Helping howard, p.22
Helping Howard, page 22
Your broken heart, your warped vision.
Perhaps.
You all have origins, but you transcended them, shaped by your own experiences, becoming yourselves, quite surprising me.
But you’re doing the shaping.
Am I? What part of me is doing the shaping?
Yes, how does it work?
I have no fucking idea. To have so much power and control and have so little knowledge of what’s happening.
Ah, and we’re back to my life. As much as I enjoyed this Alice in Wonderland conversation, you do have to finish this story.
I know, I know. And I’m dragging my heels.
Perplexed?
A bit at a loss.
When in doubt, focus on the anger, the cleansing, pure, righteous anger that protects all the pain. I am in pain, miss Author, and you have to work me through this.
Yes, Howard. I’ll try.
The Wedding
He was still feeling melancholy as he walked down the beach holding T.J.’s hand, walking toward the ceremony by the water. Sinclair and Nina walked, arm-in-arm toward the female Justice of the Peace, who had been ferried out for the ceremony. There was a bower of white flowers under which the three of them stood. Sinclair wore a white satin slip of a dress, thin straps showing off her shapely, muscled arms. In profile, her bare arm that faced the gathering was tattooed with a red rose and a green vine that ended above the elbow in a scroll that contained the name, NINA.
He’d been shocked when she told him she’d gotten a tattoo in time for the wedding. He hated tattoos. His Jewish cultural prejudices suddenly rose up in him despite the fact that he was a non-believer—he saw it as a desecration of his daughter’s flesh. Jews believed their bodies were a gift on loan from God and not personal property to do with as they wished. Of course he didn’t buy into that, but the distaste, like an inherited food allergy, nonetheless remained. And of course there was the association of numbers tattooed on those in concentration camps. But also drunken macho sailors with “Anchors Aweigh” on bulging biceps.
She had been incredulous and offended. “NOW, you’re suddenly Jewish?
There was no way to explain to her that he’d never not been Jewish.
Would he have been offended if the name had been Howard? Or, Daddy?
But seeing it, for the first time, he felt his anger spike. Of course Sinclair had no problem with it. “See,” she whispered to him, “it’s very tasteful and lovely.”
He turned his attention to Nina, who wore a white linen, 1930s, double-breasted suit. She sported a white gardenia on her lapel. She was the pint of cream next to Sinclair’s tall pitcher of milk. ‘The Dairy Queens,’ he dubbed them in that moment for his own amusement.
And then the ceremony began and they spoke their written vows, which cut in and out when the screams of gulls interfered with his hearing, which was not as good as it used to be. He really did need to get that checked.
And then they kissed.
“Are you crying? T.J.?” Howard asked. She turned her face and he saw the tears brimming from her eyes. He handed her the damp tissue he’d been using.
“We must both be having our periods,” she said.
Caught by surprise, he laughed. Then he looked back at Sinclair, at her flushed face after the kiss, her happy smile, the smile she had as a baby, which, for him, contained all the light in the world. He watched the tribe of women in their procession walk back to the house as he and T.J. trailed behind. Sinclair and Nina walked with their arms around each other, like lovers do, unwilling to separate. His daughter’s happiness was palpable. He felt paper thin and worn out from all the tearing inside. He could be genuinely, unselfishly happy for her, but he couldn’t vanquish the wounded part. What kind of father was he? Why couldn’t he just feel, Job well done, Howard; she is now someone else’s responsibility. He knew how sexist that sounded. He was a fossil. He was sixty-years-old; he was a dead man walking.
At the party in the grand, two-story living room where the chairs and sofas were taken up with young bodies filled with gaiety and laughter, where T.J. had joined the group, behaving charmingly, and for once deferentially, giving up the place of honor to Sinclair and Nina. He skulked around in the corners, the doorways, not mingling, too depressed to mingle, obsessing on his toast, and drinking. Howard had never been hardcore when it came to booze. He knew his limits, but tonight, on an empty stomach, he was guzzling champagne. Nobody missed him, or noticed him—the father of the bride, probably giving him a wide berth because of his foul vibe. Best to ignore the weird drunken man in the corner. Every once in awhile, Sinclair looked up and caught his eye, giving him a furtive look. He saw T.J. and Sinclair whispering. “What do we do about Howard?” he imagined them saying. Why wasn’t his daughter bringing him in, making introductions, fussing over him, wanting a dance, wanting to say goodbye, wanting his blessing?
And then, sufficiently numb and pissed, in both senses of the word, from the back of the room, he clinked his glass with a spoon and started saying quite loudly, “Toast! A toast to my daughter, Sinclair.”
And even while the interruption was still being understood and people began clinking their own glasses, he continued.
“But then I’m sure you had to know I would have to be Sinclair’s father because Nina’s father isn’t here. As fundamentalist Christians, her parents disowned her. Their superstitious, cruel beliefs trumped nature’s powerful blood ties, sacrificing their daughter to the fictional blood of the lamb. Well, thank you, Jesus for giving us another daughter.” He raised his glass again and grinned in Nina’s direction without actually looking at her. “Nina, I will be both father and mother to you, just like I was to Sinclair.”
