118. Cousin Ben

“Cousin Ben,” said my mother “has a wonderful hobby … fixing clocks. You’re handy, Ed, and Ben said he has an old clock and parts to get you started.”

“I was planning to buy a telescope,” Dad answered.

“They’re pretty expensive,” said my mother.

The use of that phrase always ended any buying discussion.

Cousin Ben lived twenty miles down the river in the small city of Herkimer and he was far from being a likeable character. Ben was somehow related to my grandmother, who lived with us, and Dad considered it time off from his upcoming stay in Purgatory when he took Grandma down to visit with Ben’s wife, who we called Aunt Mary. The rest of us in the family often went along if we were trying to work off future time in Purgatory for one sin or another. As teenage boys, we were always behind in our accounts.

The next Sunday afternoon we piled into the old Ford and set out for Herkimer … Mom and Dad, Grandma, my little brother Micky and myself. Older brother Bert had months before gone off to join the Navy, providing some relief to both he and my father from their stormy relationship. As we pulled out on James Street I managed to roll our right rear tire over the curbstone. When the wheel slammed back down on the road, Grandma’s head hit the ceiling of the car and Mom almost ate her cigarette. Eleven year old Micky made the most of it, of course, gleefully bouncing all over the back seat and yelling “Mayday, Mayday!” I could hear my father’s grunt of disapproval.

“Do you know how much tires cost?” he asked.

“I’ll pay for any damages,” I said, much too flippantly.

“You don’t have any money,” said Dad witheringly, like a tire losing air.

At sixteen I chafed against my father’s control and there wasn’t much he could say or do I wouldn’t argue with. My smart mouth led to many confrontations and when his mood darkened he became more autocratic, heating the space between us to a high emotional level. As his depression deepened that summer, our egos were constantly banging up against each other. He had exploded and walloped me for my insolence a month before. Dad seldom hit me, and that would be the last time he tried. I turned on him and put up my fists. Although he could have wiped the floor with me he backed off, rather than have a knock-down fist fight with his son. He turned and walked away, as he had done with my older brother Bert the previous year. I might have felt victorious, but instead I felt defeated. Alone and angry, the small victory of defending myself turned sour and I came away with an odd smoldering hate for him that only a son recognizes and only a son gets over.

The night before our drive to Herkimer, Micky and I lay in our beds casually pitching brotherly insults back and forth in our shared bedroom. After a lull when we had run out of crudities, Micky said, “Why don’t we hear from Bert much anymore?”

“He’s busy saving the South Pacific for IBM and Xerox,” I said, having just read something about it in Time Magazine.

“The last time he called, Dad didn’t talk to him,” said Micky.

“Dad’s been a little funny lately,” was the only response that came to me.

“Why do you think Dad gets upset all the time and yells?” asked Micky

“He’s dealing with a lot of things, I guess,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Micky. “especially you.”

Micky struck too close to home. I had begun to realize I was a major source of my father’s worries. My arrogance and slipshod attitude were affecting my school work and relationships. I failed classes and had recently been fired from an after school job for mouthing off to the man who hired me, a friend of Dad’s. But although my culpability was slowly dawning on me, my gut reaction was self serving and swift. I immediately became enraged at the kid.

I leapt out of bed and flew across the room, caught my little brother up by his tshirt and slugged him in the shoulder. I slugged him again … somewhere … as he tried to wriggle away from me up against the wall. And then Micky did something he’d never attempted before. He turned on me and punched me in the face.

Astonished, I straightened up, wondering what to do. He was still small enough to pick up and throw across the room. I stood there in my t-shirt and boxer shorts and suddenly saw me as my father, losing control of those around me. My rage turned to fear. I did not want to be like my father. I wanted to be perfect.

“What the hell are you talking about, you little jerk!” I all but shouted.

“You’re the jerk,” hissed Micky. “You’re always arguing with Dad and causing trouble around here!”

“I’m a man and he won’t admit it,” I shouted in his face.

“No you’re not,” he laughed. “You’re an asshole!”

I was astonished my normally adoring little brother would say such a thing to me. This was the kid who laughed at all my jokes, thought all the girls I liked were pretty and told me I was a genius when I brought home report cards that indicated otherwise. I was deflated. I walked back across the room and sat down heavily on my bed.