(19) Alice Kaltman: White, Round, Cold Thing
It was so early that morning four years ago when Dad drove Joey and me to Vinnie’s Barber Shop on Sunset Boulevard. I was still wiping the crust out of my eyes and Joey fell back asleep as soon as we pulled out of the driveway, thumb plugging his mouth hole, as usual.
No Wheaties, no toast, no nothing. Just get up, get dressed, get moving.
“Why’s it so important we get haircuts?” I whined. Our hair had barely grown out from our last trip to Vinnie’s. You could see the pink skin of Joey’s scalp through his blonde scruff. My own hair had barely begun to tickle the back of my neck.
“I want you boys to look your best for our guest,” Dad said. He always talked in rhymes when he wanted to be Mr. Cheery. He still does sometimes. But not as much these days.
“What guest?” Joey unplugged to ask the question.
“My new friend June,” Dad said.
“Since when do you have any friends, old or new?” I asked. At eight years old I was keen on being a Wise Guy.
“You rat, Pat,” Dad said to me, looking through the rearview mirror. “Since a few months ago.” He squinted behind his black horn rims, his whole face wrinkling up like a pug dogs. Then he turned up KMET and “Louie Louie” came on. We all couldn’t help but sing along.
Thing was, Dad really didn’t have any friends, old or new. It wasn’t that he was a bad guy or anything like that. He just wasn’t a guy’s guy. He didn’t like sports and he didn’t drink beer. Honestly? He was a total nerd. Still is. He was some kind of math wiz as a kid, but four years ago he was a bookkeeper for Cal Worthington’s car dealerships. Without a wife around to plan dinner parties or backyard barbecues goofing around with Joey and I was the extent of Dad’s social life.
“Aren’t I allowed to make a new friend?” Dad asked.
“Search me,” I shrugged.
“Swurch me,” Joey parroted.
“Shut up copy cat,” I leaned over and poked Joey’s scrawny shoulder. Sometimes he was such an annoying pee wee.
“Meow,” Joey replied.
***
Vinnie came at us with the Number One electric razor attachment, meaning full-on buzz cuts. I tried not to look at myself in the mirror as he shaved away. I focused on the cover of the Life magazine Vinnie had next to the disinfecting combs, which had a snap of Steve McQueen riding on his motorcycle with his wife. Mrs. Steve McQueen had her arms around Steve and wore what I guess you’d call a million-dollar smile. They both looked wicked happy.
I, however, was not wicked happy when Vinnie finished. Joey and I looked like a couple of cue balls. You’d of thought we had head lice or were joining the mini-Marines.
“Now that wasn’t so terrible, was it?” Dad rubbed my back.
“Ouch!” I yelled. It didn’t hurt at all, but I hated it when Dad got all touchy-feely in public. It was bad enough at home.
Dad was the original whistle a happy tune guy. He liked to talk to us in rhymes, like, “Time for dinner, you winner,” or “Time for school, you fool,” or “Boys, boys, stop with the noise.” I’d only seen him down in the dumps one time, right after Mom died. I was five years old. Joey was a baby. I’d accidentally-on-purpose tossed my Howdy Doody doll’s bandana to the top of the living room bookshelf and I needed Dad to get it for me. I found him in the bathroom sitting on the closed toilet seat, his hands covering his face, terrible throaty howls coming out of him like he was the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He was bawling so hard he didn’t even hear me open the door. If I had stayed there watching him, I’d have started bawling too. Bawling when you’re a five year old because your mom is dead feeling like falling down an endless hole with the worst stomach ache in the world. So nope. No bawling. I quickly closed the door and backed away.
When we got home from the Barber Shop, Dad raced around the house, fluffing pillows, tossing old newspapers into the trash, scrubbing the bathtub, vacuuming the wall-to-wall. We were told to clean our room; we meaning me, myself, and I. Joey was only three years old, with the attention span of a, well, three-year-old. He’d be the opposite of help. He’d put the trains in the toy bin, but right after that, he’d pull out a Tonka truck or his stupid stuffed bear. A no-win situation, so I made Joey sit on his bottom bunk to watch me.
“Don’t move or your ass is grass,” I warned Joey. I knew my way around a rhyme or two also.
“Awww, poopy on your head,” Joey said. He laid back on the corduroy bedspread, picked his nose, and ate it.
I did a reasonably decent cleaning job for an eight-year-old. Some toys made it into the bin, a few stray shoes and underpants were kicked under our bunk bed, and pretty much everything else was shoved into the closet. I went out to tell Dad I was finished. He was in the living room facing the fireplace.
“Done,” I said.
Dad turned to me. He had our three family portraits that usually sat on top of the mantle—Mom, Dad, Ugly Baby Me. Mom, Dad, Cute Kid Me. Mom, Dad, Even Cuter Kid me, Ugly baby Joey—stacked in his arms.
“What are you doing with those?” I asked.
Dad looked like the cat who ate the canary. “Just doing a little redecorating.”
