Henry's Sisters (23 page)

We went out to the porch for mongo-sized cupcakes and grape juice.

Why is family life so intricately, exasperatingly, exhaustingly…complicated?

‘I wore my burka at Dad’s wedding,’ Kayla announced. ‘I’m exploring being a Muslim.’

My fork fell from my hands to my plate.
She’d done it!
I high-fived her over the table.

Janie, beside me, choked on her peppermint tea, and I had to pound her on the back.

It was three days after Dad’s miraculous appearance and we Bommarito sisters were still recovering from the surprise. We had agreed that The Subject of Dad was off-limits for the night.

‘What’s a burka?’ Henry asked, taking another bite of spaghetti. It was, again, Spaghetti Night for the Bommarito family. We had dimmed the lights, lit the candles, and passed the noodles. And the wine.

I exchanged a glance with Cecilia and tried not to cackle with glee. Her whole body was trembling with suppressed laughter as she studied her cranberry-and-feta-cheese salad.

‘I’m going out on a night flight!’ Grandma announced as she wielded garlic bread. ‘The weather’s perfect. I’m making a trip to the equator. I haven’t seen the inhabitants there for a while and I am their conquering heroess.’ She growled like an engine.

‘My goodness sakes, souls alive and dead,’ Velvet murmured. ‘A burka, Kayla? You mean you were covered head to foot in black? Even a black veil over your eyes? Like the Saudi women wear?’

‘How did your father like your burka, Kayla?’ I asked. I let some of my cackles out. Couldn’t help it.

‘He didn’t,’ Kayla said.

Riley swirled a hair around her finger. She was wearing a wide red band. ‘He hated it. He hated it even more than he hates discussing molecules and molecular dynamics. Things he doesn’t understand trigger that temper of his. Short man’s complex. He’s got it.’

‘Did you ask your father beforehand if he would mind?’ I could barely contain myself. I wanted to stand up and cheer.
Kayla
.
In a burka at her father’s wedding
. She was a true Bommarito!

‘No. Do I look that dumb, Aunt Isabelle?’ Kayla said. ‘He wasn’t supportive when I became an evangelical Christian and told him he was going to hell for not accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as his saviour. He wasn’t supportive when I turned Jewish and educated him about Job and Exodus. He didn’t like hearing about Revelations ’cause he knows he’s gonna burn. He also wasn’t too nice when I was Hindu and told him he would be reincarnated into a slug based on this lifetime’s behaviour. I mean, it’s not like the guy’s open-minded to anything but cheating on Mom.’

Cecilia blew air out of her mouth rather noisily, then stabbed the butter cube with her knife.

Henry dropped a noodle into his mouth. He was wearing his Superman shirt. ‘Noodle woodles. I love ’em.’

‘Constance is a bouncy-boobed bitch,’ Kayla mused.

‘Don’t swear at the table, Kayla,’ Cecilia said.

‘Give me a break, Mom. You’ve said that word before yourself.’

‘You also said she’s a si—’ I put my hand over Riley’s mouth.

‘If it’s raining, I may have a hard time taking off tonight,’ Grandma mused, tapping her goggles. ‘Weather can be a problem. It can blind you without warning, make you feel like you’re upside down when you’re right side up.’

‘Upside down, right side up,’ Henry sang. ‘Upside down, right side up, topsy-turvy, topsy-turvy.’ He ate another noodle by slinging his head back and wrapping it into his mouth in circles.

‘So you wore your burka to the wedding, Kayla?’ Janie prodded. She pulled on the lace collar around her neck and had a sip of tea.

‘Jeez, Aunt Janie, give me a break.’ Riley sniffed. ‘Kayla wore the fluffy red dress to the wedding that Constance said we had to wear to be bridesmaids. We looked like Valentines on drugs. But right before Kayla was supposed to
gracefully
walk down the aisle in the red dress she ducks quick into a bathroom that’s right there in the atrium and as soon as she hears the music for us bridesmaids she, like, runs on out and heads up the aisle in her black burka in front of all the people.’

I bit my tongue. I mustn’t cackle again!

I sneaked a glance at Janie. She was covering her face with her napkin. Cecilia’s body was shaking from her laughter, her jaw clenched tight.

Kayla looked proud as her sister continued the riveting story, starring Kayla.

