Boys aren’t supposed to lose their fathers before they become men. A few months ago, Mitch Farber’s father didn’t come home from work. He left a note saying he had been living a lie and couldn’t fake being a part of the family any longer. Paxton said it was because his father lost his job and all of their money.
“It has nothing to do with money,” said Pierce Stone. “I told you already, it’s because he’s a big fag. Had a boyfriend in the Village this whole time. My mom said they’re running away to San Francisco together.”
I don’t care how big Mitch claimed his penis was in the auditorium or that he “entered manhood” upon having a bar mitzvah—Mitch Farber was not yet a man.
My father came lumbering down the creaking basement steps and I wanted to hop out of the La-Z-Boy recliner and stop him: Dad, you look too healthy, stop!
“Hello, boys, what are you fidends up to?”
No one was going to respond, so I took it upon myself to break the awkwardness: “Nuh… nuh… nothing, Dad,” I said between sniffles.
“Oh, there’s a good game on tonight. Texas Tech and… uh… oh, one of those MAC schools. I forget which one… Maybe Bowling Green or Toledo.”
As my father thought out loud, jumbling through his brain for which team from the Ohio-Michigan area was playing in tonight’s game—“Or was it was Kent State?”—my sister came burning down the creaking steps in a fury.
“I’m so sorry!” she shouted, standing in the doorway next to Dad. “I’m so sorry, Karl and George, that your father is… is… is sick! It makes me sad…”
Britney, pure innocence, would say exactly what we saw and felt, and without a moment’s hesitation. She would point out an old man’s hanging neck skin and compare it to a turkey, or when we played Irvington in basketball, say their cheering section was, in fact, entirely black. There wasn’t an iota of malice in any of it, only the unfiltered observations that would sometimes make me put my face in my hands and cringe.
I’m not proud of this, but sometimes I wished she would shut up. “Don’t ever tell her to shut up,” my mother would say. “We spent years trying to get her to talk, and then years trying to get her to use her own words and not repeat those… damn movies.”
But I saw it coming. Britney looked up at my father, a rare moment of hesitation to seek approval. But he was still jostling through the schools—“Akron? Eastern Michigan?”—and didn’t notice.
“I’m sorry if your father will die.”
“Britney!” I screeched, and looked toward Karl, whose face slumped toward the keyboard.
“Vito, don’t yell at her. She doesn’t…”
But I was already headed up the stairs and out the door, crying and screaming.
I was a wreck at the wake, and honestly, I didn’t care. I didn’t even cover my face when the football team and coaches sat in a circle and tried to make small talk. I didn’t want to discuss finding ways to “get Summit next season” or possibly switching to a spread offense. I wanted to grieve.
Karl didn’t speak much, but how could he? People would ask him banal questions like we were waiting in line for a movie ticket—mere fucking chit-chat. Don’t you see his father lying in the coffin over there?! It’s long and tawny and covered in flowers.
At the funeral, Mr. G’s friends shared lighthearted anecdotes highlighting the man’s colorful vocabulary. But I cried there too, right into my Bible. I sat across the aisle from Karl and saw him pinch his eyes once or twice, but there still wasn’t any of the wet sobbing that covered my own face. I wanted to say “Karl, my champion, these tears are for you.” Sure, I loved Mr. G. He always treated me like family. But these weren’t just tears of sadness; they were tears of guilt. I glanced toward the hanging crucifix. What good comes from stripping a thirteen-year-old of his father?
I’m so sorry, Karl.
“The world is as dangerous as it is dark.” I heard my Mum Mum’s voice as if she were sitting in the pew behind me. “So sharpen those horns, little devil.”
I didn’t need Algebra I or Earth Science—every time I heard “tectonic plates,” I imagined Teutonic knights—I needed “Discussing the Death of Your Best Friend’s Father with Your Best Friend While He Sits at the Computer and Refuses to Show Emotion 101.”
“Hey… hey Karl,” I said from the couch. “Are the uh… the uhhh, Simpsons on tonight?”
“They’re on every night.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
“…”
“…”
“Hey uhh… aren’t you cold? You want a shirt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Hey, remember that time we traded shirts at school?”
“When?”
“At Glenwood. We were in the stall?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, we weren’t in the same stall, we were in separate stalls. Total coincidence.”
“…”
“Yeah, I had stains on my shirt from lunch and Pierce Stone was making fun of me and you traded shirts with me because the one my mom packed was too small.”
“…”
“You don’t remember?”
“That was like… seven years ago?”
“Yeah!”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well… ya know… you really helped me out there, Karl. That really, like, helped me out a lot. So… so thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Vic.”
The summer before high school started, I went searching for Hell once again, and if the fiery gates were anywhere in New Jersey, they would be in warhammer-shaped Passaic County. Whether it was up in West Milford, Wanaque, or Bloomingdale, where you could spot cowboy hats in the stands during football games or a KKK rally if you peered deep into the woods, or down in the urban jungles of Paterson or Clifton, I was certain that Hell was in one of these towns; I could feel the hellfire in my bones whenever we crossed Montclair into Little Falls.
“Why are we going to this backwoods-ass redneck town again?” asked Carmine, referring to West Milford.
“Hell,” said Joey, driving the sedan.
“I can’t believe you guys dragged me along
