The Blizzard Party

goddamn scarecrows, until Albert, despite his best efforts, with a wince of concern exposed himself as the father. Don’t be shy, one father said. Man’s down, go ahead, another one said. When Albert didn’t budge, the others urged him on, gently at first. Once they realized that his unwavering gaze was not stoicism but dissent, they looked to each other. Getta load of this piece of work. Albert saw his son’s tear-streaked face, and knew his son could see his face, and he waited for the boy to pick himself up, dust himself off, raise a hand to signal that he was fine. And that’s what John did. He shook off his coach’s helping hand, got up, limped around in a little circle to try to flush out the throbbing pain, wiped the snot off his nose, smacked the glove with his fist. His chest hitched once as he settled into position, and he held up his glove to the pitcher, who winged the ball to him. John caught it, flipped it back. Attaboy, one of the fathers said.

To occupy his hands, Albert removed his glasses and polished the lenses in slow circles. He was utterly defenseless when his love for the boy rushed forward at him, and he’d erected a high wall to protect John from his ruinous affections. He felt nothing but disdain for the men around him, who were muttering to each other, obviously about him. He hated the wisdom of crowds, the mob mentality, and he believed there was a striking power bestowed upon an individual who could turn against the crowd. Albert intended for his son to see it in practice so that he would better understand the reasoning behind a rebellion of one. To put it in elementary terms his son would understand, he later asked the boy, Do you want to be a milkman or Andrew Carnegie?

No one coddled their kids in those days. No one raised his son to be a musician. You wanted a physician, a statesman. But somehow he’d miscalculated. He’d taught the boy to cut against the grain, to think for himself. John had never come to him for advice because he’d taught him never to ask anyone for advice. Chose his own college, chose his own major, decided to sing, marry the girl, get a divorce—all of it without his father’s counsel. News delivered after the fact, all. Once in twenty years did he come to Albert with a question, a real question riddled with confusion and uncertainty and need, real need, for the question was a dreadful one, the answer equally dreadful. Where to bury the child?

In my plot, Albert said.

23.

So my father had heard it all from Albert, but that night at Roosevelt Hospital, he didn’t stop John from telling him again. As much as he didn’t want to hear it, he couldn’t help himself. He needed to hear where the son’s and the father’s stories diverged.

Before you ask, he’d been christened, John said. Odd, my father thought. Not a question that would have occurred to him. Why would he call John to account over the boy’s everlasting soul? He felt outsmarted by the assumption, as though he’d misunderstood some essential part of his own character that was obvious to everyone else. Sorry? he said.

He’d been christened, John said. In Santa Rosa.

I think Albert might have mentioned, my father said, though Albert had not.

I didn’t care. Wasn’t my idea but I wasn’t opposed to it, either. Now it seems like the only good thing I ever did for him. You know what we were doing when he died?

No, my father said without a moment’s pause, having made the decision to lie his way through the entire conversation.

Having an argument.

You and your wife? my father said. Divergence one.

Me and my father. He was arguing with all of us. But mainly with me. Money. Always fucking money and why won’t I take their money for my son, and he’s getting nowhere with me so he turns to Bron, who wasn’t brought up like this, you know, with all the yelling and threats, and she’s near tears as it is, he’s got my wife in tears right there in front of the whole family, people she’s only known for a few years, people who are practically strangers, and right there in front of my sisters and their husbands and the kids, she hardly knows where she stands with anyone, and the son of a bitch takes the fight to her. To her! Enough, I said, you know? That was it. That was plenty.

And Tracy’s married to this guy, hell of a nice guy, a real house of a guy. Played D-one football. She could not have found a better man, really, a prince.

This is Tad? my father said, lest he play too dumb.

Yes, that’s right, John said. Tad. Really generous guy, big lovable bear of a guy, and he can’t stand how my father’s treating Bron. He’s been on the couch with this look on his face—let me tell you, this look said it all. Here’s a man who can do serious physical damage, a person his size. A real Southern gentleman, too, so there’s that overzealous thing about taking care of women, but it’s nothing compared to his respect for his elders, so he’s in a spot with my father. Even though you can tell he wants to tear his head off, gentleman Tad holds his ground.

It’s funny. Turns out I’d seen him play on TV once. Has that ever happened to you—you meet someone and then much later you cast your mind back and realize that this was someone you had actually seen on TV, or in a play, or whatever? It was the ’63 Gator Bowl. And here’s one of the stars of the game, sitting on the couch—it’s embarrassing, to be honest, to have him witness our wreck of a family. I’m pretty damn sure his family doesn’t operate that way. Which is