‘I was right behind Kayla,’ Riley said, ‘and I thought Daddy was going to have a coronary and die right there, you know. He was standing up at the front of the aisle with this minister guy with a long black braid, I mean he didn’t even seem like a minister because his T-shirt was New Wave and black with a skull on it.’ She stabbed her fork into her spaghetti and twirled it around.

‘Then what happened?’ Janie asked.

Velvet murmured, ‘Land sakes, child.’

Grandma made the sound of a plane humming. Henry giggled. Spaghetti makes him laugh.

‘Well, so Kayla is dressed all in black, you know that burka thing,’ Riley explained, ‘and all you can see is her eyes in a slit and she’s supposed to hook elbows with one of Constance’s guy friends who was wearing a white tuxedo with a pink tie, how weird is that, plus his shoes were pink, how weird is that, but she doesn’t want to. Kayla walks up that aisle herself and when she gets to the top she climbs up the steps and stands right by Daddy.’

Some days one is more blissfully glad to be alive than others.

This was one of those days. I sighed with pleasure.

‘Daddy’s almost got his tongue hanging out he’s so shocked at first but then I can tell he’s bloody ripped,’ Riley said. ‘I mean, Mom, he is about ready to lose his head. He is, like,
raging
sick. I think he wants to yank Kayla on out of the building – did you know that Constance and Daddy had a hard time getting married in a church?’ She tilted her head. ‘No one would let them do it. Daddy asked Father Mike to be the priest dude and Father Mike told him that as soon as the devil was running heaven he would marry him and Constance. They went to a couple of other churches, but the ministers wanted them to do counselling and Daddy said, “I can’t wait that long to marry my bride,” so the ministers said no. One woman minister said she wouldn’t feel “ethical” marrying them. Whatever.’

I raised my eyebrows. Ah. Justice in the world.

‘So, anyhow, Kayla’s walking down in that black thing and Dad’s almost purple he’s so ticked. Mom, I didn’t know anybody at the wedding. No one. I mean, didn’t Dad have friends in town? What about the Guzinskys? What about the Shores? What about the Chins and Kuchenkos? None of them came. Did he not invite them?’

‘He invited them, Riley,’ Cecilia drawled.

‘Well, whatever. I didn’t know anybody except Weird Grandma.’ (Parker’s mother.) ‘There’s only Constance’s friends and family, but not a lot of people, you know? And they were all weird. Like, Daddy says that Constance’s brother was there straight out of the can. You know, like jail. For drugs or something. So Kayla’s standing by Dad in her black burka and I follow Kayla up the aisle in that Valentine red dress on drugs that Constance told me to wear. I looked like a walking red vein. She made me wear a hat, too, ’cause she said I’m going bald and that’s embarrassing for her because she sells hair products.’

I breathed in deep. Oh, how I hated Constance.

‘
So—’

‘I’ll tell it now,’ Kayla interrupted Riley. ‘So I’m standing, like, next to Daddy at the altar. I know he’s about ready to shit bricks so I stare down the aisle and up comes Riley and she’s right, Mom. She did look like a walking red vein wearing a hat.’

Riley wasn’t offended. ‘Yep. I did.’

‘Anyhow, Constance is suddenly there and they start pounding out that boring bride music.’ Kayla took a bite of spaghetti, chewing slowly. I was on the edge of my seat.

‘Constance is wearing this light pink dress and her boobs are almost popping out and her make-up… I mean, come on, I mean. She’s all gooped up, but I see Dad – it’s hard to see in a burka but there’s the slit thing – and he’s all happy and he’s got this goofy expression on his face, it was
gross—’

She stopped. ‘Sorry, Mom.’

Cecilia sniffed. ‘Who cares about that repulsive son of a—’ She closed her mouth, stabbed the butter.

‘Constance comes down the aisle and right before she gets to Dad she stares straight at me.’ Kayla shook her head sorrowfully, takin’ her time with the story. ‘It’s like she hadn’t even noticed me in my burka before she got up close. What am I, invisible in one of those things? So she sees me and she sort of jumps and does a little scream thing and Daddy puts his hands out and whispers, “It’s OK, it’s Kayla.” And Constance has a hand on her mongo boobs like her heart’s beating too freakin’ fast and she says, “
It’s who?
”’

Kayla rolled her eyes. ‘She’s so damn dumb and right in front of all those people she says, “What are you doing in that? I bought you a dress.” And I told her the truth, that I was exploring being a Muslim and she’s all red in the face now and said, “You’re not exploring being a Muslim at my wedding.”’

