The Sweetness of Tears (11 page)

“Uh— I’ve got to run Cory out for baseball practice. And Michelle has piano lessons. You want to come?”

I nodded and followed them all out to the car. We dropped Michelle off first. Then, when we got to the ball field and Cory jumped out of the car almost before we were parked, my dad didn’t follow him. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, tapping his fingers for a minute, eyes on the field in front of us, and then reached behind him to get his wallet out of the back pocket of his pants. He flipped it open and passed it to me, saying, “I—I want you to see this.”

It was a picture—the kind they take at Sears, Ron holding on for dear life to a baby version of me, both of us awkwardly arranged on a block of green carpet in front of a big-screen picture of bright green, leafy woods. Mom had a bigger version of it framed and kept on the mantel. There was a white paper crack running right through the middle of this copy that hers didn’t have. I stared at it for a long time, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he did. “I—I know that I didn’t—welcome you yesterday. Not the way I should have. That picture—your mother sent it to me in ’Nam, after you were born. I carried that picture around with me there—and ever since. It was—it was like a lifeline. What kept me going.” He was tapping his fingers on the wheel again, his eyes straight ahead. “I—I don’t know what your mother told you about—about why I went away.” He paused to look away from the field to me—for just a second—and then his eyes were back on the boys throwing, catching, batting, and running. “I came home from the war in kind of a fog. I—I wasn’t paying much attention to what was around me. To you and your brother or your mom. I was lost. In my head. I couldn’t talk about it. About anything. I—I didn’t think anyone would understand. And I didn’t have it in me to try and make them. But what was inside was dangerous. Bottled up and toxic. Did your mother tell you about the time I hit her in the face?”

I shook my head vigorously, my jaw dropping a little before I pulled it back up again.

“One time, in the middle of the night. I was asleep. She must have moved or something. The next thing I know I’m sitting up in bed, on my knees, my fist pulled back to give her another one and she’s crying and there’s a mark on her face that got darker the next day. I didn’t even know. I wasn’t even awake. That terrified me. I couldn’t stay there and be that guy who put the fear in her eyes. So, I left. I don’t want to make any lame excuses. My leaving had nothing to do with your mother. Or you guys. It was—it was what I had to do. I had to get away and be by myself to try and figure things out.”

“But you did? Figure things out?”

“No. Not really. But I learned to live with that.”

“Why didn’t you ever come back?”

“I—I couldn’t. I couldn’t come back.”

“How did you meet Connie?” I was making an accusation.

“We met in Washington. At an antiwar rally.”

I frowned. “Antiwar?”

“Yes. I don’t know how I ended up there. It wasn’t like I started out to make some kind of statement. I hated all those rich college kids trying to get out of serving. But I—I didn’t disagree with what they had to say about the war itself. That was part of why I left. Everyone I knew—when I came back—everyone thought I’d done this great thing. Serving my country. And I did do that and I was damned proud of it, too. I went to Vietnam to do what my father had done. And his father before that. To serve and honor my country. And I did what I had to while I was there.” He stopped talking for a long time. And then started again, suddenly, “You know, the truth is that war isn’t complicated. It’s about killing. Killing is the whole purpose of it, avoiding getting killed yourself and killing others in order to do that. But no one ever wants to talk about
that
. It doesn’t make for polite dinner conversation, you know? Heck, I wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it anyway. All I knew was what I
didn’t
know. Before I went to ’Nam, the world was black-and-white. And when I came back, all I saw was gray. Everything I’d seen and done came back with me. No one understood. And I didn’t want to have to make them understand either—how could I, when I didn’t understand it myself?”

“And Connie? She understood?”

“Yes. Yes, she did. I didn’t have to explain anything to Connie. Because she was there, too.”

“In Vietnam?!”

“She was a nurse. She served over there. She’d seen it all. She knew.”

“Oh.”