He put the back of his hand up to one corner of his mouth and spoke out the other side of his mouth, addressing the group in mock confidentiality. “And we don't even have to deal with in-laws! That IS a blessing.”
The social anxiety of the herd shocked them into silence, giving him the stage finally. Now everybody noticed him. He approached them, swerving and sloshing his drink.
“Doesn’t matter, Nina, I will be both father and mother to you, just like I was to Sinclair,” he repeated.
“Howard,” T.J. said, moving toward him. “Howard, stop.”
He glared at her. She reached for his arm and he pulled away. “What do you want?” he said loudly. “You didn’t want a child.”
He looked back at Sinclair and now he was crying. “You’re alive, you're here because I wanted you. I wanted a child, and you, my beautiful girl, are the love of my life!”
“What are you saying?! Why are you saying this?” Sinclair screamed. “I’m married! Nina is the love of my life!”
He bent over as if punched in the gut. T.J. grabbed him and started pushing and pulling him out of the room. “Howard, stop it!”
He clutched her. “I have given everything up for you,” he cried. “I have nothing.”
Everything was blurred. Was he saying this to T.J. or Sinclair? He looked up at Sinclair, at the look of horror on her face. He had put that look there, made her choose, as if it was a choice. He was her father, her selfish, pained father who made his own daughter bear the burden of his losses and unhappiness. And he called this love?
“Shhh, come with me, Howard.” And T.J. finally was able to prop him against her and get him out the door.
* * *
Will my daughter ever speak to me again?
Yes.
How is that possible?
Because she loves you. Not that she understands. She may not understand for many years.
How long before she talks to me?
A long time.
Oh, God.
And Nina?
Nina forgave you even before Sinclair could. Believe it or not, she was the one to champion you with Sinclair. She was very hurt, but you’re not her father, and getting over her own parents was a psychological achievement that made you a minor leaguer. She actually could sympathize with your pain. You wound up loving her.
And what about me and T.J.?
You scared her. She realized you were fragile; she thought maybe she’d lost you. For a time she was tender with you, as you recovered.
Recovered?
Yes, from your breakdown.
Is that what that was?
It was something building in you for a long time. Were you surprised?
More like appalled. It’s been hard to forgive myself.
Everyone else has.
And then what?
Life goes back to normal.
You mean my normal.
Well, yes. But a bit different.
* * *
In bed together under the covers, Howard held T.J. She caressed his cheek.
“Howard?”
“Hmmm?”
She looked up at him. “You will die in my arms.”
“Are you planning on killing me?”
“No.” She laughed. “I’ll be there. You know, ‘til death us do part.”
“You know there’s no point in killing me, because there’s nothing to inherit. You, on the other hand...”
“Stop being sarcastic, Howard. Just meet me halfway.”
He looked at her. “You’re actually serious.”
“Yes. I wanted you to know. This is how I feel.”
He could have made a joke, deflecting, because it was such a habit. Instead, he dropped it. He looked at her and said, “Thank you, T.J. It would be nice to not be alone.”
“Not just not alone, Howard. Loved.”
He felt stirred, because with T.J. he had never gone completely dead, but now it felt more like a habit than love.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. Sinclair’s married, about to have a baby, we’re getting older, and I’m in a sentimental mood. She paused. I was thinking, Howard...”
“Yes?” He was looking at her in earnest.
“I think we’re happier now.”
“Happier?”
“Yes, you know.”
He didn’t know.
“More settled. Like this is us. It has been us and continues to be us. I’m not so annoyed with you anymore.”
“I love that compliment.”
“No, I mean, what I feel about you... I trust you. You’re a good man, Howard.”
Was he? He had to work on feeling that, like digging to the bottom of a collapsed tunnel.
“We’re not always agitated by expectations anymore There’s something to be said for longevity. It’s our style of love.”
She was right, and she was wrong. He felt gladdened by what she’d just said. He wanted to give something back in response, but then she’d never lived in doubt, she always had him. He didn’t feel resentful about it anymore.
“I’m happy tonight, Howard.”
“I’m glad, T.J.”
“And you?”
“I’m content. A bit wistful, perhaps.”
“Howard, you’re never happy.”
“Don’t start, T.J.”
T. J. sighed in his arms and let it go.
“Now, I’m happy,” Howard said, and T.J. laughed.
He kissed the top of her head.
Lying there, he realized the tension in his clenched stomach was gone. As he focused on its absence, he realized his relief. When had that happened? Just now?
He heard Glick in his head saying, Howard, this is what you wanted, what you yearned for. T.J. loves you. Not just the words. Your wife loves you. Your daughter loves you.
…he didn’t have to work hard anymore.
“T.J.,” he whispered.