Laughter is so hard to smother when it wants to come out. So hard. I slapped both hands over my mouth.

Janie made another choking sound.

‘Takeoff is soon!’ Grandma yelled. ‘I’ll need my flying papers.’

‘Hey! I made a mouse with my noodles!’ Henry announced. ‘A mouse!’

‘Constance is so mad her boobs are about ready to pop out all by themselves,’ Kayla said. She had a bite of garlic bread.

‘And?’ I prodded.

‘And she goes, “Get that black thing off or get off the damn altar.” And Dad says to me, “Kayla, take off the burka or you can’t be in the wedding. Take it off right now.”’

Kayla ate a bite of spaghetti, wriggled around.

She was killing me. ‘What did you say?’

Kayla took her time swallowing and had some milk. ‘Well, first thing, Aunt Isabelle, you were right when you told me before the wedding that Dad had to respect my religious choices even on his wedding day. That was so cool.’

Cecilia raised an eyebrow at me.

Janie studied the table, then took a wee sip of tea. Janie had been there when I had encouraged Kayla to ‘defend your freedoms, in particular your religious freedoms, at all costs, even in the face of opposition from others, in particular, your father. Be true to yourself and your beliefs, especially if someone, your father, is trying to squash them!’

Kayla took another slow bite. She knew how to pause for drama! ‘So, yeah, then I told my dad, OK, I’ll take the burka off.’

‘So you changed?’ I asked. I was crushed. I struggled with my disappointment at Kayla’s easy acquiescence. Where was her fortitude? What happened to the rebel? Where was her Bommarito fighting spirit?

Kayla took another bite of spaghetti. ‘I’m an obedient child. So, yes. I changed.’

She took another gulp of milk.

‘And?’ Janie breathed.

‘I first took off the black veil thing right there on the altar and then I took off my burka.’

Riley started to giggle. ‘That was
the best
part.
The best
.’

‘What were you wearing underneath?’ Janie asked, her tea cup frozen in mid-air. ‘The red dress?’

‘What was I wearing?’ Kayla asked. She took her time chewing some garlic bread. Swallowed. ‘I was wearing my favourite outfit.’

‘And that outfit would be?’ I prodded.

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I was wearing my pink T-shirt that says “Fuck Off” and my short-short jean shorts.’

Velvet started the laughter first, Southern style. ‘Oh me, oh my. Oh me.’ She fanned herself. ‘That’s funnier than a skunk on the loose!’

Cecilia laughed so hard she sounded like a donkey. Janie and I eventually had to lean on each other to stay propped up.

Henry laughed because we were laughing. ‘Noodles!’

‘Then I jumped off the altar and the walking red vein girl followed me – sorry, Riley – and we went right to the reception, where there was a bunch of food.’

‘So neither one of you saw your dad get married?’ I garbled out.

‘Nope. I got right back into my burka at the reception when Constance boomed on in,’ Kayla said. ‘Dad was so mad. He said I ruined the ceremony. Constance was so mad one of her boobs almost came out and I said, “Constance, stick your right boob back in, it’s out and about,” and that made her throw her flowers at my face. Whatever. After they left for the honeymoon, I didn’t feel like being a Muslim anymore, so I threw off the burka and me and Riley danced for about two hours and had more wedding cake. The guy with the pink tie danced awesome cool. He taught us some new moves.’

‘Weddings are stupid,’ Riley said.

‘Yeah,’ Kayla agreed.

A burka.

At Parker’s wedding.

She was a true Bommarito. So was her sister. I was so proud!

I damn near fell out of my chair I laughed so hard.

‘Hold on, passengers!’ Grandma screamed suddenly. ‘Hold on!’ She leapt on the table, grabbing the controls of her imaginary plane.

We turned our chairs, threw our napkins on our heads, and braced for a crash.

‘Don’t worry!’ Grandma reassured us. ‘We’ll get through this weather!’

Indeed we would.

