Antsy Does Time

19. I Love You, You’re an Idiot, Now Let’s All Go Home

My father almost died again the next day, but he didn’t. Instead he started to get better. By Friday, they moved him out of intensive care, and by Saturday, he was bored. He tried to squeeze news out of my mom about the restaurant, but all she would say was, “It’s there,” and she forbade anyone else to talk about it, for fear that talking business would send my father back into cardiac arrest.

With my dad on the mend, and more than enough people doting on him, my thoughts drifted to Kjersten and Gunnar. I went to visit on Sunday morning, to see how they were handling their own hardships, and give whatever support I could. The Christmas wreath was gone from their door, and the foreclosure notice glared out for the whole world to see.

“Good riddance,” I heard one beer-bellied neighbor say to another as I walked down the block toward their house. “After what they did to our yards, let ‛em go back where they came from. Freakin’ foreigners.”

I turned to the man. “No, actually I was the one who did that to your yards, and I ain’t going nowhere. You gonna do something about it?”

He puffed on a cigarette. “Why don’t you just move along,” he said from behind the safety of his little waist-high wrought-iron fence.

“Lucky you got that fence between us,” I said. “Otherwise I might have to go samurai on your ass.” I have to say there’s nothing more satisfying than lip delivered to those who deserve it.

Mrs. Ümlaut answered the door, and pulled me in like she was pulling me out of a blizzard instead of a clear winter day. She barely allowed Kjersten to hug me before she dragged me into the kitchen, practically buried me in French toast, and had me tell her all about my dad’s condition. Now that I had fought various members of the Ümlaut household and had been struck repeatedly by a blunt object, I guess that made me like family.

I went upstairs to find Gunnar in his room, watching a black-and-white foreign film called The Seventh Seal.

“It’s by Ingmar Bergman, patron saint of all things Swedish,” he said. “It’s about a chess game with death.”

“Of course it is,” I said. “What else would you be watching?” I sat down at his desk chair. There was dust on his desk, as if he hadn’t done homework for weeks.

“What’s that thing the Grim Reaper holds, anyway?” I asked.

“It’s called a scythe,” Gunnar said. “It’s what people used to use to harvest grain.”

“So does modern death drive a combine?”

Gunnar chuckled, but only slightly.

We watched the film for a few minutes. It was a scene where the main character was looking out of a high window, supposedly facing the horizon of his own mortality, and it got me thinking about the guy who fell from the Roadkyll Raccoon balloon on Thanksgiving. I wondered if he, like the guy in the film, saw the Grim Reaper waiting for him.

No one likes the Grim Reaper. He’s like that tax auditor who came to our house a couple of years ago. He’s just doing his job, but everyone hates his guts on principle. If there really is such a guy and he comes for me someday, I promised myself I’d offer him cookies and milk, like little kids do for Santa Claus. Then maybe at least he’ll put in a good word for me. Bribing Death never hurts.

“It’s good that you’re reconnecting with your roots,” I told him. “I should watch more Italian films.”

He turned off the TV. “I don’t need to watch this,” he said. “I know the ending. Death wins.”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you gotta go carving tombstones.”

Gunnar tossed the remote on his desk. “I’m done with that.” He flexed his fingers. “I think maybe it gave me carpal tunnel.”

He looked at his hand for a while, and although his gaze never left his fingers, I know his thoughts went far away.

“My father’s at the casino again,” Gunnar said. “He hasn’t found a place to live yet, so I guess that’s where he’s staying until he does. Maybe he’ll just set up a cot underneath one of the roulette wheels. I really don’t care.”

That, I knew, was a lie. Keep in mind that I had almost lost my father a few days before, so I knew what Gunnar was going through. It was in a different way, but the concept was basically the same. Reapers come in all shapes and sizes. And they don’t always clear-cut the field with their scythes—sometimes they just leave crop circles.

I really don’t care, Gunnar had said—and all at once I realized that Gunnar was finally, finally in denial. For him this was the best thing that could happen, and it gave me an idea.

“I know they’re taking away your house,” I said to him, “but do you think you guys can squeeze out enough money to fill your mom’s car with gas?”

Even if the answer was no, I knew that I had enough money if they didn’t.

