Matthew Thomas - We Are Not Ourselves

• • •

They sat through another dinnertime silence, every clinking fork magnified as though by a set of speakers. His parents’ former banter had given way to remorseless, efficient eating, like that of lions after a hunt. A vague unease hung in the air, localized for Connell in the spot above the doorway where a pair of plaster doves sat perched on a heart, locked in a kiss. The doves were a wedding present from friends his parents had since lost touch with. They hung loosely on the nail and were dislodged by the slightest bump or bang. A year ago, one of those falls broke off a chunk of the heart. His father had Krazy-Glued it back together, and there were white cracks in the broken places. Connell wanted to take it off the wall, thrust it up under their noses, and say, “You see this! This is supposed to be you two! Lovebirds!”

The silvery clinks grew more frequent as the meal progressed, as though his parents were hurrying to dispatch the business of eating so they could return to the more complete nourishment provided by their private thoughts. His mother hadn’t noticed that he’d slipped most of his fatty steak into the napkin in his lap. He would deposit it into the garbage when she wasn’t looking.

His mother slapped her hands on the table. “Since when does this family have nothing to say to each other?” His father kept chewing, so Connell did too. They had a nice little solidarity going. His father was looking down at his plate. Connell tried to do the same, but he could feel his mother’s eyes on him.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll start. What about school? Any interesting assignments?”

Lately he’d felt called upon to drive the silences away. Never before had his comings and goings generated so much fodder. He felt perpetually on the verge of blurting out something embarrassing.

He shook his head.

“Okay,” his mother said. “I’ve had enough of the both of you.” She stood up to clear her plate.

“I’m writing an essay about Uncle Pat,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to mention it, because he resented the responsibility of keeping conversation alive in their family, but the assignment was real, and if it could bring his mother back to the table, it would take some pressure from his father.

“Why Uncle Pat?” his mother asked, resuming her seat.

Uncle Pat wasn’t really his uncle. He was his mother’s first cousin. He put Connell on stools in dark saloons and introduced him as “the Dude.” He had a scar on his face from the time he stopped the mugging of an old lady. Wherever they went, Uncle Pat knew everyone.

“I have to find someone in my family with an interesting job,” Connell said. “Go where this person works if possible, and write five hundred words about it.”

“I’ll tell you who has an interesting job. Your father does. You can watch him teach.”

His father put down his knife and fork and looked up. “He doesn’t want to watch me teach,” he said firmly. “Let him follow Pat around the cages. He can learn some valuable lessons.”

“Ed,” she said.

“He can ask him why he’s cleaning up canary poop after owning one of the most successful bars on the North Fork. He can ask him why we had to write a check to pay his state taxes last year.”

“I’d rather you watched your father,” his mother said.

“I can’t watch Dad,” he said. “It’s due tomorrow.”

“ Tomorrow ,” she said, snorting. “That’s just great. And when exactly were you planning on getting out to the Island?”

“I’ve seen the farm,” he said. “I can just make it up.”

“No, you can’t. I won’t let you avoid the research.”

“Jeez.”

“I’ll call the school in the morning and say you’re sick. You’ll turn it in a day late.”

“Cool! I’ll take the train out to Uncle Pat.”

“You’re dreaming,” his mother said. “You’re going to the college with your father.” She threw her napkin on her plate. “I’m going for a walk. I cooked, you two can clean.”

He and his father exchanged glances as the front door slammed. His father didn’t notice him emptying the napkin into the garbage.

Normally he needed a raging fever to stay home. People died on his mother’s gurneys; a guy once died in her arms.

“Tomorrow’s your lucky day,” his father said flatly. “I don’t teach until eleven.”

Connell did a victory dance. He expected his father to laugh, but his father kept his head down and his hands plunged in the filmy water.

• • •

Connell awoke to the odd sensation of a motherless house and stumbled out to the study to find his father leaning over his desk writing something. He started to speak, but his father put up a hand to cut him off.

“Get in the shower.”

He hadn’t finished his cereal when his father told him to start the car. Connell loved to sit in the driver’s seat when the engine was running. The rumbling under him spoke of power and freedom, as well as great potential for danger. If he shifted the gears incorrectly, he could go crashing through the new garage door, or back into a pedestrian on the sidewalk.

“Move over,” his father said. “This isn’t the time. And keep that thing off.” He snapped at the radio knob before Connell could.

“Let me tell you about my students,” he said after some silence. “They’re tough.” He had that look in his eye that he got when he was moved by something. “They’re proud. They can spot a faker a mile away. They don’t tolerate being treated like children. There’s too much at stake for them.”

Connell had no idea what his father was getting at.

“When we get to the lecture room, I’m going to introduce you, and I want you to sit in the back and listen. I don’t want you to distract anyone. I won’t be able to talk to you, so you can’t ask any questions. Please don’t interrupt me, because I have to concentrate.”

They arrived at the campus and parked in the garage. His father shut the engine off and sat still. He had his eyes closed and was taking deep breaths. Connell waited for something to happen. His father started rubbing his temples. After a while he opened his eyes and looked at him.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” Connell said.

His father reached to the back seat for his briefcase. “I was just doing a little relaxation ritual I have before I go in to teach.”

It was hard to believe his father needed such a thing. He’d always projected such easy command, and there were plaques on the wall attesting to his excellence as a teacher.

He was looking for something in his briefcase, not finding it, and growing agitated. He pulled a pile of papers out in a panicked frenzy and rifled through them. In the close quarters of the front seat, Connell could almost hear his father’s heart pounding. When he found what he was looking for, a legal pad, the heaving in his chest and the kinetic fury of his hands settled into an eerie stillness that overtook his whole body. Connell had no idea what to say. His father was staring straight ahead.

“It’s nothing,” his father said. “It’s that you’re here. I want everything to be perfect.”

They walked through the campus, passing people his father knew. His father introduced him quickly, barely stopping to do so, even though the people sported those deliberate expressions of instant delight that all people, however curmudgeonly, were required to produce upon meeting the progeny of their colleagues. He was walking so fast that Connell had a hard time keeping up with him, and eventually he broke into a little trot, which prevented Connell from taking in the sights as he would have liked. It looked like one of those fancy campuses in movies, with buildings with august columns and stonework, not like a place for people hanging on by a hair.