Not surprisingly, the murdering our dad did weighed on our minds, so we had to clear up the wee issue of the killing before we let him back into our lives even an inch.

He invited me, Janie, and the still angry/reluctant Cecilia to a classy French restaurant in town. Over white linens and wine, for me and Cecilia, chamomile tea for Janie, and water for our dad – he doesn’t drink alcohol – we got the full story.

‘So, who did you kill and why did you kill him?’ I asked, after our orders were taken. I believe in being blunt.

‘I had had too much to drink in a bar in Sausalito,’ he said, the candlelight softening his scar. ‘Drinking was the way I numbed much of my life. It was cowardly and stupid. I hated myself and what I’d done in ’Nam and what I’d seen done. Alcohol smoothed the edges, but it was a weak excuse for a weak man.’

I leant back in the booth. He certainly did not try to soften things up.

Janie took sugar packets out and started to sort.

Cecilia humphed in her seat and crossed her arms.

‘I had a disagreement with a man because he was hitting on a woman next to me and the woman was trying to get rid of him. He reached and grabbed her and I reacted. I was always angry, always looking for a fight back then, and I’d had many. I hit him first and we fought knuckle to knuckle. All of a sudden I saw a Vietnamese soldier in front of me instead of that guy. In my head, I was back in ’Nam and apparently started whaling on him. I should have stopped, but I didn’t. I hardly remember. He was in a critical condition, then died. I was sent to jail for fifteen years. Rightly so.’

‘Great!’ Cecilia said. ‘Now we can worry that you’re going to come after us. Super! A murdering dad.’

‘Cecilia,’ I said. ‘Stop.’

‘Why? Why should I stop?’ She sounded tough, our ol’ Cecilia, but she was fighting back another round of sobs, I knew it.

My heart was thumping because hers was, and I patted my chest. ‘Stop because my heart’s pounding and I can’t take it.’

She wrinkled her nose up at me, but she started deep breathing, eyes closed.

Janie shook the sugar packets. ‘Then what happened?’

‘In jail I obviously had a lot of time to think.’

‘Obviously,’ Cecilia drawled, eyes still closed.

‘I had killed a man and thought the guilt would drive me out of my mind. I had killed who knows how many Vietnamese soldiers during the war who probably had no more desire to be there than me. That guilt ground its way into all the waking moments of my life. I felt guilty because I lived and so many of my buddies there didn’t, and I felt I didn’t deserve to be alive. I felt guilty about the innocent civilians who were caught in the cross fire. I felt guilty about leaving you all and River. I loved you.’ He paused. ‘I still love you. My guilt about killed me.’

He stared out the window, his temples thumping, and it was at that mini-second that I related to my dad. I related to the guilt.

‘I could not bring back the man I killed in the bar. I could not bring back the men and other civilians I killed in ’Nam. I could not bring back my buddies. I could, however, try to be a part of my family’s life again, when I thought I had something to offer.’

‘What did you do after you got out of jail? Why didn’t you come home right away?’ I asked.

‘I worked on getting my act together. I earned two degrees while I was in jail, and when I got out I became an accountant.’

‘A murdering accountant,’ Janie muttered.

‘Does TechEx know you murdered a man?’ I asked.

‘Yes. They know. The man who owns TechEx, Tony Hallicon, fought in ’Nam. My ex-boss, the man I’ve worked for since I left jail, also called Tony and recommended me.’

‘Why didn’t you come home sooner?’ I asked.

‘Because I didn’t believe that I had a right to. I didn’t believe I was good enough. You had all got on with your lives.’

‘What changed that?’ I asked him.

My dad put his chin up and blinked rapidly. ‘Love,’ he said. ‘Love changed it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Janie asked.

‘I mean that I have always loved you all. Always. I missed you all.’ His voice broke. ‘And your mother. I missed your mother. River was…’ He shook his head. ‘We were soul mates. I met her, and I was done. I knew that I would be in love with that woman the rest of my life. And I have been. I have never stopped loving your mother.’

By agreement, we had decided not to say anything to ‘the soul mate’ about Dad’s return. I couldn’t have him traipsing in, then traipsing out again on Momma. The ‘soul mate’ did not deserve that.