“Yes?” She lifted her head, and gave him one of her rare smiles that he’d always treasured—when she really looked at him, really saw him.
He was that hopeful boy again, looking into the sun of his mother’s face, her disappointment now eclipsed by another face that emerged as the shadows passed; T.J. shining on him, beaming her approval.
* * *
Thank you.
You deserved it, Howard.
You kept your word. A kind of happy ending.
Yes.
Did you know it would work out this way?
No. It was just an intention I was writing towards. In fact, it didn’t work out until the revision. Writing is full of surprises.
And Sinclair is having a baby?!
How does that make you feel?
It makes me feel hopeful, irrationally hopeful; in fact, happy.
See?
What happens to me?
Every time someone reads this book, you get out of bed and come alive.
I relive this over and over again?
Yes, but you don’t remember. Each time it’s new. Do you mind?
Could be worse. I could remember each time.
If I’m lucky, you will be alive after I’m dead.
That’s morbid.
That’s life.
But what about us?
“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places.”
What?
Nothing. I have a surprise for you, Howard.
You do? Will I like it?
I hope so.
Spring 2018
It was one of those mood-altering, glad to be alive, late spring afternoons, with a nip in the air, an azure sky, and daylight that was approaching the golden hour. He was sitting at the boat pond in Central Park, with his café au lait, reading a book of poems, waiting for his friend to show up. He was early. He wanted this time by himself to enjoy the lake view, the comfort of the coffee, the sense that he was in the last scene in a movie, where the protagonist is waiting for his old love to appear. He wanted to watch her approach, her smile of gladness at seeing him, the wave hello, to watch her as he once watched her so many years ago when she was young. When they were young. When he was young. Young. It sounded like an Asian word. Or a nonsense word. What will the memory of youth do to the present? Will she look the same emotionally to him? Or will the cruelty of aging shock them both into an awkward self-consciousness?
He looked down at the poetry book by David Schloss in his lap, and resumed reading from the poem, “In The Tradition of Men.”
I had it in me to be that passionate
self-deluded person once with wildly
inappropriate women, but now I must
live without constant yearning and fear.
And even though I was happiest waiting
for everything to somehow turn out right
by sheer force of will, though we weren’t
that well-matched, I guess, from the start,
it sped up my days and kept me up at night
when I poured so much energy into trying,
till the trying itself became an end in itself,
which tied me to loving like a dying animal.
“Howard?”
He looked up and there she was, standing next to the table.
“My God, Howard, you’ve gone all white!” She smiled and reached out her hand to stroke his hair. “It’s very becoming. As handsome as ever.”
He beamed at her, feeling elevated, reassured by her compliment. She would never make him feel old. The familiar way she was smiling at him made him relax. There was never any reason to be nervous. She knew him.
As she sat down and tucked her dress under her, the sheer material silhouetted her body, its pale blue flowers and yellow rosebuds floating down to her knees. Her gaze was full of interest and intelligence. She was just as he remembered her. It felt like the most natural thing in the world that they should be sitting here together, with time collapsed, as if they’d seen each other just last week.
“How do you do it? You haven’t aged a bit.”
Her smile broadened.
“No, I mean it. It’s astonishing.”
“My portrait in the closet, Howard, gets more decrepit every year.”
He laughed. “And life in general? How are things?”
“Let’s see. I’m still married. My children are grown, and I have a monarch butterfly garden.”
“You’re kidding? How do you know how to do that?”
“I read a book. I learned what to plant.”
“You’re amazing.”
“Not really. And you, Howard?”
“Let’s see. I’ve survived cancer, I’m still married and so is my gay daughter. I’m a grandfather.” He grinned. He was enjoying himself.
“Survived cancer? Howard.” Her concerned face was dear to him.
“Yes. I had bladder cancer. I’m alive, and here we are—God, how many years has it been?”
“Well, perhaps twenty years. But we’ve known each other more than fifty!”
“Impossible.”
“We were impossibly young. Seems like we met in another lifetime.”
“I’m so glad you could come. I’m so happy to see you.”
They stopped talking and just smiled at each other.
“So, you and T.J. are still together. That’s an accomplishment, considering I’m on my third husband.”
“Want to make it four?” he asked.
“Nope, this is my last. If it ends, never again.”
“Okay, we can be lovers. I’d love to sleep with you.”
“Howard, the idea of getting naked with anyone new…well, you would have to be blind.”
“Reminds me of that great scene with Claude Rains and Bette Davis in Mr. Skeffington when blind Claude Rains tells a once beautiful, and now, physically ravaged Bette Davis, ‘You’ve never been more beautiful.’”
“Yes, ‘A woman is only beautiful when she is loved.’”
They smiled at each other again, letting the moment linger.
“I think,” Howard said, “that feeling warm flesh under the covers, skin touching skin erases age. We respond, and that is the youth serum.”
“Perhaps.” She thought about what he said. “Yes, you’re right. But let’s not talk about sex. I want to be here with you, right now. It’s a glorious day.”
