Hungry Hill: A Memoir

Chapter 26 - Party Time

140 H u n g ry H i l l Joe: What are you saying? Carole: Death, Dad, is the ultimate abandonment. It’s beyond neglect. Joe: Are you talking about your mother? Carole: Mom did not choose to die. The terror of being all alone. Joe: Hey, I told you I’d always be there for you kids. Carole: You said a lot of things. Joe: Ye of little faith. Carole: It’s the family cycle of drink that terrifies me. I feel spooked that I was selected to play that role, the child of an addict. Those nuns could be Cassandras. But I wanted the merry-go-round of booze to stop. Joe: Irish Medicine. Carole: That was the name of my play, Dad. (They eat in silence, not looking at each other. The silence is meant to be painful.) Joe: Shall we indulge ourselves with the apple crisp à la mode? Carole: Let’s do it. Dad, I was talking to Michael about your honeymoon years with Mary, trying to remember that golden time. Joe: You’re tough on the old man. I’m bracing myself. Carole: You know how Michael described that time? Not a sober minute. Joe: Not a sober minute? It has a certain ring to it. Carole: (After a minute.) Excuse me, Dad. (Carole exits. Joe is alone at the table, nodding to acquaintances. Carole sits at a chair at a vanity in the powder room. She puts her head on her arms, then lifts her head, and looks in the mirror.) Carole: A certain ring to it? What was I thinking? Irish Medicine? = 26. Party Time “Look at JFK in the limousine. Eddie Boland’s sitting right next to Senator Kennedy.” I point to the full-page spread in the Daily News with half a dozen pictures of Senator Kennedy at a rally in Court Square the day before the presidential election. A Memoir 141 “Is that a Cadillac limousine?” Danny asks. “How many people are there?” “Over 40,000 people, the paper says. I didn’t even know he was coming. Did you?” “No, but that’s why Mary Eugene was threatening expulsion to any Cathedral student who left school for any reason. The principal was afraid we’d storm the rally.” “From the picture in the paper, Dan, it looks as if every other student in Springfield skipped school to see JFK.” “Do you think Kennedy will win today?” “Dad thinks it will be close.” The next day, November 8, 1960, when John Fitzgerald Kennedy defeated shifty-eyed “Tricky Dick” Nixon in the presidential race, Massachusetts entered a state of high-pitched euphoria, but at 21 Lynwood Terrace the mood with the approaching wedding just three days away was anything but euphoric. My dad pats the flecks of gray in his black hair as he primps for his stag party at the Elks Club. I would take the piney smell of my dad’s Fitch dandruff shampoo over his mouthwash any day. Too, his green Clorets gum has a nice scent, like candy, but has nowhere near the sugary taste of my favorite bright yellow Juicy Fruit gum. In their new wool sport coats and white button-down shirts, Danny, hair decurled, and Michael pace the kitchen, waiting, looking up at the clock. “Dad, you better hurry,” Michael says, shifting his feet. “Mr. Metzger left five minutes ago.” “But Dad’s the groom-to-be,” Danny answers with a snicker. “Old and gray and only in the way,” my dad chants with energy and a soft chuckle. He turns his head and runs the palm of his hand over the bristles of his crew cut. “No more part in the middle for the old man.” “Do you miss your barbershop quartet look?” I ask. “You know what I say . . .” “If you’re going to grow old, you’re going to grow old gracefully,” I interrupt . “Ah, daughter of mine. Look at this military posture on your old man. Your mother and I could never get you to stand up straight.” He pulls his 142 H u n g ry H i l l shoulders back, straightens his wool plaid sport coat, and heads for the kitchen door. “I don’t get to go to your stag party because I have slumped shoulders, is that it?” “Hey, you’re in charge here at the home front.” I am watching them...