‘I have missed you all. I have worried incessantly about you. I have never, ever felt whole, since the day I left, and I couldn’t fight wanting to show you that I still love you, have always loved you, anymore. Maybe it’s selfish, and wrong. But I had to try. Had to show you that love. Love brought me home,’ he said.

Not even Cecilia knew what to say to that.

How can you argue with love?

‘Love brought you home?’ Janie squeaked.

Our dad wiped his eyes with his napkin. ‘Love brought me to you all. You are my home.’

I sniffled.

Cecilia said, ‘Hell and shit!’ and covered her flushed face with her napkin.

Janie said, ‘That’s beautiful, serene, refreshing, oh!’ She waved her hands.

‘It’s the truth,’ Dad said, his voice rough and scratchy. ‘You are my home. You have always been my home. You will always be my home.’

Two days later, after baking jelly rolls and strawberry tarts in the shape of hearts, Janie and I came home from the bakery on my motorcycle to a white picket fence Dad was building around the house.

‘He says he has three more weeks off before he starts work,’ Janie whispered to me as we spied on Dad through her bedroom window. She had hung new pink curtains to invite ‘rosy peace’ in. I noticed her latest embroidery project – pink flowers in yet another wicker basket – on her dresser. ‘I was surprised when he told us that Momma had always wanted a white picket fence.’

‘Me too.’

Momma had never mentioned it. Probably because she was as likely to own a house with a white picket fence as she was to own Venus when we were younger. He had asked if he could build it and we said yes.

When Dad needed to kneel down, he struggled a bit with his bum leg, but he did it.

He had a gentle dignity about him. It squared with some of the memories I had of him, the happy ones. I could see that the raging, delusional man that Vietnam had thrown home was long gone now. The war had done its damage, had eaten him from the inside out, but he had wrestled with his demons and flattened them down to the mat.

‘It’s a nice white picket fence,’ Janie whispered.

‘Yes, it is. It’s nice.’ My heart warmed a tad.

We watched him through the rosy peace.

On Friday, after Dad had spent the afternoon with Henry petting the dogs, he asked to take all of us out to dinner. Cecilia refused to come, although I could tell she was weakening. ‘He’s trying to weasel his way in and I’m not having it.’

Dad came into the bakery, and I couldn’t deny the hope in that man’s eyes when he politely issued his invitation.

So we’d gone out to dinner. Grandma was lovely in her black flight outfit. She fastened a pink bow to her helmet. Dad didn’t even blink. Velvet wore a green velvet dress and a yellow flowered hat. I wore jeans and heels. Janie defrumped and put on a skirt with a clean blue T-shirt. Henry had on beige slacks and tucked in his shirt. ‘I go to fancy dinner with my dad,’ he kept saying. ‘I all fancy.’

I did not miss the way the hostess, who was about forty-five, flirted with Dad on the way to our table.

He was polite but he did not flirt back.

We actually had a good time after Grandma’s prayer, which was: ‘Dear God, this is Amelia. Thanks for the food and the handsome man at this table. He seems stable. Good teeth. Clean gums. Hair. No weapons. Amen.’

I would have envisioned conversation to be difficult. Forced. Lots of undercurrents.

There was none of that.

You know how you’re out with people sometimes and there’s one person who controls the conversation?

He wasn’t like that.

Or, you know how there’s often one person who
must
have the focus on them?

He wasn’t like that.

Or, there’s a guy in your group who brags or a woman who preens or someone who doesn’t pay any attention to more than one person?

He wasn’t like that at all, either.

He was friendly and interesting and entertaining. There was not an awkward moment.

We talked about the white picket fence that Henry was helping to build, Florida, Henry’s stamps, Janie’s scary new book, why I like photography (it shows truth, human nature, human emotion, disaster, joy, and I tried not to get all emotional about my lost career), my travels, Velvet’s mother’s recipe for possum, and Amelia’s plan for her new luggage line.

He told us how impressed he was with the bakery, not only with how it looked, and all of our customers, but in the perfection of our desserts. ‘Outstanding.’ He’d nodded. ‘Every detail attended to in your presentation. Each dessert a testament to your skill and knowledge of the food arts and your understanding that food should be enjoyed and appreciated, not just eaten.’

I tried not to blush. I tried not to show how pleased I was at this compliment. I tried not to gush out my thanks. It was hard.

