konban wa
My friend insists that I am physically incapable of writing happy poetry. I disagreed, told her that I
have written some. When she asked for proof, I brought in a poem that I wrote (
missa73e.proboards59.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=lifet&thread=1632) and thought was pretty cheerful.
She said, "This is NOT cheerful! Look at it -- you talk about bruises!"
I replied, "Bruises are
pretty colors! Indigo and lavender-ish... those are pretty!"
She didn't agree, though (or at least that bruises were pretty)... so she brought it to my English teacher as proof.
How embarrassing! LoL.
The teacher said, "Oh, if it's Shoshana's -- in that case, anything without blood and gore is cheerful."
Then, once she read it, she decided, "It's pessimistically optimistic."
But she really liked it.
Still, that was akward, LoL. But I'll find one that ANYONE will think is cheerful, and I'll prove to all of them that I can write cheerful poetry! Or I'll die trying...
Okay, okay, let me get to the letter:
February 9, 2014: Sunday
Dear Brian,
As the years have trickled past, one by one people have vanished from my life, fading from my memory the way a picture fades with age. First, before I could even understand the meaning of “walking out the door,” Dad ditched us. Then it was your turn. Though there may have been a world of a difference between your reasons and his, you were still gone; you still left us. After that, Simon added his name to the ever-growing list. Slowly, slowly, he became less of a member of the family and more a less-than-frequent visitor. And then… well, then he was gone completely. Just like you. With no one left in her once happy family, Mom began to deteriorate. After all, what reason could she possibly have to keep going when everyone in her life had given up? Everyone but me, of course, but I guess I don’t matter all that much in the long run. I’m just one son out of three, two of whom were already lost to her.
The Saturday before my birthday, the phone rang, an unusual occurrence in our eerily quiet apartment (not a
home since you left). If we had Caller I.D, maybe I wouldn’t have picked up at all. Then again, I’ve been pretty desperate for someone—anyone—to talk to; so maybe I would have anyway. Maybe I’d have done it just to spite Mom, who knows?
When I picked up the receiver, a raspy voice echoed in my ear, deep and crackly, the voice of an avid smoker. (After living with Simon like that for a few years, that sort of thing is pretty easy to pick up on.) Even after he introduced himself, I was skeptical.
“My father,” I stated flatly, eyebrows raised, though that he couldn’t see. If he noticed that while he said, ‘It’s Dad,’ I still called him ‘father,’ he chose to ignore it. Smart guy. Instead, he had the nerve to tell me he wanted in on my life. After I watched his back fading out the rickety door, after seeing how he tore apart this family, after never showing up once (not even for either yours or Simon’s funeral), after pretending his family didn’t exist,
now he wanted to know how his “little buddy” was doing?
My gaze hardened but as tempted as I was to tell him to shove off and leave this family alone (what was left of it, anyway), I stayed on just long enough for him to give me his home phone number, almost like a peace offering. Like an olive branch. For the first few years after he’d left, Simon and I did everything we knew to try to find that precious number, hoping that if we could find Dad he’d come home and make everything better again. You remember that, don’t you? Only when you caught us searching through the phone book did we stop—and then only after you told us he wouldn’t come back even if we
did find him. And now, now it was falling into my lap just like that… and I didn’t think I wanted it anymore. I guess it’s true what they say: you have to be careful what you wish for.
I know how much you hated Dad. Every time he was mentioned, you’d scowl and get all quiet, lips going small and tight and white. So for a while his number didn’t even cross my mind. I just left the piece of paper with his number sitting there by the phone. Your loathing for him had been passed down to me, and I had no desire whatsoever to see him. No, sir, not me. I didn’t want to know what that man looked like. He hadn’t wanted us for years; now I was just returning the favor… plus interest.
What I didn’t expect was for Mom to leave her room early Sunday morning and find it there in the living room by the phone. I didn’t expect her to notice my messily scrawled ‘
Dad’ just above the ten digits. I didn’t expect her to pick it up, brow furrowed, and stare at it as if confused. At the time, I’d been in the kitchen working on my homework—about percentages (you’d be proud); so I didn’t see her right away. Though I heard her door open and close softly (everything she does is soft, as if she’s afraid she might break), I guess I just assumed she was going to the bathroom.
When I heard footsteps padding into the room, I looked up from my work. In the threshold Mom leaned against the wall, her hand clutching a crumpled piece of paper—what I later found out was the phone number. Expectantly, I waited, capping my pen.
