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Authors: Camille Aubray
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around the house; he just wasn’t the kind of boy you turned your back on. I never understood why Mom didn’t use a firmer hand with him. Nor could I let my father’s sexist excuse pass. “Dad’s living in the Dark Ages. These days there’s a whole world full of women who run companies, make investments, do everything!” I reminded her.
My mother got that look on her face—the one she wore whenever she wanted to dodge any conflict, large or small. “Oh, he’s always been a good husband and a good father, and you know he loves
all
of us!” she said hastily. “Don’t worry, the will says everything will be done fairly.”
“Let’s hope so, Mom,” I sighed. I didn’t want to add to her stress, and I couldn’t expect her to confront Dad now. She’d been thirty when she met my father—a tall, good-looking forty-year-old at the time, whose first wife had recently died of cancer, and he was dealing with a succession of nannies who’d all quit, saying that the twins were mean and “a pair of holy terrors”.
I’d heard this from Aunt Matilda, Dad’s younger sister, a retired art teacher whom he derisively called “the spinster”. Aunt Matilda said he was attracted to my mother because he wanted “an old-fashioned girl, fashioned from his own rib”.
But Mom described being courted by a man smitten with love-at-first-sight, and surely this was true; Dad never cheated on her or even flirted with other women, and he made certain that his wife lived the good life, always able to have whatever fine things she loved. He was a “killer” lawyer at a prestigious firm, who could also be charming, gregarious and even appear modest when the situation warranted it. Mom claimed that Dad was just like the hero of her favorite movie,
The Sound of Music
—a sort of Captain von Trapp whose stern, somewhat sinister-looking handsomeness masked the heart of a good man.
I always wanted to believe so, for when Dad was in a good mood he was affectionate to us all, scooping his special ice cream sundaes, flipping Saturday-morning pancakes, singing to us on long car drives, teaching us kids to play sports and games. He liked to tell jokes, and, among his adult friends he was considered the life of the party. People mistook his jocular act for the hallmark of a contented soul.
Only his family knew that Dad was
not
a happy man. His frequent outbursts of rage were our little secret, which we seldom discussed even among ourselves. My early attempts to engage Mom about why Dad was so angry were fairly fruitless, as she excused him by saying that his career was stressful, and this was true; his legal work for high-stakes clients involved skimming the risky edges of the law.
But recently Mom had confessed to me that, during a particularly volatile period, a doctor once told my father that he had “narcissistic tendencies” and suggested therapy. “What did Dad do?” I asked.
“He was furious. Then he went and found another doctor he liked better,” Mom demurred.
We all tried to coax Dad into a happier mood with things we knew had pleased him before—his favorite songs, or sports scores, or old movies. But every evening when he came home from work, no matter what wonderful steaming dish Mom set down in front of us, our appetites died as my father, his face already thunderous, took his seat at the head of the table, searching for any inkling of failure or disloyalty in order to find a scapegoat. Then he’d explode with the pent-up fury we all dreaded.
The twins learned to deflect this by flattering Dad, pretending to be exact little replicas of him. But I watched in dismay as Mom absorbed his ridicule with a meekness that even as a child, I could see only reinforced his contemptuous attitude, which extended to whatever female friends she tried to socialize with, making it uncomfortable for her to invite any of them to her home.
And there was a joke I learned to hate which he often repeated at her expense. It was about
My mother got that look on her face—the one she wore whenever she wanted to dodge any conflict, large or small. “Oh, he’s always been a good husband and a good father, and you know he loves
all
of us!” she said hastily. “Don’t worry, the will says everything will be done fairly.”
“Let’s hope so, Mom,” I sighed. I didn’t want to add to her stress, and I couldn’t expect her to confront Dad now. She’d been thirty when she met my father—a tall, good-looking forty-year-old at the time, whose first wife had recently died of cancer, and he was dealing with a succession of nannies who’d all quit, saying that the twins were mean and “a pair of holy terrors”.
I’d heard this from Aunt Matilda, Dad’s younger sister, a retired art teacher whom he derisively called “the spinster”. Aunt Matilda said he was attracted to my mother because he wanted “an old-fashioned girl, fashioned from his own rib”.
But Mom described being courted by a man smitten with love-at-first-sight, and surely this was true; Dad never cheated on her or even flirted with other women, and he made certain that his wife lived the good life, always able to have whatever fine things she loved. He was a “killer” lawyer at a prestigious firm, who could also be charming, gregarious and even appear modest when the situation warranted it. Mom claimed that Dad was just like the hero of her favorite movie,
The Sound of Music
—a sort of Captain von Trapp whose stern, somewhat sinister-looking handsomeness masked the heart of a good man.
I always wanted to believe so, for when Dad was in a good mood he was affectionate to us all, scooping his special ice cream sundaes, flipping Saturday-morning pancakes, singing to us on long car drives, teaching us kids to play sports and games. He liked to tell jokes, and, among his adult friends he was considered the life of the party. People mistook his jocular act for the hallmark of a contented soul.
Only his family knew that Dad was
not
a happy man. His frequent outbursts of rage were our little secret, which we seldom discussed even among ourselves. My early attempts to engage Mom about why Dad was so angry were fairly fruitless, as she excused him by saying that his career was stressful, and this was true; his legal work for high-stakes clients involved skimming the risky edges of the law.
But recently Mom had confessed to me that, during a particularly volatile period, a doctor once told my father that he had “narcissistic tendencies” and suggested therapy. “What did Dad do?” I asked.
“He was furious. Then he went and found another doctor he liked better,” Mom demurred.
We all tried to coax Dad into a happier mood with things we knew had pleased him before—his favorite songs, or sports scores, or old movies. But every evening when he came home from work, no matter what wonderful steaming dish Mom set down in front of us, our appetites died as my father, his face already thunderous, took his seat at the head of the table, searching for any inkling of failure or disloyalty in order to find a scapegoat. Then he’d explode with the pent-up fury we all dreaded.
The twins learned to deflect this by flattering Dad, pretending to be exact little replicas of him. But I watched in dismay as Mom absorbed his ridicule with a meekness that even as a child, I could see only reinforced his contemptuous attitude, which extended to whatever female friends she tried to socialize with, making it uncomfortable for her to invite any of them to her home.
And there was a joke I learned to hate which he often repeated at her expense. It was about
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