Necessary Heartbreak (3 page)

He knew he could have tried to do something noble and become a policeman or fireman or gone back to school to become a teacher. But he really loved sports and was willing to work his way up by doing all sorts of part-time work. For some reason, to his sister Connie this just wasn't enough.

“Say something!” she screeched.

“Okay,” Michael shouted, boiling over, “how about ‘shut up'?”

“Don't talk to her that way!” his father bellowed, rushing in from the kitchen.

Michael instinctively stood up and pushed past him as he made for the stairs.
Great, now he gets involved
.

“Get down here!” his father screamed. “Get down here, you moron!”

Michael didn't obey him; instead, he slammed his bedroom door. He listened to his father run up the two flights of stairs, wondering whether the old man was going to come through his door and finally confront him. He knew it wouldn't be much of a match: Jim was fifty-three years old while Michael was only twenty-two and in the best shape of his life. He lifted weights constantly and had little fat on his body. Meanwhile, his father smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and spent his nights drinking scotch.

But he's still my father
, Michael thought, listening to him climb the stairs. Michael's stomach tightened as he leaned his 180-pound frame against the door.

“Let me in. Let me in!” Jim was trying to barrel through the door.

Michael didn't answer; instead, he planted his weight more firmly against the wood.

Thump! Thump! Thump!
His father was angrily throwing himself against the door. Michael grew afraid that he might physically hurt the guy if he got in. He knew his father had such an overstated view of his own importance that he wouldn't be expecting Michael to fight back.
I'd like to punch him . . . although he's my father
.

Still uncertain, Michael continued to lean against the bedroom door, his hands clenched tightly around the doorknob. He listened for any movement, then cautiously opened the door. His father stood there glaring at him. Michael hesitated, then stepped aside and let his father into the room.

“What are you doing talking that way to your sister?”

“Why are you always defending her?”

“You have to stop mouthing off to your sister. Are you going to stop it?”

Michael didn't respond. Instead, he turned and flung himself facedown on the bed.

Jim took another step into the room. “Answer me,” he demanded.

In an effort to avoid his father's menacing stare, Michael focused on the torn curtain covering the only window in the small room.

“Do you hate me?” Jim nearly whispered.

Stunned, Michael grimaced.
Are you serious?

“Look at me,” his father said forcefully as he moved closer. “Do you hate me? Are you angry about your mother? Do you hate me for what happened to her? Don't you think I did my best?”

Michael was silent for a few seconds before turning to him. “I know you did your best,” he finally replied weakly.

Jim walked to the bookshelf, his thumb scrolling across the book spines, with his back to Michael. “Then why do you hate me?”

“I don't.”

“Then why won't you be like the rest of us? Why won't you be part of this family? Why won't you talk to me about how you're feeling?”

Michael looked up slowly. “You're always yelling. You never listen.”

Jim spun back to him quickly, his hands clenched in front of him. “Stop acting like a child. Then I'll listen.”

Michael shook his head slowly.

“Do you miss your mom?”

“Of course.”

“You're so silent and quiet. You're never around us. You never go out with us for dinner. It's like you're not even here.”

Michael rolled onto his stomach, his head resting on his pillow. Glancing down, he noticed some crumbs that had fallen from his dinner last night. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to kick the crumbs under it.

He sighed. “I miss Mom. But I love her in my own way. I'm not angry at you. Just because I haven't cried in front of you doesn't mean I don't care. I'm angry at the way she died. Okay?”

“I tried, Michael. I really did.”

“I know, Dad. . . . I guess she's in a better place now.”

In one explosive motion, Jim whipped a book off the top of Michael's dresser, hurling it against his closet door. “A better place? What do you mean by that, you dumb—”

“Nothing!” Michael shouted.

His father scowled at him. “Yeah, in a better place. Better than here. Yeah, I know you don't like it here. You've made it very clear.”

Michael shook his head and gave up. “Go away. You'll never understand. Please just go away.”

“Sure, whatever. You'll just use this as another excuse. I wonder if you really cared about her at all.” With that, Jim left the room.

Michael leaped up and slammed the door. He crumpled onto the floor, glancing at the contents of his tiny room: the steep piles of sports books around his bed, several empty soda cans littering the desk and bookshelf, even Bruce Springsteen's
The River
album, nestled under his dresser. A Springsteen poster draped the back wall while a photo of tennis star Chris Evert hung crookedly over his bed.

He thought about what he'd said. He'd meant heaven, but his dad had totally misunderstood.
I didn't mean it that way
, he thought. He wondered why he could never properly communicate with his father. It had always been difficult, but it was bleak now without his mother.

It seemed like only a few minutes later when he heard a soft knock.

“Michael, Father Pete here. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Father Pete was a friend of the family's, particularly his father's. They had grown up together, and Father Pete handled all the family religious functions such as weddings, funerals, and baptisms. He was often over at the house during the holidays.

Michael stood up and opened the door. He cleared some papers from his desk chair and invited the priest to sit.

Father Pete wasted no time. “Michael, your father thinks you need psychological help.”

“My father is the one who needs the psychological help.”

“Why don't you talk to him?”

“I can't talk to him because he never listens. He's always yelling.”

