himself, if the twins had handed him tools, worn toy hard hats.

I deserved the black eye.

Dad came outside, looked around at his own property as if he’d never seen it before. Looked at me with the same expression.

“I’m trying not to be angry at you,” he said.

“And I’m trying not to be angry at you.”

Dad shrugged. Not the confrontational type.

“I told Mark Sacks he had to leave.”

“Probably a good idea.”

Pause.

“So you…” He looked back down at the ground.

“What?

“So you had sex with his wife?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I guess I did.”

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“I guess.”

“A bit old for you maybe.”

He almost chuckled. Reminded me of being a kid, when he wanted to punish me but found my act-outs too amusing. Like when I peed on Mom’s satin pumps, semi-on-purpose.

“And married,” I said.

“And married.”

Kicked the dirt, thought about what my character would say if we were in a movie. Tell his father he was so fucking sad. Talk about Mom, the divorce, how these things affected him, insulated him. Plus the drugs, computer screen, hours upon hours of TV that shaped an alternative reality in which he existed. But ready. Ready now to face the real world, with a clear head and empty, open heart. Ready but he needed help. Ready to
decide
to be ready. He wouldn’t use those exact words. Good actor could convey that stuff with a nod, flick of the eyes. Audience gets the gist, sympathizes. Father reaches over, pats his shoulder, hugs, cries, kisses the swelling bruise above his eye. In an indie, Dad might not touch him at all. He reaches his hand, lets it linger above the boy’s shoulder as the boy faces the horizon (in the film it is sunset, summer), lingers with the
intention of consolation, not the ability to provide it.

Dad and I weren’t actors. I did want his hand on my back. More so, wanted to ask about money, could I have some. Didn’t seem like the right moment.

“Well, you really fucked up Thanksgiving,” he said.

“I fuck everything up.”

Dad paused, all calculated, trying to act, shimmer in the spotlight, like moonlight, which was actually the automatic security light. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe I just wanted him to—wanted him to have depth, wanted his physical actions to hint at complex interiority, torn-apart insides, longing for a lost family that, in reality, he must have hardly missed with his better life, better wife, Hallmark-quality spawn.

He said, “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. I mean I know and I don’t, but mostly I don’t.” Looked at the sky like someone was up there, steering.

“Your eye okay?”

“When you disappeared for those six months, where did you go?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, in 1975, when you disappeared.”

“Sal is crazy. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I never went anywhere.”

I shivered. Dad nodded toward the door. We walked inside. Hand didn’t grace my shoulder. Don’t know if it lingered over it, as he stood behind me, holding the door open.

Pam gave me frozen peas to put on my eye. Aside from the Sackses, everyone was still there, though the twins had been fed, pushed aside, enough trouble for one night. Turkey on the table, cold. Sweet potatoes—not bad. Nobody ate much. Wine had been put away.

“Pats are looking good this year,” Steve said.

“By the second half Belichick figures out their defense,” Dad said.

Judy said, “If you guys are gonna talk about football, then we’ll talk about
Desperate Housewives
. Who else watches?”

I watched. I was one of them: desperate. Imagined my neighborhood was like the fictional one—filled with sexy, lonely women looking for a little action, venues for their winter tans.

“I can’t stand that Lynette,” Pam said.

“Eva Longoria’s hot,” Steve said. Doug nodded. Uncle Sal ate slowly. Four years since I’d seen him. Couldn’t remember what he’d been like before, probably because his family never came to Thanksgiving. Do remember Mom saying, “They think they’re better than us.” Didn’t know why: we had a bigger house, nicer cars.

Only been to their house once, age eleven. Dad had taken Benjy and me to the Baseball Hall of Fame. One last bonding experience before the divorce.

On the way home we’d stopped at Uncle Sal’s. House was small, no paved driveway. Adults drank tea instead of coffee. Julie put on the TV. Watched
Sesame Street
even though we were much too old for it, because they didn’t have cable. Next time I saw them was four years later, year following the divorce, when everyone came for Passover at Dad’s new house, and Julie allegedly revealed her sweet pink nip to Benjy. She was older than Benjy, conservative. I think the flashing was inspired by the house—by a foreignness in the architecture—the same foreignness that drew her into the worlds of high finance and eternal silence.

Pam hurried out dessert. Apple pie, my blueberry pie, brownies, ice cream, other stuff. Pies were decent. Dessert
was quick. No one took coffee. It was cold, dark. People wanted to get home. Not a cozy house. Automatic fireplace, but I couldn’t picture it warming anyone as they cracked chestnuts, sipped mulled cider, book in hand, ready to doze on the couch, awake to light dew on the windows, delicate aroma of embers. The house was like an anorexic mother—sexy but dysfunctional, all ribs and angles, no bosom. Meant for warm seasons. Would have made sense in Florida.

“I think we’re gonna get going,” Benjy said.

“Okay,” Pam said. “So nice having you boys.”

“Take care,” I said to Uncle Sal.

He leaned over, kissed my cheek. Minty breath, dry lips.

“If you ever feel like making it to Albany, you’re more than welcome.”

For a moment considered joining Sal in mellow-mourning, a monk’s life, cigarette-free, walks in the woods, growing my own tomatoes.

Dad said, “I’ll walk you guys out.”

Stood in the doorway while Benjy got his coat. Good moment to ask about money. No time for politics. Best shot was to play dumb, ask straight out for cash, not mentioning I only needed it because my last few installments had never arrived.

“Can I have some money?”

“I can’t give you any more money.”

“Why not? I know you can afford it. You’re rich.”

“I’m not rich,” he said, because rich people never admit to being rich.

“You are,” I said.

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“So what then?”

“I won’t support your drug habits anymore.”

“I won’t spend it on drugs.”

“Eli.” He said my name in a way that seemed to explain his entire argument.

“C’mon, Dad, for old time’s sake.”

“You should be nicer to Pam. She really wants you to like her.”

“I know. Look, I won’t spend it on drugs, okay?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I want to buy my girlfriend a birthday present.”

“Mrs. Sacks?”

“Someone else.”

“Who is she?”

“Just this girl. Look, I just need some… I just…”

“Why don’t you just get a job?” he said.

Obvious solution. Maybe it was. Simple economic law: work, get paid.

“Who would hire me?”

Benjy came back with his coat. Dad shook Benjy’s hand, then mine, slipped something into my palm.

Only a twenty.

“Better then nothing,” I said to Benjy. “How much you get?”

“More,” he said. “I deserve it more.”

“I know.”

Road was dark, mostly empty. No lights. All that existed was the car itself, lit orange by the dashboard, clock blinking 12:00, never set, Benjy’s eyes on the road, my eyes on Benjy, watching as he steered with just two fingers, making infinitesimal corrections as the road turned and widened like a living being.