Like Son (30 page)

When my father died, I’d chosen only a few items from his home to remember him by: blind man glasses, walking stick, worry stone, briefcase, and those damned glorious suits. Obviously, my disaster of a trip to D.C. had me reconsidering plenty of things, not least of which was that I might want to think twice about playing dress-up in my father’s wardrobe. Suit bloodied and shredded, briefcase lost entirely, his threads had hardly been the protective armor I’d thought they’d be. And as for his dark glasses, walking stick, and worry stone—I liked to believe that my father’s blindness and worry, both literal and figurative, were not what he would have wished for me to take as my own.

So, careful of my left arm in its cast, I dug a hole three feet deep in the moist sand near the ocean’s edge. And in that hole I placed my father’s glasses and folded walking stick. Handfuls of sand patted over his things in the small grave, I buried the ill-chosen tokens. Once the hole was completely filled, I took off my shoes and socks, rolled my pants up to my knees, and walked into shallow water. I leaned down and pushed my father’s worry stone into the thick wet sand.

“To ground you,” I said.

I wasn’t sure if I was saying it to my father or myself. But I said it. Again.

“To ground you.”

The sand was cold on my toes. Small sharp shells scratched my ankles. Salt water stung my skin. Seaweed wrapped itself around my feet as if in a final embrace. Somewhere overhead, even though I couldn’t see it through the heavily clouded sky, I knew a high noon sun was shining. I stood and watched the waves for a few minutes. And then I went home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

5 March 2003. Ash Wednesday.

New York City.

I
waited in shadows under the Temperance Fountain’s gazebo, keeping an eye out for cops and watching the traffic pass on Avenue A. Not that many people knew it, but the Temperance Fountain was the most perfect place in the city, maybe the entire world, to revolt. The Temperance Fountain. To look at it, Tompkins Square Park’s smallish neo-classical monument seemed like any other old and prissy municipal structure. Sure, the fountain was interesting in that the four directions of its stone gazebo were carved with its founding fathers’ Victorian ethos: Temperance (south), Charity (west), Hope (north), and Faith (east). And yeah, the slightly smaller-than-life bronze statue of Hebe—hottie mythical water carrier, standing watch atop the gazebo all gentle smile and tunic-wearing perkiness—was a nice touch, but that hardly makes the fountain sacred ground, right?

Wrong. And here’s the reason why:

Hebe—maybe not all renditions of Hebe, but Tompkins Square Park’s Hebe for sure—would explode your mind if you let her. She seemed so innocent—just a peaceful girl resting a water pitcher near her right thigh and gazing into the bowl she held in her left hand—but if you watched her long enough, you’d realize she was revolution itself.

Why, you might ask, was Hebe staring into her bowl instead of out into the city? Well, Hebe preferred to bow her head introspectively rather than be forced to face society and abide by its stifling expectations and impositions. Furthermore, she refused to imbibe Temperance’s offerings and instead prepared to drink the potion of unique delights and risks she carried in her bowl. Best part was that Hebe stood with her back to the east—toward Faith—and with her bowl at the western edge of the gazebo—toward Charity. I swear, if she’d leaned down and, faithless charitable creature that she was, offered me a drink from her bowl, I would have joined her for a nightcap. As for the actual fountain’s cold drinking water, since junkies used it to clean their works and to bathe in summer, same as Hebe, fuck if I’d ever let it touch my lips.

Temperance was for fools. The flapper whose portrait had graced my wallet for a short while had taught me that much. Over three-quarters of a century earlier—a camera’s bulb flashing hot bright white light—the flapper and Hebe had both signaled one truth loud and clear with those serious flirt eyes of theirs: Imposed self-restraint is the most simplistic and naïve of elixirs and should be avoided at all costs. I took the flapper girl’s departure from my wallet as a sign that she refused to be confined even in spirit. A person must leave behind what no longer serves them and instead take hold of what they want and need. With no hesitation.
Demand your thrill
, the flapper girl whispered in her slurred purr.