Michael reached down and grabbed
The River
album and turned it over to show Father Pete the lyrics to the song “Independence Day.” It was a sorrowful description of Springsteen's relationship with his father and the inevitable parting between them. Michael played it over and over in his tiny room, the lyrics echoing in the attic, as if the pleas from Springsteen's voice would resonate with his father. He so wanted his dad to be a positive part of his life.

“It's well written,” the priest said, looking up at Michael. “I like the part about the son leaving St. Mary's Gate. It's very symbolic. Why can't you two talk to each other like we're doing now?”

“He won't listen. I can't talk to someone who's always yelling.”

“Well, Michael, he says his conditions are you either get psychological help or move out of the house.”

“That's interesting, Father. So he's saying he feels I need help mentally but he'd throw me out of the house if he doesn't get his way. I'm not sure I could ever treat my son like that.”

Father Pete didn't answer.

“Look, Father, I'll go for psychological help if he comes with me. I want him there with me so we can both discuss things, like about Mom and everything.”

Father Pete looked encouraged. He stood up and headed toward the door. “Great! I think that will be fine.”

It wasn't long before he returned with Jim's answer. “Michael . . .
he won't go with you. I think you're either going to have to go alone or else leave. He's ranting about something he said you almost did. He said something about you and your mother. He wouldn't explain it to me. Did you do something to your mom or say something before she died?”

“Father, he has it
all
wrong. I'll just say this: I wasn't going to do it.”

Father Pete stared at him, perplexed. “Michael, that's between you and your father.” He paused. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I guess so,” Michael said, wondering if he could move into his friend Steve's apartment in Flushing.

“God will take care and serve you, Michael.”

Michael laughed bitterly. “Ha! I have to do this on my own.”

As Father Pete stood there watching him, Michael started to pack his belongings: a few T-shirts, some torn shorts, a faded pair of jeans, and several socks, none of which matched. He grabbed some loose change and put it into the front pocket of his sweatpants. A dollar was lying near the side of the bed. He reached over to put it inside a shoebox.

He gathered up several of his own poems, including one about his father, and stuffed them inside the shoebox. Thoughts of the past year since his mom died almost overwhelmed him.

He turned around and looked at the priest. “Is this how God serves me?”

Father Pete glanced down at his folded hands, a sad look on his face.

“I'm sorry. I know, Father Pete. But can I just catch a stinking break?”

Father Pete shook his hand, passed him a hundred bucks from his dad, and told Michael it was time to leave.

Michael grabbed more boxes of food, following Laura's and Elizabeth's giggles and smiles up to the front of the church. An hour had passed,
and now the area was cluttered with cartons leaning against the white marble fence surrounding the altar.

“The pile is getting too big,” Father Dennis told the volunteers. “I need two helpers to bring some of this down to the basement for now.”

He looked around. By now, most of the students were bored and tired. The parents looked pretty exhausted from climbing all the stairs. He spotted Michael and Elizabeth.

“What about you two?”

Michael looked suspiciously at Father Dennis.
Why does he think we're not tired from all the lifting and carrying?
“Yeah, sure, Father.”

He felt a pat on his back. “You're a good man, Mike,” said Susan, flashing a big smile at him. Michael returned the gesture with a wink.

Catching the exchange, Elizabeth's eyes widened. “We'd be happy to do it. Right, Dad?”

“Ah, sure,” Michael said, his voice echoing throughout the big church.

He felt the bulky cell phone and keys inside his pockets. “Father, can I leave these here?”

“Of course.”

“No one will steal them?” Michael said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I will bless them to make sure,” the priest responded with a smile.

Michael had already left his wallet behind in his car. He hated to be weighed down by items of any sort when working. In fact, he'd stopped wearing a watch in high school, feeling it restricted him too much.

Elizabeth and Michael began moving some of the cartons. The doorway to the basement stairs was just to the left of the altar. It was about fifteen steps down before they reached the floor of the darkened room.

He looked around. The room was fairly large, maybe forty by sixty feet. Collection baskets and random piles of outdated hymnals littered the floor. There wasn't much room for more boxes.

“Great,” Michael said, annoyed. “We'll have to move some of this mess before we bring down the rest of the cartons.”

“Chill, Dad. This is supposed to help the needy.”

“Chill? Okay, I'll chill. But, you know, I'm pretty needy. When is someone going to help me?”

“Oh, Dad. You have to lighten up a bit. Life's too short.”

He turned from her and muttered under his breath, “Yes, I
know
life's too short.”

Elizabeth began bouncing around the room. She picked up all the baskets and stacked them in one corner. Then she sprinted around the other side of the room, grabbing outdated missalettes and organizing them into piles on a nearby folding table.

“Look, Dad, the Empire State Building,” she said with a smile, placing an old mustard-colored book on top.

Michael looked at the tall pile of books. “Great, but what about the cartons of food on the floor? How about making the Eiffel Tower with that so we can get out of here.”

“Chill, Dad.”

“Stop with the
chill
stuff . . . or
I'll
start using that word.”

“Yuck, don't use that word,” she said, laughing while picking up a discarded penlight in the corner and shining it on him. “You're old people. You can't talk like that.”

“Old people? Ouch!” Michael peered at her with puppy-dog eyes and his bottom lip stuck out. He sucked in his stomach and pulled up his sweats higher than his belly button. “Now I am as old as Fred Mertz!”

“Um, Dad, Fred Mertz is dead.”