The Rat with Alzheimer
(Nobody Ever Remembers)
“Was it worth it?” she asked.
“How can you say that?” he queried her back.
“No.” In the long run, it is not worth it.”
“Yes, to me it was worth it,” he disagreed with a grin on his face, and slant to his eye.
“But he was your father. Can’t you understand? Your father, and I’ve been married to you for over three years, and you’ve forgotten everything he’s ever done for you.”
“Perhaps,” said Gene and he continued to eat his hoagie sandwich.
“It’s sad I did not get to know him, not at all. I might have had a different opinion than you. You never gave me the chance; you never asked me if I cared to.”
“I’m sorry, Maria. I didn’t know you cared to, perhaps I should have allowed you to, but I wasn’t talking to him.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“It’s hard to understand.”
“It does no good to talk about it now, my brother Lee feels the same way I do.”
“Yes. I know that,” said Maria downtrodden, biting her lip, then asked him, “Are you happy?”
“I haven’t thought about it but I’m not grieved stricken, so I guess I haven’t thought about it one way or the other.”
“Gene, he’s dead, forever dead, don’t you remember anything good about him, about both of you doing things together?”
“All right,” said Gene, I can’t stand it, please let it be as it is. He is dead.”
“But it’s more than that, can’t you see, now all we really do is take their places, the dead we just take their places. I don’t understand it; it makes me feel like I’m very replaceable to you, and because of some stupid misunderstanding you and your father had.”
“We all have to die sometime, my brother feels the same way, I doubt he’s grieving.”
“What can I expect? I mean in the process of your hating, you are willing to forget all the good things, kill part of yourself, over a little spilt milk. That kind of hate, or anger, or revenge does as much damage to the giver as the receiver. Nobody’s the winner. What can I expect?” And there was a long hesitation, and then she added to her dialogue, “Your anger was a success. No one will ever remember but you now. And now your kids will inherit your disposition, they emulate you know, and someday they will justify their anger towards you in the same manner—out of sight, out of mind, that kind of stuff. Holding grudges until someone dies.”
“Anyhow, the thing to do now is just live, and let the dead rest in peace.”
“He died in peace, and he’s resting in peace, it is you, you, you, that will not live in peace, or die in peace, perhaps rest in peace, if you don’t wake up.” Said Maria nearly in tears, then excused herself for a moment, made a phone call and walked back to the small porch they were on, sat on chair next to her husband. “Not being able to mend fences is not an accident, it is a fault, the failure is yours not his dying, I saw how resistant you were to his overtones for such renewal,” she said.
“But some things you just can’t put back together. They look impossible. Sometimes there is no way.”
“Yes, maybe so, in the end no one remembers anyway.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gene.
She was now quiet, didn’t answer him, and he stopped eating. There was no wind and it was hot on the small porch, in Columbus. He picked up his beer, took a gulp, wiped his lips with a napkin, then carefully looked at Maria, reached his arm out to touch her; she moved slightly away from it, she looked very sad.
“Don’t be sad about all this, I’m not,” Said Gene.
“That’s part of the issue, I’m dealing with here.”
“Dead is dead, we all get to that point darling, sooner or later. We must think of ourselves, what we got to do next.”
“Like what, what are we going to do next…?” Maria asked, then put her head down, emotionally, she was awfully puzzled, confused.
“Our marriage,” he said.
“If you are an example, now, for what resides in the future later, what can I expect? What can we predict from your children who will emulate you, I’m your third wife, what can I expect if you get sore at me?”
He now said nothing, for a long look, she had a poignant face.
“You talk like a preacher,” he remarked, then added, “who did you call?”
“And you don’t talk like a human being, like a Christian, as you think you are,” she replied, “and I’m part of your life, and when going to church I fell like a hypocrite.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it is how I feel, and it’s the way it is. Who did you call?”
“You should react to your thinking not your feelings, that’s part of the problem I see.”
“Why are you bringing this up now, why not a year or two ago…?”
“Why isn’t now a good time?”
“I’m sorry, I guess I thought you always understood, it sounds like you were holding it all in.”
“I suppose I was, like you and your father. But what I do understand is your father is dead, and it is too late for you to do anything about it now. We all have expectations, and we all get let down. You’re as guilty with seeing your kids as your father was with you. And you slam him for not being there, and can’t see your own behavior, and I heard you say how much you loved your kids, and how much you felt your father didn’t love you, but to me you both look like two peas in the same pod, but you are more relentless. You both are like to like, and you both perhaps did the best you can. You just don’t’ realize you’re the bird in the cage, the rat with Alzheimer.”
“Aren’t you kind,” Gene remarked sarcastically, drinking the beer down to its bottom with one long gulp.
She was from the Philippines, where families were closer knit. She had been married to Gene a little over three-years, just got her citizenship. And at this very moment, discovering his sentimentality was next to nil. Thinking: what if he ever got mad at me.
“I am a good father,” said Gene.
“I believe you try to be, but are you a good son? And what kind of father do you want your children to be? Was your father a happy person?”
“He was happier than me I think.”
“It’s too bad the happy one is dead,” she commented.
“You talk like someone who lost hope.” And he reached over to touch her for the second time.
“Please do not touch me,” she exclaimed. Now he was hurt. “I’m sorry,” he told her.
“There is nothing to be sorry about. You are who you are, and you can’t change, and I am not qualified to help you change, nor have the time.” Then she stood up, as a taxi pulled up in front of their house, and she walked to the door, opened it, there was no wind, it was warm, but the warm air was fresher than the stale air on the porch, and she felt good, very good.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“The taxi’s for me, that was the phone call I made, I can’t help you,” she said. Not turning around but saying it loud enough for him to hear as she stepped down the three cement stairs onto the walkway to the street to the cab, “if his death couldn’t help you, nobody living can.” She mumbled. There was nothing she could do but leave, she felt. She didn’t want to act good about it, because she didn’t think it was good, or feel good about it, what he had been doing what she felt she had to do. She knew there was hollowness someplace in his heart, for loving, someplace he could and would, and had escaped to where there was no pain, and if one does not show the pain in life, one can never live fully. She kept on walking, never turning around, never looking back. And she knew what he would do, and he did what she thought he’d do, he got up, went to his computer, to look for a new wife.
No: 634 (6-20-20109
No comments:
Post a Comment