My Father's Smile

On a Thursday morning in August, one month before my thirteenth birthday, my father woke me to tell me that my grandmother had died during the night, and that we had to drive back into the city. One moment I was sound asleep in the double bed that faced southwest toward Lake Michigan; the next, my dad was gently shaking me. "Beeb, Beeb...," he was saying as I opened my eyes. "Grandma passed away last night. Mom left already, and now you and Johnny and I are going to drive back into the city." He had that fascinated, surprised expression I remember so well. Fascinated by the daughter whose love seemed to ever elude him. and surprise at the way life had turned out. There was also something else that I think I only recognize now in the future looking back at that day. A mixture of pain, of regret and torment. As if to say, "...what a shame that I can't hug her... what a shame that I had to become a lawyer.. what a shame that I can't tell this to my wife." Of course, he never said any of that, and we drove back into the city.

When we arrived at the first floor apartment on Hyde Park Boulevard, my mother greeted me at the door with a hurried hug, and told me to go through the apartment to the backporch to see my grandfather. "Now go out there honey, and give him a big hug and kiss." This was said in the kitchen just at the open door to the porch, and I stopped. I was twelve years old. I could not budge. As I heard my grandfather telling the crowd on the porch (aunts and uncles and cousins) of his shock and sorrow, my body froze. I was completely bewildered that I was the one who was supposed to make it all right. All I wanted to do was go upstairs to my family's apartment and soothe myself with The Beatles. My mother, frustrated, began to cry softly. And I thought it was because of me.

The next morning, which was beautifully hot and sunny, was spent in my Aunt's bedroom. She lived with her parents. My Aunts' and Mother's faces were closed and sad, and seemed millions of miles away from where I sat on the bed. When we arrived at the synagogue, the sight of my grandmother's gleaming mahogany coffin took my breath away. I think the moment I realized she was truly gone was when Johnny burst into tears in the row behind me. He was the only one of us who wept openly that day, and I envied him. He was ten, and had not learned that no one was supposed to cry in the family.

We drove to the cemetery and I watched as her coffin was lowered into the ground. I held onto myself with all my might, terribly afraid that I would start wailing. I loved my Grandmother and I didn't want her to go away! At the peak of anguish, two bumblebees landed on top of the coffin. They were portly, as Grandma had been, and drunk with pollen. I watched, mezmerized, as they rose and started droning around my head. I have always been terrified of bees, but this time there was no fear. I was completely entranced, and I didn't hear what the Rabbi was saying, because I knew that she was comforting me, and I smiled. I smiled! Beyond death, her love was so tangible. She was spelling my name for me with two immense, intoxicated bumblebees.

One summer, four years later, a dangerously beautiful young man, much too old for me, came to the door of the summer house to take me out. (There is a young man in my theatre company who looks so much like Benjamin did then; perhaps this is why the memory is so keen right now?) This young man and my father stared each other down, their teeth bared. As far as my father was concerned, Benjamin might as well have been taking me as the sacrificial maiden to an unthinkable primitive orgiastic ritual. My mother would later comment that his smile made her uneasy because it was so "mature". I know now that she recognized the mythical beast. She and my father both. The beast who had finally come to ravish and spoil their Beauty. I masked for them all my exhilaration caused by the events that led up to The Meeting Of The Men At The Door. What does one say to a daughter whose childhood is on the verge of annihilation? I was certain I saw the golden mantle of initiation laid out at Benjy's feet, and I eagerly stepped out onto it while the two of them, the father and the ravisher, danced the dance of wary, hostile greeting.

Later that summer, my father could not comfort my sixteen year old broken heart. I never forgave him for not putting his arms around me. Instead, he chastized me for being a fool. I see now that I had gone away from him, across a subtle field of no return, when I had stepped out the door that evening at the summer's beginning. I can still see the smile on his face when I looked back to wave at him. That smile of fear, and anger, and perplexity. That smile of love.