Father's Day

For Joan and Steve

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines.

—
W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

H
ARVEY WAS BORN
in a redbrick hospital on a hill. It was the hardest day of her mother's life and she cried for a long time after.

There was a park near the hospital where children went on swings and ran away from their parents. Harvey's mother used to go there when she was pregnant. She sat on a bench and ate little things from her purse.

There was also a duck pond that froze in winter. People came early, in twos and threes. They held hands going around in loose circles. There was no music, just human voices and the clopping of skates.

When Harvey was old enough to feed the ducks, her parents brought her to the park with a stale loaf. Her father put his hand inside the bag, tearing the bread into small pieces.

“You were born here,” he told her.

“In the park?”

“No, in a hospital,” her father said. “But in this town.”

Some of the ducks came right up to Harvey. They tilted their heads to one side and opened their beaks. When the bag was empty, her father shook out the crumbs.

Harvey wanted to see the hospital where she was born, but her mother said next time, for sure.

Harvey asked how many babies are born in the world on one day.

“Thousands,” her father replied. “Maybe millions.”

Harvey imagined the babies in her room. So many it was hard to open the door. Some of them were crying, their faces red and glistening. Others crawled around touching things, or just lay on their backs. Harvey imagined sweeping the babies up with her play broom.

“When can I have a baby, Daddy?”

“When you get married,” said her father. “When you're in love.”

“I only want two. Two little sisters.”

At lunchtime, they went into town. Harvey clambered into her stroller. She knew how to get in without making it tip. Her doll Duncan had been waiting for her. He was just a baby and needed looking after.

Sometimes on long car trips he threw up doll pizza.

The crackle of stroller wheels on the sidewalk. Winter salt not yet washed away. Town very busy. Lines of cars at red lights. People inside the cars looking at them. Harvey reaching under the seat to poke the shape of her butt. It was like a big tummy. A big tummy with a person inside.

She put Duncan under her shirt. “Look,” she said. “I'm married, and this is my first baby.”

Harvey's mother laughed but then felt hollow and afraid. Her husband's arm came around her.

“Everything we're feeling, they said we were gonna feel,” he told her.

T
HE RESTAURANT IN
town was famous for a life-size statue of a donkey. Everyone coming in had to touch it for good luck, even Duncan with his plastic doll hand.

Harvey watched her mother's face when their orange
soda arrived in glass bottles. She couldn't read but knew what writing was. Harvey would get soda for being good—which meant not talking, or at Easter—after giving up candy for Lent.

Harvey plopped Duncan on her mother's lap. It was a sacrifice to let him go, but sudden generosity made her feel safe. Her mother sucked down the orange liquid, tipping back the bottle, the pop fizzing as though angry, making her lips shine. Harvey wanted to wear lipstick too, but wasn't allowed. She wanted to touch it with her tongue but was definitely not allowed. It was like the skin of a red apple.
Poor Snow White,
Harvey thought.
She had to sleep for a million years, all because of fruit
. At McDonald's she sometimes painted her lips with ketchup, using a french fry, but then retched.

Harvey's mother patted Duncan's head, then cupped her daughter's hand inside her own as though it were a secret she was keeping. Two waiters in fancy hats brought a cart to their table and mashed avocados in a stone bowl. They all watched. The waiters were getting it on their hands.

“It's like green poop,” Harvey said.

H
ARVEY
'
S FATHER OWNED
a jewelry store at the mall. He left early in a gray two-piece suit. Aftershave made him feel important.

Sometimes he came home with a bag of food from McDonald's or Burger King
.
(Other restaurants didn't put toys in the bag.) Her father's business did well during the holidays. One of Harvey's first memories was watching a woman try on a gold necklace. It was around Christmas, so the shop was
decorated. Harvey and her mother were waiting for him to close, but then a man and a woman came in holding hands.

The necklace was brought to the woman on a red cushion, the way Harvey had seen things carried at church. Her mother said that people liked gold crosses at Christmas because Jesus had died on one. Harvey once saw a picture of Jesus dying. His head hung low like he was upset about something. There were spikes too. People stood watching in sandals and bathrobes. Harvey knew there were bad people who hurt others. She had seen them on TV. They had guns and rode motorcycles and came for you at night or in the city.

The woman looked at the necklace on the cushion, then at her husband.

“Where was Jesus born?” Harvey asked her mother.

“You should know that.”

“I forgot.”

“In a stable,” her mother reminded her. “With animals watching and presents from three wise men.”

Harvey wished she had been born in a stable on Christmas Day. Santa Claus could have been her wise man. Santa could have given the animals a chance to fly with magic dust. Jesus too if he wanted.

Harvey's father watched the man fasten the necklace around his partner's neck. When the woman felt his hands, she closed her eyes and stroked the cross with her fingers.

Harvey wondered how something that had hurt Jesus could make people happy. Sometimes she would lose count of the things that didn't make sense.

When Harvey was a little older, the mall got bigger and other jewelry stores opened up. Harvey's father tried to drum
up business with coupons in the
Penny Saver,
radio ads, and a man outside the mall in a Statue of Liberty costume. The man was supposed to dance and get everyone excited, but whenever Harvey and her father drove by, he was sitting on the curb.

When Harvey was four years old, her mother had to start working.

Harvey was sent to day care and wept uncontrollably when her mother came for her in the evening.

“We've never seen her cry like this,” the caregivers used to say.

Harvey's mother made a face. “Don't you love your mommy?”

But that wasn't it. She hadn't been able to cry all day because the people there didn't love her and she was afraid of them.

Her father said the food they served was trash.

At home, Harvey's mother made pasta sauce with canned tomatoes, garlic, and onion. She said sugar was the secret ingredient. She also made fresh mashed potatoes. Harvey poured in cream, then watched it gloop in the mixer. On television, she saw a commercial with a girl doing the same thing. Years later, Harvey wondered if it was only that she was remembering, because all life is pieced together from memory where nothing is certain, even feeling.

In late January, icicles formed outside Harvey's window, dripping into a shallow pool. In winter, nothing grew under the hard leaves that clawed the flowerbeds.

Harvey remembers taking off her mittens to palm the frozen earth. Her hands then were small and fleshy. Garden
tools left out were drained of color by winter; the cold handles of a wheelbarrow she used to ride in barefoot, when it was hot and the air rang with green grass.

Sometimes she helped her mother plant bulbs. Eyes that would open in the earth once a year. She had on a cable-knit sweater that came up to her chin. Her mother would press on her hands—press them into the soil and laugh. “Let's grow a Harvey tree!”

Sometimes worms nosed through the grass, strings of flesh that had neither eyes nor mouths but lived and moved through light and darkness, recognizing neither one. If a worm got chopped in half, her mother said, it would have to grow another piece to keep on living.

T
HERE IS A
book of photos somewhere, of Harvey when she was five or six. In one picture she is standing in the driveway with a backpack, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. On another page, she poses on the front step in a red sweater and gray wool skirt. She was told to smile because in pictures it's how you're supposed to feel that counts.

The night before Harvey's first day of big-girl school, her mother cut her hair in the kitchen. She first wet it under the faucet, then spread a towel on her shoulders.

Harvey's father got upset watching his wife sweep the fallen pieces.

“It's only first grade,” she told him.

“I know,” he said. “I can't believe it.”