Mom, up to her elbows in dinner dishes and late for a PTA meeting, must decode father's latest command. No easy task. In the context of a meal, brown stuff could be HP, gravy or Chutney. At snack times, the options broaden. Chocolate ice cream would fit the bill, then again so would cake, peanut butter, or his beloved almonds. Brown is the worst of colors. The rest of the spectrum holds a slimmer margin of error. White stuff is milk at dinner, popcorn after. Yellow stuff is butter or corn. Red stuff is always ketchup.
It's summer, 1967. We are relaxing in the cool dark of our TV room watching the war. Father is flat on his back, digesting a slab of Mom's Lasagna. He's propped to TV angle by a single cushion with the swollen moon of his belly pushing at his bathrobe. I am sprawled similarly on the other couch, a ten year old tyrant-in-training.
"What is it, Frank?" My mother's voice, tiny against the racket from the DMZ.
"You know," he says.
"What?"
"Ice cream for Christ's sake!"
"What kind?"
Father deliberates.
"You know, the brown kind with the little... brown things in it."
"Double chocolate chip?"
"That's it."
I wait a few beats before adding, "Me too, Mom!" She delivers our order with a withering look and announces her departure.
"Traitors!" Dad snaps to a sitting position. The cords in his neck swell as he pumps the air with his dessertspoon. "Cowards! Fucking cowards!"
It's the hippies again, my father's new public enemy number one. They have just recently unseated the Communists. I hear the back door slam. Mom has slipped away during this last outburst.
Chanting pulses from the TV, "One, two, three, four, what the hell we fighting for!" A giant mob moves down the city street. Above them, above all the signs and furry heads, a white dome looms into view. It's Washington D.C. I know this from my current events teacher, Ms. Harper. She doesn't hate the hippies the way my father does. That's because she is a Communist, as all teachers are.
"Fucking cowards!"
I bellow this with all the rage I can simulate, shaking a small, bony fist at the screen. Dad turns and scowls.
"Where'd your mother go?" he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. He examines his empty ice cream bowl.
"You're fetching now, boy," he says.
I grudgingly take over, humping almonds, sliced fruit and sandwiches as fast as he can gobble. His memory has recovered miraculously. He orders each course by name, giving precise details as to preparation and presentation.
Gorging his way through Mannix and Hawaii Five-O, he falls into a raucous, snoring sleep before the early news. He'll wake just in time to hoover up one last snack before bed.
Until then, he's mine.
I drag our kitchen chair to the couch. Even in sleep his lips are tugged downward by some phantom annoyance. I trace the deep creases of his forehead with my fingertip, moving down to the stubbly line of his beard. I separate a single whisker and give it a tweak. At first only his eyelids quiver. If I keep it up his lips will arch into a snarl. He'll gnash and click his teeth, like he's about to bite.
I could have him raking the air if I wanted, moaning and whimpering. I know just how far I can go now. I could have him barking like a dog. Instead I put my small smooth hand inside his large sleeping one and lay myself across his chest. I listen to his angry heartbeat slow until it matches mine exactly.