When someone’s addicted, they have these things called interventions. I know about them because my parents had to intervene for one of my dad’s high school buddies who got addicted to some designer drug. Like drugs ain’t bad enough, they got designers involved now. Basically everyone the guy knew sat him down in a room, told him they loved him and that he was a freakin’ moron. Love and humiliation—it’s a powerful combination—and it probably saved his life.

That’s what I thought we’d have with Mr. Ümlaut—a feel-good, huggy-feely intervention. But it didn’t quite turn out that way.

The Anawana Tribal Hotel and Casino was located deep in the Catskill Mountains, on the grounds of an old summer camp, proving that times changed. Old crumbling cabins, yellow and brown, could still be seen from the parking structure. The place boasted a riverboat that, for a few dollars more, would tool around Anawana Lake while you gambled.

The hotel’s main casino was patrolled by security, but I guess Kjersten, Gunnar, and I looked old enough to pass for gambling age—or at least old enough to be ignored for a while, because they didn’t stop us from going into the casino. Kjersten was quiet, steeling herself for the ambush, which is pretty much what this would be.

“Do you really think this will make a difference?” she asked me.

I had no idea, but the fact that she asked at all meant that she still had hope. She held my hand firmly, and it occurred to me that I was no longer her gateway to a younger, simpler time. In spite of our age difference, she’d never see me as “younger” again. And yet still, she was holding my hand.

We found Mr. Ümlaut playing craps. Even before he saw us, I could tell by the look on his face, and the circles under his eyes, that this was not going to be a heartwarming Hallmark moment.

He was throwing the dice, and apparently doing well. Adrenaline was high among the gamblers at the table around him.

“Dad?” said Gunnar. He had to say it again to get his attention. “Dad?”

With the dice still in his fist, he saw us, and it was like he was coming out of a dream. “Gunnar? Kjersten?” Then he saw me, and glared at me like their presence here was all my fault, which it was.

“Sir,” said the craps guy, quickly sizing up the situation, “your children can’t be here.”

“I know.” Mr. Ümlaut threw the dice anyway. I don’t know much about craps, but apparently eleven was good. The other gamblers roared.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Mr. Ümlaut said to us. “Your mother isn’t here, is she?”

“Just us, Daddy,” said Kjersten gently.

“You should go home.”

The craps guy handed him the dice, but was reluctant about it. Mr. Ümlaut shook the dice in his hand while the others standing around the table waited anxiously. Realizing we weren’t going to simply disappear, Mr. Ümlaut said, “Go wait for me in the lobby.” Then he hurled the dice again. Nine. This time only a few of the gamblers were happy.

“Sir, I’m afraid I must insist,” the craps guy said, and pointed to us.

In turn, Mr. Ümlaut pointed to the lobby. “You heard the croupier!” Which sounded a whole lot classier than “craps guy.” It makes you wonder why they haven’t come up with a better name for craps. Croups, maybe.

By now the suit who managed the whole bank of craps tables came over. This guy’s title I knew. He was the pit boss. The croupier’s croupier. “Is there a problem here?” the pit boss asked.

“No,” said Mr. Ümlaut. Then he whispered to Gunnar and Kjersten, “Leave the casino before you create a scene.” Kjersten quietly stood her ground, but Gunnar had enough lip for both of them.

“A scene,” said Gunnar. “Right.” He nodded and backed away. I thought we were going to wait in the lobby, but then Gunnar turned around in the middle of the aisle. For a second I thought he might say something meaningful and thought provoking—like maybe a really well-chosen fake quote. But no. Gunnar decided it was time to sing. This wasn’t a quiet kind of singing either. He belted out at the top of his voice, and the sounds that came out of his mouth were like no words I’d ever heard.

“Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga nord...”

As far as interventions go, this was taking on a whole personality of its own.

“It’s the Swedish national anthem,” Kjersten explained to me.

“Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna!”

Mr. Ümlaut just stared at him with the kind of shock and embarrassment that can only come from a parent.

“Jag hälsar Dig, vänaste land uppå jord.”

Kjersten joined in, and now it was a duet. Since I didn’t know the Swedish national anthem, I improvised and began to sing the most Swedish thing I knew. I began to sing a song by that Swedish seventies group, Abba.

So now the croupier looks at the pit boss, the pit boss signals the manager, and the manager comes running.

