Part 13 (1/2)
”Good, but not good enough. Not when your parents lay out a hundred grand for a high school education.”
”Where does Sarah want to go?”
”I don't know, and I don't really give a s.h.i.+t, Dad. I'm out of that game.”
I scramble the eggs, pour them into a hot b.u.t.tered pan. The smoke alarm goes off. It always does when I cook. Jake pulls it off the wall and pops out one of the batteries, killing the shrieking sound. ”Was your mother's death a sudden thing?”
I knew we'd be getting back to this. Jake has been patient, letting the topic marinate overnight before coming back to it. I don't really have any more excuses. We've agreed to talk about all things. All I can do is stall it a little.
”Jake. Let me tell you something I've learned. Everybody's Everybody's death is a sudden thing. Did you know that when Elvis died, not one newspaper in the country was ready with a standing obituary? Not one.” death is a sudden thing. Did you know that when Elvis died, not one newspaper in the country was ready with a standing obituary? Not one.”
”I don't want to talk about Elvis, Dad. Please don't veer off the topic.”
”What exactly is the topic?”
”My grandmother. I'm asking you something about my grandmother.”
It's odd to hear my mother referred to by a word for something she never lived long enough to become.
”Was her death a shock? Or had she been sick for a long time?”
I have to answer him. ”It was a shock. She hadn't been sick. She just...died.”
Jake shakes his head. ”Well, I guess that made it easy for her, but kind of rough on you and your father.”
”That's exactly right. It was rough.”
I'm scrambling eggs, keeping them moving around so they don't stick to the pan. It's good to have something to do with my trembling hands while discussing this particular matter. I'm hoping it's over, but it isn't.
”Was she home?”
”What?”
”Was she home when she died, or not?”
”What the h.e.l.l are you asking that that for?” for?”
”What are you getting so upset about?”
”This doesn't happen to be one of my happiest memories.”
”Whoa, whoa, Dad. We're supposed to be able to ask each other stuff, aren't we? Wasn't that the deal?”
”Yeah, that was the deal. So let me ask you you something. Why did you stop playing the cello?” something. Why did you stop playing the cello?”
It's as if I've just soaked him with a pail of ice water. Jake's shoulders harden, and his eyes narrow. ”We weren't discussing the cello.”
”We weren't discussing my mother, either.”
”I'll tell you about the cello later.”
”Swear?”
”Absolutely.”
The cello mystery has been bugging me for three years. Jake began playing the instrument when he was seven and immediately displayed a genius for it, according to his cello instructor, who, it should be noted, charged a hundred and fifty dollars per lesson. (I once asked the instructor if that was his ”genius” rate, and he responded with an ambivalent chuckle.) Jake actually played in a concert at Avery Fisher Music Hall when he was eleven years old, but then one day when he was fourteen he refused to play the cello anymore, and his mother wouldn't tell me why. I didn't save any money on the deal because the shrink Doris insisted on sending Jake to after he quit the cello also cost a hundred and fifty dollars per hour. Jump ball.
The bacon and eggs are done. I kill the flames and load the plates with food. Just as I set the plates down, the toast pops up. I have always been proud of my timing.
”So. Dad. Was she at home when she died, or not?”
For the first time in years, I feel the urge to give my son a smack. Instead, I answer his question. ”No, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, she wasn't home.”
”Where was she?”
”Out somewhere. I don't remember.”
”How could you not remember a thing like that?”
”It was a long time ago, Jake. I don't remember where she dropped dead, all right?”
It's not all right, but he doesn't press it. We begin to eat. The food is good and hearty. Jake is silent. I am silent. We cannot go on like this.
”She loved bacon and eggs,” I hear myself say.
Jake looks up from his food. ”Your mother did?”
”Yeah. She loved good food. A true Italian girl. Great cook.”
Jake sets his fork down. ”Your mother was Italian?”
”You didn't know that?”
”I'm seventeen years old and now now I'm finding out I'm part Italian!” I'm finding out I'm part Italian!”
”I thought you knew.”
”I a.s.sumed I was Irish from your side!”
”You are. But you're Italian, too, plus Spanish from your mother's side, as I'm sure you figured from the name 'Perez.'”
Jake looks pale. ”I'm part Italian,” he says, in a voice of wonder. ”Jesus Christ, Dad, this would have been a nice thing to know about ten or fifteen years ago!”
”Why? You want to join the Mafia?”
”Don't kid around about it, Dad! This is my history!” history!” he shouts, slamming the table with his fist. ”It'd be nice to know where I came from! All my grandparents are dead, and I never even he shouts, slamming the table with his fist. ”It'd be nice to know where I came from! All my grandparents are dead, and I never even met met them! You and Mom act as if you're Adam and Eve! The whole f.u.c.king world began when you two had me, and it ended when you split up!” them! You and Mom act as if you're Adam and Eve! The whole f.u.c.king world began when you two had me, and it ended when you split up!”