toes, kissed him lightly on the cheek, gave me an I-told-you-so stare, then bounced up the steps and into the house. Even at age twelve, she had the moves of a pro.
“What the heck was all
that
?” I said.
Herbie shrugged. “Just stay out of it, Tommy.”
I started to walk away, but Herbie stepped in front of me.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re not part of this—not anymore. Leave us alone.”
“Us?”
“Us,” he said.
I nodded. But right then I knew it was more than a brother-sister thing. It was a plywood cross. It was God.
I magine any object, any person, any human event. Ponder the word
substance
.
As an example I might pluck some random snapshot from memory. A backyard, let us say. Midcentury Minnesota, the summer of 1952, and I am watching my father perform sleight-of-hand for Lorna Sue and Herbie and me. I see him now as he was then, athletic and graceful, utterly adult, standing near the birdbath in that silvery backyard. Sunlight surrounds him. He sparkles with the ferocity of here and now. Proud, but also a little nervous, I watch as my father shakes out a cigarette—a Lucky Strike—lights it with a match, slides it into the opening of his right ear, blinks at the pain, then smiles at me and retrieves the cigarette from his mouth.
All this is like concrete. It has a dense, solid, ongoing durability. Granted, my father died in 1957, of heart failure, yet he has substance even without substance. He lives in the chemistry of thought, an inhabitant of the mind, his flesh reconstituted into those organic compounds we so lamely call memory. I do not meanthis in a figurative sense; I mean it literally: my father has substance. Hit a switch in my head, fire up the chemistry, and there he is again, in the backyard, wincing as he inserts a Lucky Strike into his right ear. Herbie’s mouth drops open. Lorna Sue squeals with delight. And I am there too, seven years old, snagged in Lorna Sue’s brown eyes, her black hair and summer skin—I loved her even then, obsessively. It is indelible. I see the white birdbath before me, the bubbles-appearing at Herbie’s lips as he demands that my father do the trick once more. “Come on!” he screams.
He jiggles.
He grabs my father’s arm.
“Jeez, come on!” he yells. “Stick it in
my
ear!”
A painful admission, but it’s true: Back then, in 1952, I loved Herbie with the same volatile, high-octane passion that now fuels my hatred. Same for Lorna Sue.
It’s been hard since she left me. Late at night I’ll jot down things to say to her in the event she calls someday. The word
reptile
is on my list. And
lizard
. And
crocodile
.
I cannot choose from among the three.
Lizard
has the virtue of specificity,
crocodile
even more so, but in the end
reptile
probably makes the strongest claim, most inclusive, most primitive and wicked and dangerous and cold-blooded.
Substance:
the word gnaws at me.
Late at night, tormented, I find myself sliding up and down the scales of history, first here, next there, and eventually I return to a hot, windy beach outside Tampa, where not so long ago I lay feigning sleep while Lorna Sue chatted up her greasy new friend, a Tampa tycoon.
I was present. I heard it all. I smelled his Coppertone, seethed at his rancid pleasantries.
In the days afterward, almost without pause, Lorna Sue devoted our vacation to a slow, compendious recitation of the man’s virtues. (With each glowing item, by way of silent contrast, she was also devaluing and denigrating me.) The cocksucker was witty, sheclaimed. Generous. Thoughtful. At peace with himself. A good listener. Self-assured. Comfortable inside his own skin. Polite. Smart. A man of substance.
At this—finally—I balked.
We were flying home, I recall, and Lorna Sue had sighed and levered back her seat. “Most people with money,” she was telling me, “they’re not really comfortable inside their own skins, they’re not at peace with themselves, but he’s … well,
“What the heck was all
that
?” I said.
Herbie shrugged. “Just stay out of it, Tommy.”
I started to walk away, but Herbie stepped in front of me.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re not part of this—not anymore. Leave us alone.”
“Us?”
“Us,” he said.
I nodded. But right then I knew it was more than a brother-sister thing. It was a plywood cross. It was God.
I magine any object, any person, any human event. Ponder the word
substance
.
As an example I might pluck some random snapshot from memory. A backyard, let us say. Midcentury Minnesota, the summer of 1952, and I am watching my father perform sleight-of-hand for Lorna Sue and Herbie and me. I see him now as he was then, athletic and graceful, utterly adult, standing near the birdbath in that silvery backyard. Sunlight surrounds him. He sparkles with the ferocity of here and now. Proud, but also a little nervous, I watch as my father shakes out a cigarette—a Lucky Strike—lights it with a match, slides it into the opening of his right ear, blinks at the pain, then smiles at me and retrieves the cigarette from his mouth.
All this is like concrete. It has a dense, solid, ongoing durability. Granted, my father died in 1957, of heart failure, yet he has substance even without substance. He lives in the chemistry of thought, an inhabitant of the mind, his flesh reconstituted into those organic compounds we so lamely call memory. I do not meanthis in a figurative sense; I mean it literally: my father has substance. Hit a switch in my head, fire up the chemistry, and there he is again, in the backyard, wincing as he inserts a Lucky Strike into his right ear. Herbie’s mouth drops open. Lorna Sue squeals with delight. And I am there too, seven years old, snagged in Lorna Sue’s brown eyes, her black hair and summer skin—I loved her even then, obsessively. It is indelible. I see the white birdbath before me, the bubbles-appearing at Herbie’s lips as he demands that my father do the trick once more. “Come on!” he screams.
He jiggles.
He grabs my father’s arm.
“Jeez, come on!” he yells. “Stick it in
my
ear!”
A painful admission, but it’s true: Back then, in 1952, I loved Herbie with the same volatile, high-octane passion that now fuels my hatred. Same for Lorna Sue.
It’s been hard since she left me. Late at night I’ll jot down things to say to her in the event she calls someday. The word
reptile
is on my list. And
lizard
. And
crocodile
.
I cannot choose from among the three.
Lizard
has the virtue of specificity,
crocodile
even more so, but in the end
reptile
probably makes the strongest claim, most inclusive, most primitive and wicked and dangerous and cold-blooded.
Substance:
the word gnaws at me.
Late at night, tormented, I find myself sliding up and down the scales of history, first here, next there, and eventually I return to a hot, windy beach outside Tampa, where not so long ago I lay feigning sleep while Lorna Sue chatted up her greasy new friend, a Tampa tycoon.
I was present. I heard it all. I smelled his Coppertone, seethed at his rancid pleasantries.
In the days afterward, almost without pause, Lorna Sue devoted our vacation to a slow, compendious recitation of the man’s virtues. (With each glowing item, by way of silent contrast, she was also devaluing and denigrating me.) The cocksucker was witty, sheclaimed. Generous. Thoughtful. At peace with himself. A good listener. Self-assured. Comfortable inside his own skin. Polite. Smart. A man of substance.
At this—finally—I balked.
We were flying home, I recall, and Lorna Sue had sighed and levered back her seat. “Most people with money,” she was telling me, “they’re not really comfortable inside their own skins, they’re not at peace with themselves, but he’s … well,
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