“But that,” he pointed to the picture in his wallet, still in my hand, “was always with me. All these years. It’s—it’s how I remembered you both. Yesterday—it was a shock to see you. That you’re—that you’re not that little baby anymore. That was hard.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You have every reason to be angry—to hate me for not being there for you for all these years. I have no right to ask you anything. About why you ran away. About why you’re not in school. But I want you to know that I’m glad you’re here.”

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did I. We just sat there and waited for Cory’s practice to be over. Then we went back to pick up Michelle.

What Deena had said that morning—about time—had already made me decide to stay. What my dad said in the car—that just seemed to prove her right. I don’t know if Deena ever talked about our conversation with Connie. I think she may have. Connie was really nice to me that night, telling me I was welcome to stay for as long as I wanted—that both she and my dad wanted me there. I’m not sure I believed her. But her saying it made me feel better—even if it made no difference to how I felt about
her
.

That time I spent with my dad in the car was the only time we ever talked about him walking out on Mom and us. It wasn’t some kind of corny magic moment—that point in a movie or TV show where everything falls into place and becomes all right. But it helped make things more normal. It got us over the awkwardness. The next day, when he got home from work, he went out into the yard to do some weeding, trimming, planting. At first, I thought he was just trying to avoid me. But then he asked me if I wanted to help him. And we talked—a little. Just about stuff we were doing right then. He told me about what he planned to do in the yard next. Then he put the radio on—tuned to K-EARTH 101, I remember, and we listened to oldies from the fifties and sixties. It was nice.

Until Connie came home. I was glad to have that afternoon and others without her. No matter how nice she was and in spite of what my dad told me about her, I couldn’t really be comfortable around her. I’d get real quiet and watchful when she came home. Like I was trying to find something that would justify how I felt about her. She and my dad seemed to have a real good marriage. That didn’t make her any easier to like. They never seemed to fight or even disagree at all, except once—about Jake the handyman.

“You have to talk to him, Todd. He’s taken more than a month already, and he said he’d be done in a week.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“The other day, I smelled liquor on him. He could fall off a ladder and get himself hurt. He could sue us. I understand what you’re trying to do, Todd. Helping these guys out. But I don’t think we should be inviting every one of these strays you pick up into our home.”

“Jake’s a good man, Connie. It’s not easy for him. You know that.”

Connie sighed and shook her head. “You’re the one who’s a good man, Todd. Honestly. Impossible to argue with, which can be darned irritating. But a good man for sure.” I saw them smile into each other’s eyes and had to look away or be sick.

Connie had good reason to complain. Jake never turned up when he said he would. And when he did, he started things and then left them unfinished for days—leaving a toilet out of order once so we all had to use the master bathroom. Another time, he took a door off its hinges and left it propped up against a wall for days before showing up to put it back on. The windows and doors in the living room were taped off for weeks with no sign of him showing up with any paint.

One time, in the yard, my dad told me that Jake was a Vietnam vet, too. He’d served at the very end of the war. “By the time he came home, most people didn’t even remember that we were still in a war, much less think that there was any way left to win it. He had it even tougher than I did.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“I check in with someone I know at the VA hospital every once in a while,” my dad said. “To see if there’s any way I can help out. There’s too many of these guys—like Jake—walking around, wounded in a way that no one notices.”

The next time Jake came over, I saw him in a different way. Before, I’d avoided him as much as possible, taking off for Deena’s house whenever he showed up in the mornings, so I guess I hadn’t really seen him at all. Now, I noticed how much younger he was than my dad, in his late twenties. He had blue eyes and straggly, long hair. He was shy and kind of mumbled when he talked. It was hot that day and I made him some lemonade. He was so grateful, you’d have thought I’d cooked him a five-course dinner. After that, I made a point of saying hi to him when he came.

My mother called a couple of times from India, in the mornings, when no one else was home.

“Are you okay, Angie?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“And—your father? He—he must have been happy to see you.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I’ll be home in a bit, Angie. I hope you’re home, too, when I get back. I’ll be there in time to celebrate your birthday.”

I didn’t say anything.

“What about school? Are you going to school?”

“No.”

“Angie?”

“What?”