We did not talk about all the time we’d spent baking in the kitchen with him as children. I think we all knew that would be one raw ache more than we could handle.

It was a warm and fuzzy and scrumptious dinner.

I actually felt myself relax, as if honey had been poured through my veins and marshmallows had taken the place of my rigid muscles.

I’ve always liked honey and marshmallows.

‘Tell me about your childhood after I left.’

‘Definitely no, we couldn’t. Let’s not go there,’ Janie said to our dad after the dinner, as we settled onto the couches in front of our fireplace with coconut orange cake and coffee. ‘Poor karma. Bad memories. Negative flow.’

‘I think we should skip that,’ I said, glad that Henry, Grandma, and Velvet were tucked in bed. ‘Dinner was great. Let’s not mess it up.’

Dad put his coffee down, the firelight dancing across his cheeks, softening them, softening his scar. ‘Janie, Isabelle, I want you to tell me about what happened after I left. You deserve the chance to place blame where it should be placed. You deserve the chance to unload on my shoulders all of the problems you had, right where it belongs.’

‘Our childhood belongs in a tightly locked trunk,’ I said.

‘Our childhood is best left to the universe,’ Janie said. ‘Out by the asteroids, in its own galaxy.’

‘Please,’ Dad said. ‘When you’re ready, I’d like to know what happened. From the day I left. Maybe not today, not next week, maybe not even this year, but when you’re comfortable with it, I want to listen.’

‘Well. We missed you. We always, always missed you.’ Janie tried to take a sip of chamomile tea but her hand shook. She put the teacup down. ‘But all right.’ I could hear some anger tinging her words amidst the grief. ‘If it will open up the mysteries for you, I’ll tell you.’

We were there with the firelight until four in the morning, new logs adding sparks as we piled them on.

We did not tell him all the gory details. We had secrets; some of them involved Momma, and she was the only one who should choose to share, or not, those secrets.

By the end of it, I’m sure he felt like he’d been bombed. He looked like he’d been bombed.

‘This was all, completely, my fault,’ he said, voice ragged with regret. ‘I take the blame and responsibility. I know you won’t forget it. No one could. But I hope that you will forgive me.’ He paused. ‘I will never forgive myself. Not a day has gone by that I don’t feel the weight of my desertion, and if I live to be one hundred years old, I will still never forgive myself.’

I thought about that.

Forgiveness.

My world had been so completely shaken when my dad left, I’d never even thought about it. We’d been cast into a swirling mass of despair and confusion and poverty almost instantly. It wasn’t long before it got worse and we’d fallen into a swamp of tragedies.

From the porch I studied the black outlines of the waving trees, the wind whipping up the short curls of my hair.

Forgiveness. Could I? Could I get rid of the perpetual, incessant anger that had lived within me for decades?
Could I forgive him?

I had never fought in a war. Could I judge someone who had been through years of combat and imprisonment? Could I judge my dad’s desertion of his family? And, if I did, would it be fair?

I, for one, had never been shot at while hiding in a swampy ditch, the jungle swaying overhead with the enemy, unshowered for weeks, my feet rotting, my buddies’ limbs flying off in front of my face from land mines or grenades.

I had not had to aim my gun at soldiers and innocent people alike and pull the trigger, or flatten a peaceful village, or engage in a deadly night-time raid, which forever more would make me hate myself. I had not been locked in a cage and beaten for years and had two of my fingers chopped off and my back whipped into bacon.

I had not had to come home, only to relive my Vietnam nightmares and fight with the monstrous visions my overwrought brain did not have the capacity to withhold. I had not returned to a condemning American public and a government unwilling to help, or even acknowledge, the hellacious, ongoing impact of the Vietnam War on its soldiers.

My dad had left us because he woke up one day to a loaded, cocked gun pointed at Momma’s head, his finger on the trigger. He thought he had left plenty of money for us to last the rest of our lives. He thought he had provided for his family, as he believed a man should.

I focused on that new, white picket fence.

Forgiveness was definitely a possibility.

We all thought the bakery needed a makeover, but we hadn’t had time to do it.

Enter: Dad.

After hours, we repainted the walls a butter yellow, scrubbed and shined the black and white floors, emptied and cleaned the display cases. We added yellow flowered curtains and bought new tablecloths. We reorganised the back and cleaned out pantries and cabinets.