My mother in those days had become quite adept at calming him.
Many years later, of course, when I understood what was happening to my father, I learned about the cognitive changes that can accompany a condition like his; and I have to say, as I read those medical articles on the Internet in his dank and ruined house — a father myself at that point — I was forced to rethink many of the things I’d believed about him. Nobody likes to do that. Especially if you’ve nursed a grievance of mistreatment for a good portion of your life. But this is part of why I tell this story — to understand the truth about him, including the idea that he can’t entirely be blamed for what he did to us, and for what he did to himself, and for what happened to him.
At any rate, it was later that afternoon, at the Macon Dalles, that the real event took place. There was a liquor store not far from the park entrance, and as usual it lifted him into a brighter mood. We managed to have a pleasant hike, winding our way through a grove of sycamores that cast a thousand permutations of green onto the spring grass that was just coming out of seed along the paths. At the river, we turned south. Below us, in the first run of boulders, the water began its concert. When we arrived at the spot where the path moved onto the stone ledge above the channel, my father bent down and lifted Paulie onto his shoulders. An uncertain smile crossed her face. As we moved along the narrow sill of rock, he began wobbling like a tipsy horse. Bernie ran up behind him, barking. An iron railing was built into the outcropping, and when he leaned over it my sister squealed. I wasn’t sure whether it was a squeal of terror or a squeal of delight, but when he leaned back to safety again I saw that her smile had deepened. She pressed her knees against his flanks.
“Milo,” said my mother.
He leaned over the railing again, and Paulie squealed anew, letting go of his shoulders this time and waving her hands in the air as though her roller-coaster car had paused at the peak of the hill.
“Milo. Please.”
Bernie nudged Dad’s leg, trying to move him back from the edge, but my father pretended to stumble toward the water.
My mother inhaled sharply.
“Mom, it’s okay,” said Paulie. She rolled her eyes.
“No, it’s not okay, honey. It’s not okay at all. Milo, please set her down.”
“It’s okay. I like it, Mom.”
“Set her down, Milo.” Then, louder: “Milo!”
He turned and looked at her, shaking his head. Then he complied. As soon as Paulie was on the ground, he bowed to all of us with an exaggerated flourish, like a rickshaw driver.
“Wow,” said my sister, rolling her eyes again, “Mrs. Kill-the-Party.”
“Thank you, Paulette.”
“Miss Fall-off-the-Cliff-and-Break-Your-Neck,” I said.
“Nobody’s going to fall anywhere,” said my father. “Are they, Bernou?” Then he said, “Here, boy,” and patted Bernie on the head.
This was the end of the conversation. We walked on, and when we reached our picnic spot, my mother spread out the meal. Ham salad and coleslaw and sugar cookies, all of my father’s favorites. We ate. But I could tell that the incident had upended his optimism. He sat so that we couldn’t see his face, his head turned toward the churning water, and rather than let his wife fix his drinks for him in the glass tumbler that she’d lugged up the trail, he kept his liquor-store bag next to him and lifted it straight to his lips. The paper had formed itself to the neck of the bottle. As soon as he finished his sandwich, he took the bag with him and walked to the edge of the cliff.
The rest of us remained behind, sitting cross-legged on the checkered red blanket that was covered with our half-eaten sandwiches. I remember his silhouette that day, standing against the cellophane sky. There weren’t many places in Ohio where a man could oversee vastness; but that was what he was doing, his somehow heroic frame contemplating the remaining westward reach of a continent that, over the last decade, he’d been slowly recrossing.
“Your father’s feeling philosophical,” said my mother. She’d risen to her knees and was putting away the utensils and sliding the uneaten coleslaw from his plate onto mine. His sandwich was being finished off by Bernie.
“He was fun today,” said Paulette.
“Yes, he was,” said my mother. “Your father does enjoy these outings.”
Just then his silhouette bent forward at the waist, and over the rumble of the water we heard a staccato cough. His free hand went to his mouth, and the one with the bag in it went out to the side, to steady his balance. He remained bent forward for several moments before he stood again, still facing away from us. Then he brought the bag up to his lips.
My mother’s hand touched mine. “Hans.”
She rose and began moving toward him.
She was stepping gingerly, as though sneaking up on a bird, and as I followed her I did the same. At one point, her arm came back and found mine. He still hadn’t turned, and when we neared him she slowed again, approaching watchfully. She said, “Milo?” First she tapped his shoulder, then she took hold of it.
He turned, and his eyes were red. I wondered how she’d known.
“The thing I will never do,” he said, wiping his cheek with the bag, “is hurt them.”
“Of course we know that,” said my mother.
“I will never, ever, hurt my children.”
“Of course not, my love.”
Tears were on his cheeks.
I stepped up next to my mother. I should have turned away, should have given him the privacy he wanted, but I found, as always, that I couldn’t. I couldn’t ever turn away from him when he was like this, when the battle-dented armor behind which he spent his days had momentarily been lowered. For a moment I could see the man behind it.
“Never ever hurt them,” he said.
“Of course not.”
“Get away from here, Hans,” he said through a sob.
“Fuck you, Dad.”
He recoiled as though he’d been slapped.
“Hans!” said my mother.
“I was kidding. We always say that. It’s a joke.”
My sister came up behind. “Get away, Hans,” she hissed. “You’re making it worse.”
My father turned on her. “You,” he said, pointing. “You’re one, too.”
“One what?”
“One silly, fucking Pollyanna.”
“What?” Paulie sat down on the ground.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said my father. “All of you, get the hell away from me!”
“We’re right here,” said my mother. “It’s all right, Milo.”
“It’s not all right,” I said.
“Correct, Hans! You are correct.” He turned to us, smiling weirdly now, then emitted another sharp sound, something between a laugh and a hiccup, and covered his mouth again with his hand.
“Why don’t we all go finish our sandwiches,” said my mother.
He pivoted once more to the water. For a few moments, we all just stayed there, frozen, my father looking off into the distance, my mother smiling determinedly at his back, while from behind us came the hzz-hzz of Paulette’s sniffling and the ph-hah, ph-hah of Bernie’s panting. Then my mother touched him on the shoulder again. That’s when he wheeled. As though shooing a pernicious fly, he swung his hand and struck her backhand across the face.
She fell to the ground.
Paulie screamed. I grabbed Mom under the shoulders and stood her up, then led her away across the rock. At the blanket, I let go, and she slumped down into the ruins of the picnic. Bernie was baying. I turned angrily to my father, who’d resumed his posture on the cliff; then back to my mother, who lay crumpled on the ground like a dropped marionette, tears on her cheeks.