Truth in Advertising Page 0,44
early. They let us go.”
“Petersen’s,” she said. “For milk. We need some things.” Petersen’s Market. It was just down the street. Spring Street.
I turned to go into the house. She said, “Finny.”
I stopped and looked back.
She reached her hand out, touched my face, my cheek, smoothed my hair. She looked like she wanted to say something. She looked tired. I watched her get in her car and back out, drive up the street. And I saw my bike, this crappy green bike that I had, lying on the grass next to the back stairs. I thought about moving it to the shed out back in case it rained but I didn’t.
There are things you should never write down. For example, I think that it is not a good idea, for anyone involved, to get a large manila envelope in the mail a month or so after your mother’s funeral addressed to The Dolan Children from your mother’s best friend, Mary Downey. I think it is a mistake for Mary to write a short note: Your mother asked me to send this to you. I am so sorry. Mary. And I think that it is dangerous to send a one-page letter to your children telling them how much you loved them, talking of the hole in your heart, the joy that had gone out of your life, the mistakes and sins and guilt, the prayers you had said for all of us, yet never saying the words I am now going to drive my cream-colored Chevy Nova directly into the large elm tree at the bend in the road on Spring Street, the too-sharp bend, the site of so many accidents over the years, the tree just beyond the entrance to St. Joseph Cemetery.
Eddie had told us to come to the kitchen. He read the letter. I don’t remember much of it. I do remember that Maura held a dishtowel in her balled-up fists, her eyes wide, as if she were going insane. Kevin sobbed and said, “Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus.” The muscles in Eddie’s jaw moving, reading the letter with his teeth together, his voice cold and angry. As for myself, just as when my father left, I remember thinking that it wasn’t real. I remember feeling as if it weren’t happening to me. What I do remember very clearly is thinking this: What was going through her mind as she accelerated and turned the wheel toward the tree? I wondered if she was crying or mildly excited about doing something so dangerous or if she was scared. Was she smoking, as she often did in the car? Was the radio on? I remember watching them, my sister and brothers, that day. There was a tree in the backyard, the long, thin branches of which would scrape against the window when it was windy. It drove my father nuts. It scraped now, in the wind. They seemed far away and sad. I watched them, all four of them, me included. How could I tell them that it was okay, that it would be fine, that it wasn’t true. That it couldn’t be true.
I know that Eddie made a copy of her letter and mailed it to my father. I wonder what it was like to receive that.
Standing in front of his children, at his wife’s wake, my father finally looked up.
He said, “She deserved better than me. You all did.”
I stood closest to him. He seemed to be in so much pain. He seemed a stranger to me, a sad man in a bad suit. Someone should help him, I thought. I was going to say “Dad.” I was going to put my arm out, touch him. That’s what I thought. I could see it in my mind. But then he turned and walked out.
In the evenings, long before, when it was good, he would sit with a cup of tea, alone, after dinner, and leaf through the Sears catalog, humming.
My cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Dolan?” I realize that I’m toying with my father’s IV tube, flicking it with my index finger, causing small bubbles to form, which I don’t think is a good thing.
“Mr. Dolan, Dwayne Nevis from American Express. Great news about your account. You’re now Executive Platinum. Would you have a moment to talk about the benefits?”
IT’S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR
The woman behind the desk at the hotel says with a big grin, “Are you here for Knockwurst