“You didn’t tell me your father called.” Her voice was carefully casual, mild; but my blood froze anyway. As if she didn’t see my eyes widen, she continued, “What did he want?” I could tell she was trying to conceal the stiffness in her tone.
For the briefest minute, I toyed with the idea of lying. You used to tell me that lying was “bad” (the extent of my vocabulary at the tender age of five), but… well… I’ve learned that you’re not always right about everything. After all, you promised you’d come home, didn’t you?
In the end, though, I couldn’t come up with anything less lame than ‘
he was just calling to say hi.’ (Pathetically enough, that was pretty close to the truth.) So I admitted, “He wants to see me.” Scowling, I picked up my pen again, half hoping Mom would take the hint and leave me alone. The other half was that little part of me that wanted her to hug me tightly, like she used to when I was young, and promise that she wouldn’t let the jerk get within fifty feet of me.
Instead, apparently denser than I thought, she walked over to the table and sat down in the second chair. Since we never have company anyway, Mom got rid of two of our four chairs after you and Simon died. Didn’t want the reminder that, at one point, there was more of this broken family.
“You should go,” she suggested.
Instantly, my head shot up, eyes round with shock. Mom—she
hated the guy! But yet here she sat before me, trying to convince me to meet him? After he completely abandoned us, did she really think that would fly? I protested, “But—but, Mom!” Then, glaring, I snapped, “I don’t want anything to do with
him.” I spat the last word out bitterly, like a curse.
“Still, Ben,” she sighed. Without meeting my incredulous stare, she released the phone number on the table and said, “You might be surprised.” Standing, she turned to go back to her bedroom. Just before she left the kitchen, I heard her mutter under her breath, barely audible, “Boys need their fathers.”
Over the next day or two, Mom continued to try to convince me that it would be to my benefit to take him up on his offer, even though she always used to hate him (good for nothing, or did she forget that part?). Whenever I let myself stop and think about it, I freaked out. I was afraid she was trying to get rid of me, to dump me off on Dad. And what would happen to her if I vanished from her life, huh? Who would take care of her then?
I know what you’d say: that she’s supposed to take care of me and not the other way around, that I need to worry about my own well-being first… But that’s the one thing you never got, I guess. At least, it seemed like you didn’t after you willingly chose the army over us, after you chose death over us. Family always comes first, Brian; I’m sorry you didn’t understand that.
A while back I promised you I’d do well enough in school so that I could get a scholarship to some fancy, stuck-up college. I’ll tell you one thing, though: as much as I’d never intentionally lie to you, I’d drop out of school in a heartbeat if it could somehow help Mom.
But four days ago (two days before my birthday), I finally gave in and dialed that stupid number—to make Mom happy, of course. While listening to the phone ring on the other line, I debated hanging up and forgetting about the whole ordeal. I’d almost worked up the courage to slam down the receiver when a groggy voice picked up. “Unh?” it grunted.
Although I had already run through the possibilities of which turns the conversation might take, suddenly I didn’t know what to say. Hearing the voice of my… my what? What was I supposed to call him? Father? Dad? (Yeah, that one’s not likely.) Backstabber? (Hm, has a nice ring to it; don’t you think?)
So instead I said, “Uh… it’s me,” hoping he cared enough to have remembered the sound of my voice from his last phone call.
Apparently, he did because he said, “Benjamin,” and I heard the smile in that one word. “How… er… how was school today?”
“Fine,” I replied, ending the conversation there abruptly.
For a few minutes we skirted around the whole awkwardness of the issue. Finally, we got to talking about meeting someplace; and when I didn’t immediately bash the idea, he sounded thrilled. The whole time, I looked for ways out of it: when he suggested a day, I said I had plans. When he suggested a place, I told him I had no way to get there. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement that he would
not pick me up from the apartment.
His last suggestion—a café a few blocks away—was also immediately rejected. It was too cold for me to walk, I told him, resenting the fact that he didn’t care enough about my well-being to scrap the idea himself. Picking at the peeling paint that coated the living room wall, I listened with only half an ear, staring at the floor in the middle of the small room.
All of a sudden, I heard Mom clear her throat from the doorway. Nervously, I glanced over at her, instantly noting the knowing expression in her eyes. It seemed she had divined whom I was talking to. Smiling slightly (though her eyes still looked as mournful as ever), she pointed to herself.
“I’ll drive you,” she mouthed. Perfect. Just perfect.
Dad and I agreed on three days later—Saturday—to meet. That was yesterday at around noon. For lunch, he offered. At that café he’d originally suggested, the one just far enough for my fingers to get numb while walking. I know that because I walked it, not wanting Mom to be anywhere near Dad.
