I love you and again thank you for your letters. I’ll be home soon and we can relax at the beach.
Love Jim.
End.
How much does that weigh? And how about the weight of our family story—the ones who survived the Holocaust and the ones who didn’t? And the weight on watching your father walk into walls? Your own father, not being able to make it down the hallway or across the street? Or seeing him cut—the blood coming down his forehead or his knees? Blood is scary to a kid—it can be horrifying. The cuts on his face after he’s shaved, and his not knowing it was there. Or hearing a thud, a thump, in the middle of the night and thinking this is it, he’s gone down this time for sure. He knocked himself out entirely. Worrying that every time he travels alone he’s going to step off the curb at the wrong time and that’ll be it. The type of worry that not only gives you bad dreams but makes your stomach cramp. Forget about him dropping you off at the school dance, the pep rally, the Saturday afternoon game. Oh, other kids had drivers, too—we were all well off—but this was something different. You want your dad to be able to do these things. You want not to have to worry about it.
Surely, some poundage can be assigned to that and to the memory of an apology from a little boy:
Dear Dad,
I am sorry I did what I did. I made my first mistake. In an office do you ever make major mistakes like that or not? Jimmy.
The total weight of our family: 517 pounds. That is a big step toward our minimum and to the extent that he carries us with him, then it ought to count.
One summer, Jimmy interned for E.F. Hutton. His boss wrote him this recommendation: “At first, we were all too busy to teach Jimmy. To my delight and surprise, he taught himself. Through a combination of careful listening and dogged research, he carved out, in a very brief time, an area of expertise in the complex bond field which proved quite valuable to my colleagues and me. Indeed, he gave a presentation to forty professionals in our office in which he showed exceptional poise and maturity. I have come to have a high regard for Jimmy. He has an unusual blend of pragmatic intelligence, judgment, and great personal charm. He will, I am certain, have great success in life and be a valuable contributor, and leader, throughout his career.”
In college, he is indebted, and that has a weight also. We bought him a Volvo Turbo, and he wrote that the car was not a car but an expression of what we’ve always done for him, which is to support him and love him. All this is true and so perhaps it rebalances; it tares the weight of his having seen what he saw with me and all that came along with it. What is the weight of that car—3,500 lbs.? That puts us way over the limit.
We’re headed in the right direction. St. Louis, here we come. Business school, here we come. The women, the beer, the activities—here we come. I wonder if my burden on him will be heavy there. Will it follow him, weigh upon him even these years later? Will he wake in the night, every night, after hearing a thud, a bump, thinking for a second, before waking, thinking it is me, fallen down, hit something sharp, a wound that will bleed out before it can be repaired? No, I forbid it. I will take him and his friends out to dinner. Everything will be great. There’s evidence for it.
Then suddenly he’s a financier, doing extremely well at a bank, all on his own, arranging deals, aligning projects, structuring, analyzing, investing. Jimmy is investing. James is investing. Jahmes. James is now married, and now he is a daddy. And very quickly, there is not enough time. He’s got these kids. All the work. It’s work, day and night. It took all this time to understand. How did you do it, Dad? The weight of that he could not have imagined and he calls me at night, not in tears but close to tears, and they taste like the tears I might have once shed had I a father with whom to share them.
On a sheet of lined notebook paper Kathryn has made a green globe with gray, brown, blue, orange, pink, and purple flowers. Several purple clouds line the top of the page, with a rainbow.
She writes “Welcome Back Dad” and, below, a purple heart balloon. On another sheet of paper, she writes “Dear Dad, from Kathryn.” That is followed by what looks like pieces of fruit: a banana, a plum, an orange, an apple, and, perhaps, a waffle.
She draws a rainbow-colored ice-cream cone. The ice cream must be bubble-gum ice cream. Below this in neon orange: “to Dad, Happy Birthday.”
She draws a girl. I assume this is her. I cannot tell whether she is standing on some kind of blue pyramid, or the pyramid is actually a dress. It looks as if she has four arms. Blonde hair. Green legs.
In blue crayon, she writes: “DEAR DAD THIS IS WHAT I DO AT CAMP I THINK I PLAY ARE TEACHER READS US A STORY BEFORE SWIMMING LUNCH WE GO AND AFTER LUNCH.…”
She writes a book about me: Kathryn’s Book About My Dad.
This is a story about a boy named Sandy. He was born in Buffalo, New York on Friday, December 13. It was a cold and wintry day. He loved his mom and his grandmom and his dad. He wanted to play with Kathryn but she was not born yet! The end.
On a square piece of cardboard, she takes thick string and makes a flag. Blue string crosses orange