It was no shocker that Nathalie wanted to meet at the fountain. And I was glad for it.

As though I had conjured her with that thought, I heard the clicking of high heels approaching from somewhere to my left. I turned to see Nathalie walking toward the fountain. All the park’s gates locked, Nathalie must have jumped the fence to get in, same as me, but somehow she’d remained the antithesis of dishevelment. The glass-bead hem of her favorite evening gown visible under her coat, her hair pinned into a loose chignon, my favorite Cuban-heeled pumps lending a regal air to the arch of her step—I watched lady elegance approach from the north, from Hope. I wondered if Nathalie realized the symbolic message she had thus communicated or if the direction of her arrival was merely the chance result of catching a train to Union Square and walking southeast into the neighborhood from there; I preferred to think it was the former.

I stood to greet Nathalie, to embrace her, to knock her down and make sure she never got away again. As I reached for her, she noticed the cast on my arm.

“What happened?”

“Long story.”

Concern knitting her brow, Nathalie leaned forward, stood on tiptoe, and gave me the softest kiss. If I could have stopped time and kept it freeze-framed, I’d have wished for that kiss to last forever.

“Nat,” I took a deep breath, “don’t leave again.”

Her lips moved as if she was going to respond, but no words came out. A cab honked on Avenue A and an electrical surge hummed through a lamppost. Vulnerability painted my neck a hot red. Nathalie’s silence was the most awful sound on planet earth.

“This really fucking terrifies me, Frank.”

I wasn’t sure what she was referring to exactly. Coming home? My asking her to stay? Us? Regardless, of course it terrified her. Living was an inherently frightening business. And personally, even though I’d said a final goodbye to my father hours earlier, part of me wished I could have just one more word of advice from him, a little bit of illumination, anything to show me I was heading in the right direction.

Dad? Help? Please?

Nothing.

But it was okay. I knew what to do.

“Let’s go home,” I said, gently tugging Nathalie’s elbow.

As I walked away from the Temperance Fountain to 7th Street with my girl on my good arm, I looked up toward our building and noticed a warm light radiating from our apartment window. I was always extra careful to turn off all the lights when I left, and I couldn’t remember accidentally leaving any on.

But then again, maybe I had.

Acknowledgments

With much respect and warmest appreciation, I thank: Johnny Temple, Johanna Ingalls, all of Team Akashic, Shirley, Esteban, and Cooper/Fenberg Inc. Endless thanks to Murray for his moral support and devotion.

And thank you, Mr. T Cooper … for everything.

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AKASHIC BOOKS

A FICTIONAL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES
WITH HUGE CHUNKS MISSING

EDITED BY T C
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& A
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332 PAGES, A TRADE PAPERBACK ORIGINAL, $15.95

Original stories & artwork by: Felicia Luna Lemus, Daniel Alarcón, Amy Bloom, Kate Bornstein, T Cooper, Ron Kovic, Adam Mansbach, Paul La Farge, Alexander Chee, Keith Knight, Valerie Miner, Thomas O’Malley, Neal Pollack, David Rees, Sarah Schulman, Darin Strauss, and Benjamin Weissman.

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—Howard Zinn, author of A People’s History of the United States

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“A wholly original novel that’s both discomforting and compelling to read.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“T Cooper skillfully twists, entwines, and collides generations, gender identities, and sexual orientations so deliciously that I don't think there’s anyone who can read this book without ruefully identifying with at least one of the central characters—and without hopelessly falling in love with at least one of the others.”

—Kate Bornstein, author of Gender Outlaw

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“Great writers by definition are outriders, raiders of a sort, sweeping down from wilderness territories to disturb the peace, overrun the status quo and throw into question everything we know to be true … On its face, the novel is a murder mystery, and at the book’s heart, always, is a deep love of Mexico and its people.”

—Los Angeles Times Book Review