“Din sol, Din himmel, Dina ängder gröna.”

All gambling in the casino grinds to a screeching halt as we perform.

“You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life!” I sing at the manager, who’s much less entertained than I believe he should be.

Kjersten and Gunnar complete their anthem, and although I’ve still got a couple of verses of “Dancing Queen” left, I figure it’s wise to wrap it up early. Some of the gamblers applaud, and not knowing what else to do, we all take fancy bows, and the manager turns to Mr. Ümlaut and says, “I think you should leave now.”

Mr. Ümlaut did not look happy as we crossed the casino toward the lobby. Gunnar, on the other hand, looked downright triumphant at his little victory. Even more triumphant than he did on the night of the rally. It was Kjersten who seemed worried, because she knew as well as I did that this was just one battle in a much bigger war. The security guard escorting us must have resented that look on Gunnar’s face, because he was rough with him, and got rougher when Gunnar tried to pull out of his grasp.

“Are you gonna let this rent-a-cop beat me up?”

Mr. Ümlaut didn’t look at him. He didn’t say a word until we were off the casino floor, and the security guard returned to his duties, satisfied that we were no longer a threat.

“Proud of yourself, Gunnar?”

“Are you?” Gunnar answered, with such righteous authority that his father couldn’t look him in the eye.

“There are things you don’t understand.”

“I understand a lot more than you think.”

Rather than letting the two of them bicker, Kjersten cut it off. “Daddy,” she said, “we want you to come home.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he looked at them, perhaps searching for something in their faces, but you couldn’t read much in those two—in that way, they took after their father.

“Didn’t your mother tell you?” he said.

“What?” said Gunnar. “That you’re splitting up? Of course she did.”

It surprised me that he hadn’t told them himself. Even if they already knew, he had a responsibility to say it in his own words.

“I will let you know where I am, once I know myself,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“There’s a lot to worry about,” Gunnar said—then Gunnar got closer to him. All this time he had maintained a distance from his father, like there was an invisible wall around him. Now Gunnar stepped inside that wall. “You’re sick, Dad.” He looked at the casino, all full of whirring, blaring, coin-clanging excitement, then turned back to his father. “You’re very sick. And I think if you don’t do something about it... if you don’t stop gambling, somehow it’s going to kill you.”

But rather than taking it in, Mr. Ümlaut seemed to just pull his wall in closer, so Gunnar was on the outside again. “Is that what your mother says?”

“No,” said Kjersten. “We figured it out for ourselves.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he said, like he was talking to strangers instead of his children. “I’ll be fine.”

“What about them?” I said. Maybe I was out of line speaking at all, but I had to say something.

Suddenly I found all his anger turned against me. “What business is this of yours? What do you know about our family? What do you know about anything?”

“Leave him alone!” shouted Kjersten. “At least he’s around when we need him. At least he’s there.” Which I guess is the best you could say about me. “At least he’s not away day after day, gambling away every penny he owns. How much money have you lost, Dad? Then the car—and now the house ...”

“You’re not understanding!” he said, loud enough to snag the attention of another family waiting to check in. They peered at us over their luggage, pretending not to. Mr. Ümlaut forced his voice down again. “The car, the house—we were losing them anyway—if not this month, then next month. A few dollars gambled makes no difference.”

I think he truly believed that—and for the first time, I began to understand what Kjersten and Gunnar were up against. Mr. Ümlaut had, once upon a time, been a lawyer. That meant he could create a brilliant and convincing argument as to why the hours, days, and weeks spent in a casino were the best possible use of his time. I’m sure if I sat there and let him make his argument, he might even convince me. Juries let guilty men go free all the time.

Then Gunnar dropped the bombshell. It was a bombshell I didn’t even know about.

“Mom’s taking us back to Sweden,” he said. “She’s taking us there for good.”

Although the news shocked me, I have to say I wasn’t surprised. Apparently neither was Mr. Ümlaut. He waved his hand as if shooing away a swarm of gnats. “She’s bluffing,” he said. “She’s been saying that forever. She’ll never do it.”

“This time she means it,” Kjersten said. “She has airplane tickets for all of us,” and then she added, “All of us but you.”

