Alois Hotschnig - Maybe This Time

While I stayed away from the family gatherings, not one of my relatives mentioned my absence. This bothered me, as I felt that they should notice I wasn’t there. I wanted them to miss me. After all, Father is old, and Mother isn’t getting any younger. How many more times would I see them, I wondered. And so I forced myself to return.

My parents cling to this person, and we in turn all cling to him. Walter haunts them and they let it happen, and so do we, as if we had to pay off a debt or atone for some unspecified offence.

As a child, I often asked my mother what we had done to Uncle Walter to make him stay away, because I assumed we must be at fault. I sensed how easily I could embarrass her with this question and what power I had over her at that moment, and so I asked it when we were not alone, preferably in public.

What happened with him? I asked. Why do we do this? Why do we always wait, when he never comes?

Why should anything have happened? She replied. Nothing happened, not a thing. She disappeared for a while, then returned. Walter was always that way, she said, even as a child. Always apart from the others and on his own. Crowds are not for Walter, they make him anxious. There are too many of us for him, too many at once. It frightens him. He’s afraid of us, she said, afraid of how loud we are now. It’s true. She’s right about that, we’ve always been loud. But why we should keep waiting for him when we’ve always been too many for him, to that she gave no answer.

In summer, weather permitting, we wait in the garden because the children’s rowdiness often makes it difficult to stay indoors. So we sit in the sun or under one of the trees. Only Walter’s chair sits off to the side in the shade of one of the other trees.

Walter can’t bear the sun. Too much light isn’t good for him, and draughts make him ill. So the windows and doors are all kept shut, since Walter mustn’t become ill. In summer, we wait in the sun or in the shade, and in cold weather we wait indoors. The house is not heated. The warmth isn’t good for Walter, so in winter we sit chilled in the rooms, looking at each other but with Walter on our minds. We try to get along, which we do and then don’t. We leave only to return, looking at one another again, and we wait for Walter without really expecting him. We sit together and try to forget him, and whenever we succeed or simply believe we’ve succeeded, even for a moment, when things are quiet, peaceful and calm, Mother says into the silence: And when I think that things are so good for us, and Walter is alone somewhere, I don’t think it’s right.

Walter isn’t alone. We know his wife and his son and his grandson, who are both named Walter, after him. He’s not alone, we know, but we don’t contradict Mother, since for her that doesn’t count. For Mother, Walter was and is alone. Ria doesn’t change anything, she says dismissively. We have each other, but Walter is always on his own, so we must think of him and take care of him. And that is no doubt precisely what Walter wanted to avoid.

When we exchange presents, there is always one for him, inconspicuous, but plainly visible for those who want to see it. After the Christmas tree is cleared away, one present remains unopened until Easter or Pentecost, or even later, when it disappears into a cupboard, only to reappear under the tree the following Christmas.

Once in a while, Father will suddenly stand up and go to the telephone in the hall, to enquire. Although everyone watches him, they all continue to speak, or scream, or be silent, as if they haven’t noticed a thing. After a time, he comes back into the room and sits in his chair, clearly distracted. He gazes at those around him, but says nothing. The afternoon passes, and the evening, then he taps the table with his finger and announces, Walter’s still coming. He says this as he glances around him. Who did you speak to? Who did you call? we ask.

Walter should be here by now, he replies. This from Walter’s son, who had no idea where else Walter could have gone. And then the doorbell rings. Mother looks around, gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind her, and we stay put.

Walter’s wife occasionally stops by unannounced, whether out of consideration for our parents or because Walter sends her. The door opens and we see that Walter isn’t with her. She has come without him. Still, one person fewer is missing, because Ria belongs with us, even if she doesn’t count without Walter. So we wait with her, since she always insists that he intends to come. Walter will follow, she says then. She has come ahead of him because he was held up by someone at the last moment. We wait, and while waiting she becomes restless and worried, as do we and our parents. Something must have happened or he would be here, she says. She stays a while longer, then leaves. We stay behind, waiting for her call, for a sign. But there is none, ever, as if there really were no Walter, not for us.

But there is a Walter. And he’s coming. If what our parents tell us is true. Walter’s coming, they say. In a day or two, in a week, in a month. Walter will come in his own time. The door opens and he’s standing here in the room.

Mother calls. Walter was here, she says. His chair is still warm. Imagine, we almost missed him! Good thing we had a feeling he’d come. Then she says, Next time, make sure to be here. I always knew, she says then. Walter is coming, he’s looking forward to seeing you. Next time you’ll come too. Walter’s coming, he promised. Then we’ll all be together. Promise me that you’ll come. Walter would like to see you, she says. I promise, as do the others. We all promise, each of us. Yes, I promise, I say. I’ll be there and Walter will too, for sure. And at our next visit they both tell us about Walter and how it all went.

We can’t leave, we have to include him, they say, when they suspect that we might once again be trying to stop them thinking of Walter by suggesting an outing.

We don’t want to tempt them away, so we listen to them and their stories. Eventually it’s evening, then night, and although it’s clear to the rest of us that Walter won’t be coming this time either, they seem calmly confident, knowing they’re home and ready in case he does come.

We’re not so different, I often think. I, too, want to be available. I know that desire all too well. If someone is waiting for me, anywhere, or wants to stop in and see me, announced or unannounced, I sometimes think I consist of nothing but the desire to see that person. So I shy away from commitments, and whatever meetings I agree to, I cancel, just to be free in case anyone should decide to stop by. I make an exception for my parents, so often, in fact, that there is little time left for anyone else. Still, even on my way to their house, I worry that someone might be standing at my door and I won’t be there. The last time I came, at the very moment I opened the door, it dawned on me that I had forgotten about Winkler. I hadn’t seen him for years, and now I had forgotten about him. He was left standing at my door with his wife and children, and I couldn’t reach him, no matter how often I tried, either then or since. In fairness, it wasn’t the first time I had stood him up like that.

It happens time after time. And time after time while I am with my family at my parents’ house, sitting in the garden or at the dinner table, my mind wanders to my front door where someone might perhaps be waiting. Then I look at each member of my family in turn and think how impossible it is to escape these family ties. No one has managed it except Walter, and for him there was a price which we all must pay.

And yet, at each gathering, the moment comes when it’s time to leave, to let it go and admit that there is no point in waiting, at least this time, and Father sweeps his hand across the table and says nothing, but then, finally, he says, Walter probably won’t make it today after all. He stands up and thanks everyone for coming and, turning to Mother, says, I’ll be off to bed then. Mother follows him to the door of the room. She closes it behind him, and straightens her blouse and sits down and stays with us for a little while longer. Eventually she lowers her eyes, smiles and claps her hands cheerfully. Tomorrow I will give Walter your best, she says.