Attractions, and: Seven Family Snapshots

Attractions

Out of thirty-some jumpers off the Empire State, oneis known as The Most Beautiful Suicide. Evelyn McHale.There are photos, blogs, paintings. We can appreciate

the desire to imagine death as she portrays it. A swirlingwhite scarf with the ferocity of teeth. The sudden bang.Position of deep sleep. She was one of the few ever to land

whole. After ending an engagement, she decided to leap bigtoward nothing, avoiding all terraces and signage. Witnessescommented on how far out she jumped. Seemed grateful

for that American go-for-it-ness. What’s curious, though,isn’t the limousine hood that crumpled around herlike a black satin pillow, nor her crossed ankles, her gloved

fingers touching her pearl necklace, but on that day,she, like the rest of us, dressed for the cold: buttonedher coat, knotted her scarf, and covered her head.

Seven Family Snapshots

I

Orange chrysanthemums in the forest, metal-can light, photographer cooing, ‘‘Say Money!’’ and my father, brother, and I did. The sun was nowhere and would not have admitted to hanging out with us anyway.

I knew what the fake forest disguised, knew what the picture disguised, knew it was one more step toward being the adult who fists her hands, holds down the floor, and says, No.

The sun is busy today with homework, and so I sit, a grown woman, in my office, lights on at noon, feeling at once too thin and too full, slipping away and fattening up. I stand and it happens: the chrysanthemum blossoms from my elbow; a leaf moves from a northwesterly wind.

II

My first act in this world was to wrap my hand around a crazy man’s finger. This is why when I walk into a room people think, ‘‘poised.’’ Something charming about learning how to walk off-balance all one’s life. Thank you, I should tell the crazy man. But I have this red canoe that’s ready to shove out across the lake, my food sack of apples and peanut butter. There’s no room for anyone else.

Right, I didn’t make room.

My first act in this world was to wrap my hand around a crazy man’s finger. This is why when I walk into a room, I turn around to see if I need to hold the door open for a wild-toed man in a black coat, rushing in before it closes.

III

That’s Dad in the front row. Since his ego is so wide, it got the choice spot: elbows on the fake Olan Mills fence. We all cracked a different sport on our faces. Dad puffed like a cockfight. I strived for underwater swimmer, face serene yet not there. Lee would never admit it, but he hinted at ballerina. Before we came for our family photo, Lee and I discussed how drowning would be a wise way to quietly sink Dad down. Once, Dad rose to a place made entirely of little top hats and gold-knobbed canes. And now, as adults? Simple, is what we pretend. And everything that means: milk, manners, red canoes, secrets, and strings of fat colored lights on the roof in December. The blink and the non-blink that don’t wake the neighbors.

IV

Stop it. Say it straight.

Fine, okay. It’s noon. I’m standing in my office, and I still do not know what sort of person can ignore another person suffering. Can allow her own father to be homeless. Yet, I am that sort of person.

Example of another snapshot:
Once I snuck out of bed at hearing the ah-ah-ah of someone trying to breathe normally again. The ahs came from the kitchen, and I wanted to know what he was doing: drinking, smoking, watching porn? I was hoping it was something xxx. Excitement came when the slit of light from the fridge cut across his robed body. It closed black. And he sank down before even getting out a beer, sank down and sat cross-legged, sobbing.

Make it stop...