Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“I’m still thinking.”

“I’ve got one,” Phillip says. “When I was in Little League, I had trouble catching. So they put me out in right field. And in the last inning, I dropped two balls that cost us the game. Our coach was this fat guy, I forgot his name. He got all crazy and started screaming at me. He called me worthless. So Dad stepped between us and I didn’t see what he did, but next thing I know, the coach is on the ground, and Dad is stepping on his chest. And he says, ‘Call my son worthless again.’”

“That’s fantastic,” Alice says, clapping. “I never heard that one.”

“This might sound twisted, but I hope, when I have a kid, that someone calls him a name, just so I can do for him what Dad did for me.”

“That’s beautiful, Phillip,” Mom says.

“Yes,” Tracy says. “But why not just hope that no one calls your child a name?”

Phillip looks at her. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You know damn well what.”

“I was just saying that as long as you’re being theoretical, why not aim higher?”

“My dad stood up for me. I want to stand up for my kid.”

“And teach him that violence is a legitimate means of conflict resolution?”

“He’s going to have to learn it sometime.”

“A few well-chosen words might have shamed your coach into apologizing.”

“But if he had, I wouldn’t have had a story to remind me of how my father took care of me, and you wouldn’t have been able to suck all the joy out of it, and where would we all be then?”

Tracy blinks repeatedly, blushing as she gets to her feet. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I was being insensitive.”

“Apology accepted,” Phillip says without looking at her.

“I’m going to take a walk and return some calls.”

“You meant well, honey,” Linda says to her as she leaves.

Once she’s gone, Phillip looks around at us sheepishly. “She takes a little getting used to.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have dressed her down like that, in front of your family,” Linda says. “She’s still a guest here.”

“I thought you were completely justified,” Mom says.

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree then,” Linda says.

Mom casts a dark look at Linda before turning to me. “So, Judd, what do you have for me?”

What I have is nothing. I’ve been wracking my brain, but every memory I have of my father is tied up with everyone else. I know there must have been times when it was just the two of us, but I can’t remember any of them. I can only see him in the context of everyone else. Phillip’s story, in particular, made me think of riding home in Dad’s car after Paul’s games.

Paul was a standout pitcher, the only one of us with true ability, and driving home from his games, Dad would relive the highlights out loud, shaking his head in disbelief that one of his children was capable of anything other than disappointing him. Having a brother who was the school’s most acclaimed athlete was not without its perks. It may not have been enough to land me a girlfriend, but being Paul’s untalented runt of a brother was still better than being just another pimply underclassman with bad hair and an ass to kick. Still, I hated those car rides after the games, the Cadillac littered with samples and torn packaging, the next month’s sale signage shifting and grinding in the trunk like tectonic plates every time Dad braked, listening to him come out of his customary shell to praise Paul in a way he would never praise me. Wendy would sit directly behind Dad, lip-syncing to his soliloquy, trying to get me to laugh, while Phillip whined about always having to sit between us on the hump, and Mom looked out the window, humming along to the oldies station on the radio.

In his senior year, Paul was awarded a full baseball scholarship to UMass. Now, not only was he the talented son, he was also paying his own way. Paul was golden. He spent his summer celebrating with his buddies and having sex with a rotation of baseball groupies. It was a busy time for him, and on those rare occasions he was home, he was either passed out in his basement bedroom or hungover at the kitchen table, reading the sports pages and sipping at a black coffee.

Simmering with envy, I wondered what I could do to distinguish myself as anything other than a waste of space. Athletics were out—I played hockey in a local league, but there was no school team, and I wasn’t particularly gifted anyway. I briefly considered joining the debate team, but I knew my father wouldn’t see the point to a group of kids putting on striped red and blue ties to argue in public. As far as I could see, my best shot at gaining his approval was to get wounded while foiling an armed robbery at the 7-Eleven. Instead, I spent my summer in the 7-Eleven parking lot, smoking pot and wishing for something bad to happen to Paul.

And then something did.

Mr. Applebaum is all over Mom. He clasps her hand between his, he pats her arm, his fingers snaking around her wrist, his eyes darting back and forth across her chest like a tiny tennis match is being played across the line of her cleavage. He’s pulled his folding chair up close to her, and with Mom down in the shiva chair, he is perfectly positioned to ogle.

“I’ve been through this, Hillary,” he says. His dark, bushy eyebrows call to mind political cartoons as they arch compassionately under his wiry silver hair. “When I lost Adele, the community was very supportive. Mort was wonderful. You remember, he came over and fixed the air conditioner during my shiva? All those people in the house, and the air handler crapped out.”

“He knew machines,” Mom says.

“Look at that,” Wendy whispers. “He’s staring at her breasts, and her head is practically between his knees.”

“It’s just the angle,” I say. “These low chairs.”

“These chairs are a practical joke. And Mom should wear less revealing shirts.”

“She doesn’t own less revealing shirts.”

“I feel like I’m watching the opening scene of an AARP porno,” Phillip says.

Mr. Applebaum rubs Mom’s wrist. He’s the only visitor right now, and so he’s got her cornered. Not that she seems to mind the attention. “If you ever need to talk, Hill. Day or night. Just call, and I’ll be there.”

“I bet he will,” Wendy says.

“Just call my name,” Phillip sings in a head voice. “And I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Peter. I appreciate that.”

“It can be very lonely.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Applebaum sighs and looks down at her, reluctant to let go of her hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

“Okay.”

He stands up and then pulls her up by her hand to clutch her in a full-bodied embrace. “You’re going to be fine, Hillary.”

Mom pats his back while he holds her tight.

“The old guy just copped a feel,” Paul says, joining in.

“Give him a break,” I say. “They’ve known each other for years.”

I remember Applebaum’s wife, Adele, a tall, vivacious woman with big teeth and a resounding laugh. She would grab my hair when I was a kid and say, “Oh, Hill, the girls are just going to go wild over this one!” Then she’d wink at me and say, “Look me up when you’re legal. We’ll run away together.” She started having strokes a few years ago. I remember him pushing her around at Paul’s wedding in a wheelchair. She could only smile with half her face and couldn’t reach my hair with her withered arm. I thought she may have winked at me, but it was hard to tell.

Applebaum finally lets go of Mom and turns to face the rest of us. “You kids take care of your beautiful mother, okay?”