That's the Other Thing

 June 2018

“They think I got cancer.”

My father dropped it at 6 o’clock on a Tuesday night. And to think I’d blamed his recent lethargy on late-spring allergies.

“It’s funny,” she said. “I’d been wondering about him. He’s no spring chicken, you know. He’s what, 75 now?”

And now I found myself telling my mother. We were sitting at an outdoor café, drinking coffee.

Weird.

My mom drank hot tea and Coca-Cola—never coffee. I’ve never had a sip.

“Yeah,” I said. “And don't forget: Papa Allsup didn't make 76.”

“That’s true, huh? I hadn’t thought of that.”

“So,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”

"You're asking me?" my mother replied. “How the hell should I know?” 

“Well, yeah” I said. “I realize—"

“I was kidding, honey.”

“Okay. But seriously, Mom. What the fuck? I mean, he doesn’t even have a will.”

“You’re shitting me?”

My mom’s “you're shitting me” replies always blew whatever I’d said way out of proportion. Whether I’d aimed for one or 10, those three words made one thing clear. She’d jacked her radar to 14.

“Take it easy,” I said. “I mean, that’s the least—"

“You think it’s cancer?”

“Well, obviously, we won’t know for sure ‘til the biopsy. But I know he thinks it is. That’s why he keeps putting it off.”

“Oh, but you know how he procrastinates. Jesus. He might be worse than you.”

“No, no, I know. It’s just—"

“And don’t forget, he’s thought he had cancer 100 goddamn times. How about when he bitched about that pain in his back? Remember? A 'pocket,' he called it. He tried to tell me that was cancer.”

I laughed.

“Yeah,” I said. “He was always getting some kinda pocket.”

“But you think it is. Cancer. I can tell.”

“You know me,” I said. “I always think the worst. But this is different, Mom. He’s been sleeping a ton. Losing weight. But the worst—the real tip—is that he’s hardly reading at all. Last few days, he hasn’t even unwrapped the Wall Street Journal.”

“Jesus, really? You better get his ass up there, then.”

“I know. Appointment’s Monday.”

“Okay, well ... I don't know. Just don’t let him put it off any longer.”

I nodded.

“What’s Rudy say?” she asked.

Rudy is my younger brother. Most people know him as Andy. For reasons no one can recall, we’ve called him Rudy since as far back as any of us can remember.

“Hell, I don’t know. What’s there to say, I guess, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You know Rudy,” I said. “He’s not exactly an optimist, but he’s a regular fucking Mr. Rogers compared to me.”

She laughed.

Making my mother laugh often felt like some sort of accomplishment. While neither she nor my dad has ever lacked for a sense of humor, my fondness for F-bombs and absurdist, often fiendishly dark, humor, came via my mom’s DNA.

“Are he and Val getting along?” she asked. “How long they been married now?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re good. Think it’ll be 13 years around Thanksgiving. Jesus Christ. I can’t believe it’s been 13 years.”

“Goes fast, doesn’t it? How many times did I tell you that? Remember? I told you guys. It goes like a New York minute.”

“Think about it all the time,” I said. “Lately especially. Amos is already going on 6. Boy do I wish you could see him. Even just once, you know? He’s so good-looking, Mom. And skinny. My God, is that kid skinny.”

She nodded knowingly and smiled. Almost as if my nephew’s narrow frame were old news.

“Sure," she said. "Remember how skinny you and Rudy were? Holy shit. You’d get crew cuts in the summer and Mike’d say you looked like escaped POWs.”

Both Rudy and I call our dad by his first name. Like the origins of Rudy, no one recalls why or a time we didn’t.

“Yep,” I said. “He’s a dead ringer for Rudy at that age. Same dark complexion as you and Rudy, too.”

“What’s he like?”

“It’s funny,” I said. “He’s no trouble at all. Gets along great at school. Teachers always telling Val and Rudy what a little angel he is. But with us? I don't know. He can really be a disagreeable little fucker. It’s pretty hilarious, actually.”

“Now, who could’ve ever predicted that? An argumentative Allsup?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We talk about that all the time. He’s kind of a loner, too. He'll duck out, real quiet, you know? No goodbye. No nothing. Blow us off and go do his own thing."

She smiled.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You would love that kid.”

“Of course, I would. Now what about you? You got a girlfriend?”

“Remember Julie?”

“Sure, I do. I always liked Julie.”

“Yeah, I know. I know you did. And anyway, yeah. I don't know how the hell it happened, but we’re together these days.”

“As long as you’re happy. Trust me. Nothing in the fucking world matters if you’re not happy.”

“Well, I don't know. I’m not sure where my happy would rank for most people, you know? But, yeah. I think I’m happy.”

“Then good. That’s great, honey. But why now?”

I shot her a quizzical look.

“With Julie, I mean. Why now? You know, after all this time?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “How the hell should I know?”

She cracked a cockeyed smile.

“Smart ass.”

After sharing a laugh, we sat quiet for a few moments.

“Anyway,” I said.

“What?”

“With Mike, I mean. I don’t know, Mom. I guess—I guess I just don’t wanna screw it up like I did with you, that’s all. You know what I—"

“Oh, stop it. That’s bullshit. And it's a waste of time, anyway.”

“Mom, come on. That night, I bet I told Mike 10 times we should take you to the hospital. But then it’s like 1 AM. Cold. Snowing like a bitch. I don’t know. I guess I just fig—You know what? Never mind. I let him talk me out of it, plain and—"

“That’s enough,” she said. “I don’t wanna waste any more time, then. It’s time for me to go, anyway.”

“Oh? Didn’t realize you were on such a tight schedule these days.”

“I’m not,” she said. “But you gotta get moving. Time to get outta your own head and back to the real world.”

It’s hardly a five-star destination, but I’m fine right here. My brain's like a lonesome, out-of-the-way beach that's somehow mired in eternal, storm-ridden chaos. Half-ass theories and crappy ideas crash its modest shoreline every waking minute. It's mostly torture but it’s home.

A large bus—the biggest goddamn bus I’ve ever seen, in fact—pulled up to the curb. She got up from her chair.

“Be good, honey. I love you.”

Then, she simply turned away. I don’t know where she was headed, but, apparently, The Venetian on wheels was going to take her.

For a moment, a half-second maybe, I wasn’t sure what to do.

“Wait," I said.

She stopped, turned and looked me in the eye.

“So,” I said. “I’ll just see you around then?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But, honey, now listen. As far as Mike goes, I understand—Okay, shit. I really gotta go, but look. All I can say is what I always say. Do the best you can. Doesn't matter what it is. Because that’s all you—that’s all anyone—can do. But if you do that—if you really do that, Chris—then that’s it. That’s all you can do. And fuck what anyone else thinks. Okay?”

“Okay,” I laughed. “Will do. I promise. And I love you, too.”

“Oh, and that? What you just said? That’s the other thing you can do. Be sure to let Mike know.”