“Do you have any plans? For the future?”

“No.”

“Well. There’s time, Angie. I hope you think things over carefully. In the meantime, maybe it’s a good thing. This chance you’re getting. To get to know your dad.” I had already told her everything about him—about Connie and the kids. She’d asked, “Is he happy, Angie?”

“I don’t know. I guess so,” I’d said grudgingly.

“I’m glad.”

Every time I went over to Deena’s, we’d have tea. It was funny—but those visits kind of stood apart from everything and everyone else. I mean, she was Connie’s friend—that alone was enough reason to hate her as much as I hated Connie. But I didn’t. Right from that first morning, I couldn’t. Having tea with Deena is what I remember most about the time I spent in Los Angeles. I went over only in the mornings, so I never hung out with her family—I don’t even remember seeing her husband. She had a daughter, older than Michelle and younger than Cory, and a son. I only remember what her husband looked like from the family pictures on the mantel.

Sometimes, she was cooking when I came over. I’d watch her slice onions—so fast, I worried she might chop off a finger—and fry them, tossing in bright red and yellow spices that crackled and popped. She would always apologize for the smell.

“I am so sorry—I got a late start cooking today. Our food is delicious. But it stinks when it’s cooking. Frying onions and spices. The smell gets into hair and clothes—be sure and take a shower when you get home. Or you will smell like a spice shop!”

I would whiff it all in with pleasure. “I think it smells good!” I’d say.

She’d laugh and give me some to try with a warning that I would ignore. “You are not used to the spices—your mouth will burn.”

The first time I tried one of her curries, with some rice, every opening in my head sprang a leak. I waved my hand in front of my mouth, trying to fan down the flames, and tearfully asked for a glass of water.

“No, no. If you have water, it will be worse. Try to resist. If you must have something, put some yogurt on the side of your food and mix it in with each bite.” She was scooping some, plain, onto my plate.

Without thinking, I did what she said.

“Yes, you see? The yogurt dampens all the heat, but adds to the flavor instead of drowning it out. Water would only intensify the spice—making your mouth fight a battle against itself. You cannot fight the spices—if you want to eat spicy food—you have to let yourself feel the pain and then your mouth will adjust. Eventually, you will be able to taste the other flavors, too. And peace will reign!”

One day, when she had me sit in the living room while she brought out the
chai,
to get away from the fumes of food simmering on the stove, she said, I found a book half-hidden behind one of the pillows on the couch. It was
Little Women
.

“Ah—you’ve found Sabah’s book! She was looking for it all day yesterday.” Deena set the cups of tea down on the coffee table and took the book from me. “For a whole year I have tried to get that daughter of mine to start reading this book with me—it was my favorite when I was a girl. But no—every day there is an excuse. ‘My favorite TV show is on, Mom; I have too much homework, Mom; I’ll start it tomorrow, Mom.’ And now that we have begun, she can’t wait for bedtime so that we can read together! She was convinced that her brother had hidden it from her . . .” Deena’s voice trailed off. “Ah, well. You have found it for her. She will be very grateful. She was so mad at my son.”

“I’ve seen the movie on TV.”

“But you haven’t read the book? Oh, Angela! That is not the same thing. You
must
read it to know what it is about! Such a beautiful story—oh, how I cried when Beth died. You remember? Which movie did you see? The one with Katharine Hepburn or Elizabeth Taylor?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Was it in black-and-white?”

“No. Color. But it was old.”

“The Elizabeth Taylor version, then. Ah, well, it’s not your fault. Your whole generation—I feel sorry for you. Television has robbed you all of your imagination. When I was young, we read and played. We invented our own toys and plays—just like Jo in
Little Women
.”

I laughed. “But Deena—you’re not that old! You had television when you were a kid!”

“Not in Pakistan, Angela. Not until after I was married. And I consider myself lucky.” Deena gave me a quick sideways glance before picking up her teacup. “You— forgive me for asking, Angela, but you have finished school?”

I turned red. “No. I quit. I was no good at it anyway.”