This hit Mr. Ümlaut harder than anything else that had been said today. He looked at them, then looked at me as if I was somehow the mastermind of some conspiracy against him. He went away in his own head for a few moments. I could almost hear the conversation he was having with himself. Finally he spoke with the kind of conviction we had all been hoping to hear.

“She can’t do that.” He shook his head. “She can’t legally do that. She can’t just take you from the country without my permission!”

We all waited for him to make that momentous decision to DO something. Anything. This is what Gunnar and Kjersten wanted. Sure, it wasn’t reconciliation between their parents, but it was the next best thing—they wanted their father to see what he was losing, and finally choose to do something about it.

I felt sure Gunnar and Kjersten had finally broken through that wall. Until Mr. Ümlaut released a long, slow sigh.

“Perhaps it’s all for the best,” he said. “Have your mother call me. I’ll sign all the necessary papers.”

And it was over. Just like that, it was over.

There are some things I don’t understand, and don’t think I ever will. I don’t understand how a person can give up so totally and completely that they dive right into the heart of a black hole. I can’t understand how someone’s need to gamble, or to drink, or to shoot up, or to do anything can be greater than their need to survive. And I don’t understand how pride can be more important than love.

“Our father’s a proud man,” Kjersten said as we drove away from the casino—as if pride can be an excuse for acting so shamefully—and yes, I know the man was sick, just as Gunnar said, but that didn’t excuse the choice he made today.

I felt partially to blame, because I was the one who convinced Gunnar and Kjersten to come. I honestly believed it would make a difference. Like I said, I come from a family of fixers—but what happens when something simply can’t be fixed?

I thought about my own father, fighting for his life, and winning, even as Mr. Ümlaut threw his life away, surrendering—and it occurred to me how a roll of the dice had given me back my father, and had taken theirs away.

The day was bright and sunny as we drove home, Gunnar in the back, me shotgun beside Kjersten. I wished it wasn’t such a nice day out. I wished it was raining, because the mind-numbing sound of the windshield wipers swiping back and forth would have been better than the silence, or all the false emotions of the radio, which had been on for a whole minute before Kjersten turned it off. Kjersten looked a little tired, a little grateful, and a little embarrassed that I had seen their seedy family moment. It made driving home now all the more awkward.

A lot of things made more and more sense now. Gunnar’s illness, for one. I wondered when he first began suspecting they might move out of the country. But being sick—that would change everything, wouldn’t it? It could keep his parents together—force his father to spend money on treatment instead of gambling it away. And since the best treatment was right here in New York, no one would be going anywhere. If I were Gunnar, I might wish I had Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia, too. Because the sickness of the son might cure the sickness of the father.

I held off filling our driving silence as long as I could, but there’s only so long you can resist your own nature.

“I had this friend once,” I told them. “Funny kind of kid. The thing is, his mom abandoned him in a shopping cart when he was five—and his dad treated him like he didn’t even exist...”

“So, do all your friends have screwed-up families?” Gunnar asked.

“Yeah, I’m like flypaper for dysfunction. Anyway, he had it rough for a while, did some really stupid things—but in the end he turned out okay. He even tracked down his mom.”

“And they lived happily ever after?” said Gunnar.

“Well, last I heard, they both disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle—but for them that was normal.”

“I think what Antsy’s saying,” said Kjersten, sounding a little more relaxed than she did before, “is that we’re going to be fine.”

“Fine might be pushing it,” I said. “I would go with ‛less screwed up than most people.’” That made Gunnar laugh—which was good. It meant I was getting through to him. “Who knows,” I said, “maybe your dad will turn himself around someday, and you’ll hear his wooden shoes walking up to your door.”

“Wooden shoes are from Holland, not Sweden,” Gunnar said, but I think he got the point. “And even if he does come around, who says I will?”

“You will,” I told him.

“I don’t think so,” he said bitterly.

“Yeah, you will,” I told him again. “Because you’re not him.”

Gunnar snarled at me, because he knew I had him. “Now you sound like my mother,” he said.

“No, it’s much worse than that,” I told him. “I sound like my mother.”

The fact is, Gunnar and his father might have been a lot alike—embracing their own doom, whether it was real or imagined. But in the end, Gunnar stopped carving his own tombstone. In my book, that made him twice the man his father was.