In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

91 The Difference between Matisse and Chagall Give Thanks Seven hours with the family in the station wagon from Washington, D.C., and we’re only in Smithfield, North Carolina, halfway there. Torrential rainfall. Normally, in seven hours I would have been at Dad’s house by now, holding a glass of wine, picking out the cashews from one of his cans of deluxe mixed nuts. Normally, in the old days, before the stroke, before everything soured, before the Christmas when we stuffed him drunk into a sleeping bag, I’d be at his house already, listening to his cheerful litany of menus. “Baked ham tonight,” he would say. “You can do the green beans with garlic, like you do.” He would stand in the kitchen in his mango-colored, sleeveless beach T-shirt, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Rolls. I got the rolls,” he would say and pat the package of rolls on the countertop. “And tomorrow? Four pounds of shrimp on the grill!” He’d laugh and clap his hands. “We’re going to do nothing but eat and drink and talk for three days!” And then he would laugh again and hug me out of sheer joy. That was then. This is now, and I am ducking involuntarily as the tropical storm pounds at the station wagon’s rooftop, wondering about the odds for success of our plan to be together—all of us—for the holiday. Deb will be there. She has seen Dad only twice in nearly twenty years. And Callie, John’s twelve-yearold daughter, will be there. Dad has never met her. Part 4 92 | Lucky That Way I’m in a trance, staring at strings of red brake lights on the south side of I-95, strings of white headlights on the north. When I was a kid, riding in the backseat at night on Missouri highways, I would squint my eyes and imagine, especially on hills, that the headlights were lanterns, held by skiing couples in love, as they glided down the slope, side by side, holding hands. The romance escapes me now. We decide to call it a day and find a hotel. Tom and I and the two kids dash through the rain for the door of a Quality Inn, and first thing I do after we get into a room is tell everyone I’m getting ice, and I go outside and sneak a smoke with my back to the tropical storm. Since Vegas, I’ve been sneaking them. The rain pummels my back. Nearby trees double over as if in pain. I hold the cigarette between my thumb and index finger and cup it like a sailor on deck duty, and I realize I have always enjoyed the tomboy edginess surrounding smoking. Stupid. Worse, I inhale deeply, thinking this will help me sleep. I’m up at 3:00, 4:00, 5:00 A.M. Every night, since Vegas, I wake often, bolt out of sleep, with a conversation in my head, people I love talking and arguing, as if they were standing right there, around my bed, the words lingering like the scent of roses left in the vase too long. “Hello,” I might say to them. “Have a seat. I’ll make some tea.” In the morning, we wake to more rain. The sky is a cave of black. We swallow bites of rubbery waffles in the hotel’s complimentary breakfast nook and stare at the Weather Channel on the mounted, flat-screen television , as if we need a greater authority than ourselves to tell us, yes, it is raining. As we head south the sun begins to break through the cave’s ceiling. At the South Carolina border we exit the major highway and, finally, head east, toward the ocean, and the sun bursts through in full glory. This is how I remember it. On cue, the air and sun shift a few degrees once you get on the two-laner to the beach, the road flat and open with possibility, the billboards advertising gay and exotic beach junk— boogey boards, wax museums—lifting your spirits. We get to Surfside Beach by 10:30 A.M. Barb and Joe took Dad to a doctor’s appointment for a biopsy on a swollen sebaceous gland that morning and are already back. Dad is in his bed, taking a nap. Barb corners me on the front porch and whispers , “Joe showed up this morning with vodka...

Share