Read Online All Stories Are Love Stories by Elizabeth Percer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Percer
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himself and their gray-shadowed past. He had thought, perhaps stupidly, that redemption was possible, wasnât it?
But per usual, his father had something completely different in mind: a sort of detached deathbed confessional the likes of which still baffled Gene. In several conversationsduring which he learned his father was refusing chemo and allowing only a professional nurse access to his home, he also learned that Hans had been the one to find his brotherâs body in the pond on the land that was supposed to have gone to them both. And that the evening before Georg drowned, heâd come to his older brother begging for money.
Hans never spoke to what most might expect a dying man to tell his only child: that he loved himâor, if that were overly generous, that he at least regretted that he didnât. Instead, just as other fathers might pass along a treasured keepsake, Hans seemed hell-bent on passing along his worst memories. Gene couldnât figure out if he was the recipient of these urgent confessions because his father felt he could be absolved of them by leaving them with his son, or because he wanted his son to know the pain that had shaped him into the hard shell that he was, rotting from the inside out.
Even so, the telling itself was an undeniable act of trust that Gene couldnât help marveling at. And he did hold on to his fatherâs memories as receptacles for the older manâs bitterness, as warnings for himself when his own perfectionism reared its ugly head. He attended the funeral only because he feared no one else would, though he flew in that morning and left on the red-eye, as if his childhood in Kansas were a contagion he was still in danger of catching. Early the next morning, Gene crawled into bed with Franklin, who couldnât sleep either.
Franklinâwho had been raised by tolerant Jews, who had already sent both parents to the grave and mourned them genuinely, who could not imagine such coldness betweenparents and children, who had once wanted children himself before a young lover with no tears for his own father came into his lifeâlay awake and listened as Gene wondered aloud why the last words he heard from his father, while seemingly inspired by some desire to depart the world unburdened, were dripping with hostility. How could a man think that speaking his sins aloud was enough, if the words werenât tinged with regret? Had he really been so self-righteous that he couldnât even let go of his own defenses when doing so might have been the only way to find the peace he must have craved? Reading Geneâs mind, Franklin ran his finger along his loverâs jaw in the dark and promised him that the similarities between father and son ended at their looks, and that it shouldnât surprise Gene in the least that his father, a cruel man, would leave the world with cruel stories. But Gene knew his father wasnât cruel, though heâd done cruel things.
No, he hadnât been a cruel man; heâd been a terrified one.
And what would Gene do, now that he was facing his own terror? Dive under the shield of work? Or come up fighting for himself as well as Franklin? Gene sighed. Only time would tell. At least for now, he could still enjoy the morningâs great news and the rest of his day, couldnât he? He
would
leave early, get home before the worst of the traffic, surprise Franklin before he could raise any more objections. He didnât really have to spend the afternoon reviewing his notes for the next dayâs classes. It was a day of celebrations, after all! He checked his watchâif he left after his last meeting, he could be home by three oâclock. He nodded to himself decisively. It was a plan.
6
Vashti was wrist deep in dough again, desperate to lose herself in blissful devotion to the four gods of pastry: Flour, Butter, Sugar, and Water, elements in whose purest forms she believed as devoutly as some believe in
But per usual, his father had something completely different in mind: a sort of detached deathbed confessional the likes of which still baffled Gene. In several conversationsduring which he learned his father was refusing chemo and allowing only a professional nurse access to his home, he also learned that Hans had been the one to find his brotherâs body in the pond on the land that was supposed to have gone to them both. And that the evening before Georg drowned, heâd come to his older brother begging for money.
Hans never spoke to what most might expect a dying man to tell his only child: that he loved himâor, if that were overly generous, that he at least regretted that he didnât. Instead, just as other fathers might pass along a treasured keepsake, Hans seemed hell-bent on passing along his worst memories. Gene couldnât figure out if he was the recipient of these urgent confessions because his father felt he could be absolved of them by leaving them with his son, or because he wanted his son to know the pain that had shaped him into the hard shell that he was, rotting from the inside out.
Even so, the telling itself was an undeniable act of trust that Gene couldnât help marveling at. And he did hold on to his fatherâs memories as receptacles for the older manâs bitterness, as warnings for himself when his own perfectionism reared its ugly head. He attended the funeral only because he feared no one else would, though he flew in that morning and left on the red-eye, as if his childhood in Kansas were a contagion he was still in danger of catching. Early the next morning, Gene crawled into bed with Franklin, who couldnât sleep either.
Franklinâwho had been raised by tolerant Jews, who had already sent both parents to the grave and mourned them genuinely, who could not imagine such coldness betweenparents and children, who had once wanted children himself before a young lover with no tears for his own father came into his lifeâlay awake and listened as Gene wondered aloud why the last words he heard from his father, while seemingly inspired by some desire to depart the world unburdened, were dripping with hostility. How could a man think that speaking his sins aloud was enough, if the words werenât tinged with regret? Had he really been so self-righteous that he couldnât even let go of his own defenses when doing so might have been the only way to find the peace he must have craved? Reading Geneâs mind, Franklin ran his finger along his loverâs jaw in the dark and promised him that the similarities between father and son ended at their looks, and that it shouldnât surprise Gene in the least that his father, a cruel man, would leave the world with cruel stories. But Gene knew his father wasnât cruel, though heâd done cruel things.
No, he hadnât been a cruel man; heâd been a terrified one.
And what would Gene do, now that he was facing his own terror? Dive under the shield of work? Or come up fighting for himself as well as Franklin? Gene sighed. Only time would tell. At least for now, he could still enjoy the morningâs great news and the rest of his day, couldnât he? He
would
leave early, get home before the worst of the traffic, surprise Franklin before he could raise any more objections. He didnât really have to spend the afternoon reviewing his notes for the next dayâs classes. It was a day of celebrations, after all! He checked his watchâif he left after his last meeting, he could be home by three oâclock. He nodded to himself decisively. It was a plan.
6
Vashti was wrist deep in dough again, desperate to lose herself in blissful devotion to the four gods of pastry: Flour, Butter, Sugar, and Water, elements in whose purest forms she believed as devoutly as some believe in
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