During the first year of my parents’ marriage my mother was shot dead. Anticipating Dad's imminent arrival home from work, Mom smeared her house dress with ketchup and lay down on her shiny linoleum floor. To add realism, she took the pointy gold tip of a small American flagpole, rubbed her make-shift bullet in ketchup and placed it carefully beside her prone broken body. Given no thrift to whether or not my father’s family had a heart ailment history, there on the cold clean floor she died as Dad climbed the four flights to their newlywed castle. In the living room, Artie Shaw’s sweet clarinet lifted, floating heart aching notes off the walls playing, “Begin the Beguine.”
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Two versions survive what happened next.
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“Your father screamed like a girl and fell to his knees," said Mom. "His tears leaked on my face as he pulled me up for a reenactment of Michelangelo’s Pieta. I said “Boo!” and shot laughing spit across his face. Hearing Dad’s keening wails, Chickie Murphy, my best friend in the whole world, ran in from the apartment across the hall. Chickie found us disembraced. I was still gaggling on the floor, while your Dad worked a sponge over several stains on his suit and mumbled obscenities.”
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Mom said they didn't talk for four days.
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Dad’s version.
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“I walked in and immediately knew your Mom was just fine and being a ninny. She grew furious at my indifference. She got up and roughly hugged me causing the ensuing suit stains. Chickie Murphy did come into the apartment but rather than join your mother’s celebration, Chickie sadly shook her cute Irish head side to side in a steady rhythm saying slowly, “Poor Patty, you need help; you really need professional help.”
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Dad said they didn't talk for four days. That is the story’s single matching fact if you discount Chickie’s appearance.
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This overture opened my parents' 46 year opera.
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Mom’s aim was true. Her bullshit gun targeted Dad and never missed. If he started in on her or began delivering his unique gospel from the book of Bob, Mom would pick up an imaginary phone and answer, “Ha-no, ha-no”. Despite all efforts otherwise, Dad couldn't get his L’s into his hello. No matter how hard he tried, once the phone rang and he answered it, he was trapped into saying, “Ha-no”. His L’s became Ns’. My brother Rory and I were in awe of Mom. When we got older we talked about it and found it remarkable on two levels: Why Dad never thought to change his greeting to, "Good morning" say, or when he was at work, "Barber Shipping Lines!” And why did Dad never learn to hide this massive red button from Mom. Every time Mom answered her imaginary phone, greeting whoever with the N’s instead of the L’s, I’d watch Dad’s head turn into a teapot and I uneasily waited for the steam to leave his ears.
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Being with my parents together meant entering a war zone. The space was negotiated rather than shared. Rory and I played an assortment of survival games. One of our games was “Mum.” We’d try and see who could go the longest without saying a word. Whoever lost got a punch in the arm. Dad invented “Mum” as an antidote for his hangovers. He liked it quiet when he wasn’t speaking. I preferred being alone with Mom.
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When I was sick and home from school, I'd lay on the couch. Terribly bored, I developed a torture - tickle sequence for Mom. For torture, I’d move the art. If Mom was in the kitchen or doing anything I felt left me enough time with her out of the room, I’d move the art. Leaving the couch quietly, I’d carefully skew the 20 something frames surrounding Dad’s art on the wall, moving the frames just enough to confuse the viewer that each was no longer perfectly straight. My opportunity was fragile. The tower’s light took only so many seconds to circle the prisoners' courtyard. It was critical to my effort that I return to the couch to resume my Camille death scene, before Mom came back into the room. I learned to measure my success by the number of face twitches I counted on Mom’s face as her eyes rolled around and around the room.
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She never wanted to give in and acknowledge I did it because it drove her crazy. She’d give me this pathetic look.
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It said,“Don’t you know what this does to me?”
Do you like to do this to me?
Please don’t do this to me.
Did you do this to me?”
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And when she could no longer bear it, she’d chase me for an hour around the furniture and beg me to never do it again. I’d promise, but never did.
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The tickle mommy part happened deep into a sick day. Mom would be exhausted from taking care of me, and I’d be itchy for action. We’d reversed places. She took to the couch and I started going through my drawers looking for something new to do - or at least something worth repeating. I'd wait till Mom was either in a foggy coma or out like a light. In my room, I'd put a sock snug over each of my ears. Then I'd work a 45 record single onto each ear pulling the sock through the record’s center hole, then I’d bend each ear over like a taco and pull my ears through the record’s hole. Now the socks were locked on. I had proper puppy ears. Crawling through my room, I’d work my way to the back of the couch. Continuing on my belly, I'd round the couch coming face to face with sleeping Mommy. In a whisper, I’d slowly build a doggy bark, “Woof, woof, woof.” Never to frighten her but hopefully in the best case slowly bring Mom to. I’d lick her nose a smidge. She’d start laughing low and sweet and lean over and pull my head up to her's kissing my hair and nuzzling me good, then we’d rock together.
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