July 28, 1977
I’m always confusing my mother’s birthday with the day she
got married, then recall the marriage came earlier in July, and how by the time
the 28th came along, she was alone again because my father had to
travel to Washington D.C. to straighten out his dishonorable discharge from the
U.S. Navy.
Now all these years later, I have abandoned her the way my
father did, refusing to let my family force me into living with her again.
I’m 26 years old. The last thing I need is to live with my
mother, which is exactly what I told them, and so forced her to move south with
her mother and her brother and his family, she seeing it as some kind of prison
sentence similar to when they locked her up in the mental institution when I was
a kid.
This is her first birthday in Toms
River – her first birthday out of Paterson .
She doesn’t hate the sea shore, but she has to rely on other
people to get around now when back up in Paterson
she could walk or take a bus.
I was supposed to go to see the New York Yankees with Cliff
from work, a rare Thursday excursion to the bleachers where he and I usually
get falling down drunk, more than enough excuse not to show up at the warehouse
tomorrow. Now I have no excuse.
I have to visit my mother instead, driving down the Garden
State Parkway waiting for the Yankee came to come on the radio and my hero
Thurmond Munson to come to the plate, but all I get is some newscaster ranting
about some oil pipeline in Alaska so I tune to FM and the fading WNEW playing old
rock and roll I know by heart.
It is not hot. But I have no air conditioning. I have the
windows open and like the looks I get from other people seeing me in my brand
new Ford Pinto, my first new car ever after a series of broken down hotrods I
spent most of my time trying to fix. I love the car even some news reports
claim it might blow up if hit from behind.
My mother turns 49 years old today, and sadly, she’s already
started to show the gray. She was my grandparent’s first baby, back in 1928
when they had so much hope, only to have the stock market crash a year later
ruining their dreams and forcing them into hard labor.
I suppose they got drunk that night. I would have.
I wonder if my mother ever got drunk. I know my father did,
often. My uncle Ritchie told me. My father was a sailor and a rowdy one at
that, a boy who joined a medical corps. early in the war only to have the Navy
take over even when he was still under age.
A sailor on the Yancy, his ship sat in Tokyo Harbor
during the surrender, and later sailed through an atomic cloud, and still later
to the North Pole before he was drummed out for a reason I never knew. He
worked for my grandfather building houses after the Navy, and often snuck off
the work site with Ritchie and Little Bill to drink in a Haledon bar.
Maybe she thought she could reform him, just as she tries to
reform me with her constant rosaries.
And as I drive I keep thinking of how lonely that birthday
was, a two-week newlywed whose husband deserted her, looking out that window
that July 28 wondering if he would ever come back. Did she know I was already
taking shape inside her?
So I press down harder on the gas, determined not to let her
spend her first birthday away from Paterson
alone.
My present to her is me.
It’s the best I have to offer.
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