At-Risk

Pan Is Dead

pan is dead Blue sent letters, begging letters, meant to soften a small space in our mother’s heart. The letters were frequent, relentless, more punctual than bills. They slipped in with the gas and electric bills, the phone bill and the rent reminder, long number-ten envelopes mixed in with the short fat ones the credit card people sent. For months, Blue’s letters came from a rehab center in upstate New York, all addressed to our mother. Then one came from Brooklyn addressed to my brother, Peter. Blue thought he was being slick, but our mother knew what he was doing. “I’m supposed to believe that all of a sudden he wants to see his son? What about all those years before? He must think I’m all kinds of a fool,” our mother said, finally deciding to read the last of the letters. She would have us know that she was not all kinds of a fool. She was no longer a foolish young girl willing to let Blue lead her by the nose. “I was a fool for him once and look what it got me,” she said, looking at Peter. Pan Is Dead | 49 A few days after opening the first one, our mother softened. We came home one day to find her slowly going through them. They were stacked on the kitchen tables in two piles. She didn’t look up when we came in; she didn’t even notice us when we turned on the tv in the living room and glued ourselves in front of it. She just sat there reading. She burst out laughing in the middle of one letter, put it down, and shook her head at it. Much later, when I turned back to look at her, I saw that she’d gone through a whole pile of Blue’s letters. She was working on the second pile, her hand covering her mouth, crying silently. After some time, she remembered us. “What do you think?” she asked Peter. “Says he’s back in Brooklyn now. You want to see him? You’re old enough to decide for yourself.” “I don’t care,” Peter said. Blue wasn’t the kind of father any boy would want to claim. A high school dropout. A heroine addict, a former one if his letters could be believed. A love from our mother’s wilder days, Blue belonged to our distant past. According to Peter, he used to come by regularly. By the time I was old enough to have remembered him, Blue had stopped coming. He’d gone away to nobody knew where. “Well, he checked himself into that place all on his own. I guess that says something,” our mother said. She invited him for dinner, saying that it would do him good to spend some time with his son. “Look at you,” Blue said, when I opened the door to let him in. He showed up in denim work overalls and a lumberjack shirt, carrying a small leather bag. His overalls were covered in grease spots, his hands stained with car oil. “I remember you when you could barely walk. Cute little thing in your walker, running all over the house, tearing stuff up.” I let him in and followed behind him, hoping he would tell me 50 | Pan Is Dead more stories about myself. Blue fascinated me with his skin so black it was blue, his hands so dirty his palms were black. “Where’s your mother?” he asked, looking around hopefully. “In the kitchen,” I said. “Dinner’s not ready yet.” “That’s all right. I need to clean up anyway. I came straight from work,” he said. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked. I pointed down the hallway. Blue took his little bag and disappeared into our bathroom. Our mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Did I hear the door? Was that Blue?” she asked. “Yeah.” Peter came out of his room and joined us. “Well, where is he?” she asked me. Peter said, “I bet he’s in the bathroom.” He said it slowly, enunciating each word. He and our mother shared a look, but all she said was, “Hmm.” Blue stayed in the bathroom over twenty minutes. Peter timed him. He was relaxed when he finally came out and sat down to eat with us...