Melancholy Baby

48

My father and I finished our sandwiches. We were quiet for a moment while we drank our coffee. The waitress asked about dessert.

“I’ll have a piece of that pie,” my father said.

The waitress looked at the pie on the counter under the glass dome.

“Oh, let me check what kind,” she said.

“I don’t care what kind,” my father said. “I’ll have a slice, with some cheese and more coffee.”

“Certainly.”

The waitress looked at me. I smiled and shook my head. She went to get my father his pie.

“No decaf?” I said.

“I hate decaf,” my father said.

“Most people say as they get older, real coffee keeps them awake.”

“It does.”

“It keeps you awake, but you drink it anyway.”

“I do.”

“You could learn to like decaf,” I said.

“Fuck decaf,” my father said.

“Oh,” I said, “of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”

The waitress came with the pie and cheese. The pie was apple. My father ate it the way he did everything: straight ahead. Without flourish.

“I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” I said.

My father swallowed a mouthful of pie.

“How come?” he said.

“Richie,” I said.

My father nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s a hard one.”

“One of the things I’m trying to figure out is why it’s so hard.”

My father drank some coffee.

“Who’s the shrink?” he said.

“Dr. Silverman,” I said. “In Cambridge.”

My father smiled.

“Susan Silverman?” he said.

“Yes, you know her?”

“I do,” he said.

“Tell me about her.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know a ton about shrinkage,” my father said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not improved by having people talk about your shrink.”

“But you like her?” I said.

“Yes.”

“If you didn’t, you’d say so, wouldn’t you.”

“I like her,” my father said. “So I don’t have to think about what to say if I didn’t.”

I felt slightly chastised.

“Sure,” I said.

“She’s a smart woman,” my father said. “And you’re a smart woman. And she’s tough. And you’re tough. I’m pretty sure you’ll do some good things together.”

“We are talking about you and Mother,” I said. I felt like I was confessing.

“I bet most people in therapy, especially early in therapy, are talking about their mother and father,” he said.

“I’m dying to find out how you know Dr. Silverman,” I said.

“Ask her,” my father said.

“God,” I said, “you’re as bad as she is.”

“Or as good,” he said.

We looked at each other happily.

“Will you tell Mother?” I said.

“I think I won’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it’s not information she can make much use of,” my father said.

“Gee, I thought you might give me a speech,” I said, “about husbands and wives sharing everything.”

“When’s the last time I gave you a speech,” my father said.

“The time in high school when I stayed out all night after a dance.”

“That showed great restraint,” my father said. “I wanted to kill you.”

The waitress came by and poured us more coffee, and dropped off the check. My father picked it up automatically. I let him, automatically.

“Why do you think Mom wouldn’t do well with this?” I said.

My father’s pie was gone. I could see him thinking about another piece.

“I love Em,” he said. “I have loved her for more than forty years. But it doesn’t mean I don’t see her clearly. She’s quick to judge, she’s opinionated, and the opinions were formed when she was in her teens.”

“Often wrong but never uncertain,” I said.

He smiled.

“Exactly,” he said.

He looked around for the waitress, caught her eye, and pointed toward his pie plate. She came over.

“Another slice of pie, sir.”

“Yes, please,” my father said.

“It is good,” the waitress said, “isn’t it.”

“It is,” my father said. “No cheese this time.”

She brought him another slice.

“You know this about her,” I said.

“I’ve always known her,” he said.

“But you couldn’t change her.”

“No,” he said. “I love her as she is. I always tried to protect you and Elizabeth from the worst of it. I had more success with you than with Elizabeth.”

“Why?”

“You’re more like me,” he said. “But there was no changing Em, and I knew it.”

“Love me or leave me?”

“Yes.”

“And you love her.”

“I do,” my father said.

“And you’re happy.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

He ate some of his pie and drank some of his coffee. I thought of all the suppers and breakfasts I’d seen him eat. I wanted to get up and sit in his lap. I felt a little frightened.

“Elizabeth’s kind of a mess, Daddy,” I said.

“I know.”

“And I seem to be kind of messy these days, too.”

“You’ll get better,” he said.

“I guess you couldn’t protect us from Mother sufficiently.”

“Probably not,” my father said. “Probably wasn’t everything I should have been, either.”

“You were a good father,” I said. “You never disapproved of me.”

“Not much to disapprove of,” he said, and smiled slightly. “Except that all-night in high school.”

I felt like crying. When I spoke, my voice was shaky.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too,” he said.

“You did what you could.”

“So did your mother,” my father said.

“It wasn’t quite enough,” I said.

My father looked straight at me for a moment. I felt fourteen again.

“I think, probably,” he said, “it never is.”