Albert absorbed my father’s words with a placid, almost bored expression on his face. You’re afraid, Albert said.
There’s certainly something for me to be afraid of, isn’t there? my father said. You kill yourself and I go to jail?
Oh, let’s be men about this. You know I won’t allow that. You’re afraid, Albert said, because it would require you to modify your ethical model. I’m proposing a return to the old, vengeful gods. A life for a life.
Albert stole a glance at the clock, then resituated himself in his chair. You’re afraid that if you go along with me, you will have to hold yourself to the same standard. Isn’t that it? You have a pragmatic reason to fear my plans. These phobias of yours, your fear of the world itself, they all come from whatever unspeakable act you committed. What was it, I wonder? What could have been so terrible that you have sacrificed your sanity to make amends? We’re actually in agreement here—you might not know it, but we are. You believe in a life for a life, too. But you haven’t been able to kill yourself, not quite. Why is that, Erwin?
Because I’m a coward, my father said.
Yes, you are, Albert said. Don’t you worry about the legalities. I guarantee that you will be amply protected.
I’m sure, my father said.
Before my father left that night, Albert told him a final story: A dirt baseball diamond in Central Park, 1956. John’s team in the field, John playing second base, his jersey tucked into his dungarees like all the other boys, smacking his glove like all the other boys. Albert in the passel of parents behind the low fence along third, having walked up from his office on this blazing July day to watch his son, and John a little jumpier for it, but a little lighter on his feet, too, yelling No-Hittah, No-Hittah to the pitcher in the jacked-up voice that possessed them all when their fathers showed. John kept checking, and there he was, in a wool suit, a crisp white shirt and tie despite the crushing heat, his black shoes and hat, there among the other fathers in their shirtsleeves, shirts with their names sewn on the chest, which John, at ten, could decipher, as he could decipher a hat embroidered with a company name above the bill, or wearing the top two buttons of one’s shirt open so that the curly hair formed a rude, isolinear wedge, all signals of a lack of fatherly fitness to John, of the working-class slob who sweated for his dough.
Two strikes and a ball into the count, the batter, rattled by the runt second baseman who wouldn’t shut the hell up, let fly with a wild swing that bestowed all his animus unto the ball, a line drive that, miraculously, shot like a bullet directly at the loudmouth on second. John almost got his glove on it but his bony thigh took the blow, and the ball dribbled off toward first, where the hitter stood triumphantly with one foot on the bag, his round little fists on his waist.
John was writhing in the dirt. He looked once, twice toward his father, the other fathers turning to each other to make way for the one among them who would step up to the fence, awaiting the signal from the coach, a CUNY kid working at the Y for the summer, to summon him over. The coach crouched down by John and put a hand on him. He looked in the direction of the parents, his mouth open as he scanned the faces, the coach who really just wanted to get on with the game, kids these days go down like goddamn scarecrows, until Albert, despite his best efforts, with a wince of concern exposed himself as the father. Don’t be shy, one father said. Man’s down, go ahead, another one said. When Albert didn’t budge, the others urged him on, gently at first. Once they realized that his unwavering gaze was not stoicism but dissent, they looked to each other. Getta load of this piece of work. Albert saw his son’s tear-streaked face, and knew his son could see his face, and he waited for the boy to pick himself up, dust himself off, raise a hand to signal that he was fine. And that’s what John did. He shook off his coach’s helping hand, got up, limped around in a little circle to try to flush out the throbbing pain, wiped the snot off his nose, smacked the glove with his fist. His chest hitched once as he settled into position, and he held up his glove to the pitcher, who winged the ball to him. John caught it, flipped it back. Attaboy, one of the fathers said.
To occupy his hands, Albert removed his glasses and polished the lenses in slow circles. He was utterly defenseless when his love for the boy rushed forward at him, and he’d erected a high wall to protect John from his ruinous affections. He felt nothing but disdain for the men around him, who were muttering to each other, obviously about him. He hated the wisdom of crowds, the mob mentality, and he believed there was a striking power bestowed upon an individual who could turn against the crowd. Albert intended for his son to see it in practice so that he would better understand the reasoning behind a rebellion of one. To put it in elementary terms his son would understand, he later asked the boy, Do you want to be a milkman or Andrew Carnegie?
No one coddled their kids in those days. No one raised his son to be a musician. You wanted a physician, a statesman. But somehow he’d miscalculated. He’d taught the boy to cut against the grain, to think for himself. John had never come to him for advice because he’d taught him never to ask anyone for advice. Chose his own college, chose his own major, decided to sing, marry the girl, get a divorce—all of it without his father’s counsel. News delivered after the fact, all. Once in twenty years did he come to Albert with a question, a real question riddled with confusion and uncertainty and need, real need, for the question was a dreadful one, the answer equally dreadful. Where to bury the child?
In my plot, Albert said.
23.
So my father had heard it all from Albert, but that night at Roosevelt Hospital, he didn’t stop John from telling him again. As much as he didn’t want to hear it, he couldn’t help himself. He needed to hear where the son’s and the father’s stories diverged.
Before you ask, he’d been christened, John said. Odd, my father thought. Not a question that would have occurred to him. Why would he call John to account over the boy’s everlasting soul? He felt outsmarted by the assumption, as though he’d misunderstood some essential part of his own character that was obvious to everyone else. Sorry? he said.
He’d been christened, John said. In Santa Rosa.
I think Albert might have mentioned, my father said, though Albert had not.
I didn’t care. Wasn’t my idea but I wasn’t opposed to it, either. Now it seems like the only good thing I ever did for him. You know what we were doing when he died?
No, my father said without a moment’s pause, having made the decision to lie his way through the entire conversation.
Having an argument.
You and your wife? my father said. Divergence one.
Me and my father. He was arguing with all of us. But mainly with me. Money. Always fucking money and why won’t I take their money for my son, and he’s getting nowhere with me so he turns to Bron, who wasn’t brought up like this, you know, with all the yelling and threats, and she’s near tears as it is, he’s got my wife in tears right there in front of the whole family, people she’s only known for a few years, people who are practically strangers, and right there in front of my sisters and their husbands and the kids, she hardly knows where she stands with anyone, and the son of a bitch takes the fight to her. To her! Enough, I said, you know? That was it. That was plenty.
And Tracy’s married to this guy, hell of a nice guy, a real house of a guy. Played D-one football. She could not have found a better man, really, a prince.