Once inside, I found him easily enough. He was the only one there who kept shooting paranoid glances at the door, as if afraid I might not show. To be honest, I was sorely tempted to turn around and just walk right out, despite the bitter wind. Just like he did oh-so many years ago. After a brief argument with myself, I walked over to his table, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.
When he looked up, his expression was one of surprise, like—all of a sudden—he
hadn’t been expecting me; and then he smiled a bit clumsily. The first thing I noticed was his eyes. Like mine and yours, Dad’s are dark brown, almost black. “Sit, sit,” he said quickly in the voice I had heard over the phone. As I tugged my blue scarf over my head and sat down in the other chair, he looked at my red cheeks and asked, “You walked all the way? In the cold?”
Rolling my eyes, I muttered, “I toughed it out,” not wanting him to think I was some sort of sissy or something.
Never one for small-talk or meaningless chitchat, I got bored with our inane conversations pretty quickly. Finally, when quiet descended over us, I took the time to ask the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind: “Why did you leave?”
He looked taken aback by my bluntness. Expected I’d be a polite, submissive kid, did he? Well, in that case he was in for quite a surprise, huh? For a minute he just sat there—just sat without saying a word. Staring. At me. And when he finally did try to answer, squirming in his seat all the while, his response came out in a stutter. Wide and helpless, his dark eyes begged me to save him from the discomfort of such an accusatory demand. I, however, enjoyed every minute of his torture.
Some pathetic non-excuse spilled out of his mouth, like sewer water. Disgusting.
“Right,” I snorted, glaring at the Styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in his hands. When he’d offered to buy me something to eat, I’d stiffly declined; but that didn’t stop him from ordering a drink for himself. Somehow, for that I hated him all the more.
He ended his pathetic speech with, “—but I haven’t smoked a single cigarette in months. I know I haven’t been a father to you”—I practically
heard him swallow back the words, ‘or your brothers’—“but if you’re still willing, I’d like to rectify that.”
Before I knew what I was saying, I asked, “What about Mom?” When it was clear he didn’t know what to say in response, I reworded my query, even though I was sure he understood it perfectly. No, the question wasn’t what had him so tongue-tied; it was the
answer. “If you really wanted to make everything right, why didn’t you want to see Mom, too?”
I don’t remember exactly what he said or if he said anything useful at all until his last stammered words: “It just didn’t work out between us, Benjamin.”
Suddenly, I was on my feet, eyes flashing and voice climbing steadily. “It didn’t ‘work out’ for us either, but you’re willing to give it another shot now!” After all this time, after living without him for ages and ages, now he finally decided to reenter my life. And his excuses—all twenty-trillion of them—didn’t even begin to cover it. At least when Simon came back before he died—at least he didn’t try to deceive us or hide his true intentions. He didn’t pretend it was because he loved us and couldn’t bear to be apart from us any longer as Dad made it seem. At least Simon was honest. But you were right about Dad, Brian; he’s nothing more than a liar. I can’t believe I ever let Mom talk me into calling him.
Saying nothing more, I turned to leave, keeping my expression blank as I walked away from the table. When I heard his chair scrape back against the wooden floor, I didn’t stop. It wasn’t worth it;
he wasn’t worth it.
“Benjamin…” he called, desperate but still quiet, as if trying not to make a scene. Looking back now, I wonder if he would have screamed at the top of his lungs if that would’ve made me stop and listen. Or would he be unwilling to embarrass himself in public like that? Somehow, I doubt he’d scream just for me.
No, he didn’t scream. He barely spoke above a whisper. To keep from people hearing the commotion would be my guess. So just to spite him, I responded louder than strictly necessary. Summoning as much venom as possible, I growled, “It’s
Ben.”
Without once breaking my stride, I stepped into the brisk, windy afternoon. And our father—he watched my back fade out the door just like I had watched his all those many years ago. Vindictive as it was, I couldn’t help but think,
How does it feel now?
As I was walking home, I mentally hit myself over and over: how could I let Mom talk me into this? All that crossed my mind were the reasons why I should never see that man again, the jerk that he was. You know, at the very least I would have expected him to wish me a happy belated birthday. Come to think of it, though, he probably doesn’t even know that I just had my birthday a few days ago. I’m not surprised about that, not in the slightest.
It was only twenty-five minutes later, when I was lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, that I realized that throughout the whole encounter, I never once called him Dad.
I hope he noticed.
Love,
Ben