“Why?”
Dad shrugged. “Swurch me,” he said.
I groaned. “Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.”
I followed him into his bedroom where he put the frames face down in the lower cubby space of his bedside table. There was another photo already there. My favorite, and Dad’s too; the one of my mom from when she was in college, the one where she’s wearing a million-dollar smile even bigger than Mrs. Steve McQueen’s when her hair was poofy and healthy and blonde, not scarecrow-straw and cancer-fried like it was right before she died. That photo was usually angled towards my father’s side of the bed as close to his pillow as could be. And now it was at the bottom of the stack, hidden under a bunch of other upside-down smiling faces.
I was about to say something when Dad stood upright and announced, “Done is done. Time for fun,” with a big fakey-fake grin on his face. He marched out of the room as if he were leading a parade. I didn’t follow. I stood in my parent’s bedroom alone for a moment, but it started feeling weird, haunted, and empty. A room that only worked if parents were in it. So I split.
I found my dad straightening the throw pillows on the couch for the fifth time that morning. “When does Jane get here?” I asked while I picked at the scab I had over my eyebrow from a run-in I’d had with the sidewalk after trying to top my previous pogo stick record.
“Hey, hand down you clown,” Dad said. “And her name is June.”
I stopped picking. “Okay, so when does June get here?”
“June, June, she arrives at noon.”
Oh great, I thought, here we go.
“Okie Dokie, Pokie,” he said, “Go get dressed.”
Dad wanted us to wear our Sunday Best, even though it wasn’t Sunday, it was Saturday, and we only ever wore those sissy clothes on the rare occasion we might go to church or even rarer occasion when we visited our grandparents in Pasadena. They were horrible clothes; Joey’s checked short pants with suspenders and sandals that looked like girl’s sandals, my stiffest black trousers on the planet, white button-down shirt, and stupid clip-on polka dot bow tie. Normally I’d make a stink, but that day I didn’t. I could tell there’d be no winning, just more rhymes.
***
June arrived right on time. I wondered if she’d been standing outside the door, looking at her fancy-pants watch before ringing the bell. You could tell just by looking at her that June was one of those prim and proper, no untied shoelaces, no elbows on the table, please-thank you-pardon me type ladies. She had the shiniest, blackest hair I’d ever seen, smoothed in a dome around her skull. Her skin was as pale as could be, like she never ever went out in the sun, which was pretty weird for someone who lived in Los Angeles. When she came closer I could see crinkles and wrinkles on her face buried behind a layer of face powder. She wore a light blue dress with a little jacket that matched and held a cake box out to Dad in white-gloved hands.
Dad took the cake. “Oh my.” He had another stupid grin on his face. I couldn’t tell if this one was real or another fakey-fake. Either way, it looked like it would crack his cheeks to pieces. “You shouldn’t have, Junie.”
Junie, I thought. Oh brother.
“Well, well,” she said. “Who have we here?” She looked at me. Her eyes were spooky. Like I’d come face to face with Casper the un-Friendly Ghost.
“This is Patrick,” Dad said. “Say hello to our friend, June Withers, son.”
Son? What was this? Dad never called me Son. It was always Patrick or Pat. Most often; Pat Pat This or That.
“Hello,” I said. And then to show I was the good kid, that Dad hadn’t raised a couple of chimpanzees, I added, “Pleased to meet you.”
June gave me a little ‘that’ll do’ kind of nod. Then she bent down next to Joey. “And you must be Joseph. What a handsome boy.” June rubbed Joey’s newly buzzed head as if it were a bottle and a genie would pop out and grant her three wishes.
“Ouch,” he cried. Not like me faking it at Vinnie’s, but like June really rubbed his head too hard and it hurt.
“Sorry,” June said, not in a way as she meant it, but in a defensive way, the way I apologized when Dad forced me to.
Dad suddenly bellowed, “Let them eat cake!” He raised the cake box over his head. “How about we head into the kitchen and dig into this beauty.”
We followed Dad into the kitchen. I let June go ahead of me. “Ladies first,” I said. Man, was I ever a good ass kisser.
“George,” June put her gloved paw on Dad’s forearm as he placed the cake box on the kitchen counter, “Perhaps the boys should eat lunch before they get dessert?”
Dad looked like he’d stepped in dog shit, and if June hadn’t been there I would’ve told him so. I would’ve said, “Dad you look like you stepped in dog shit,” and he would’ve said “Hey hey, what did you say?” and then, “We don’t cuss on this bus.” But neither of us said a word.
“Daddy made finger sandwiches,” Joey jumped up and down. He’d just realized the joy of getting both feet off the ground at the same time and kangarooed around every chance he got. “We’re gonna eat fingers! Ew yuck, ew yuck!”
“Calm down, Joe-joe.” Dad said.
“Finger sandwiches,” June cooed, “How divine. Where are they?”
“In the fwidge,” Joey jumped once, then realized his mistake and repeated with both feet on the ground and in a whisper, “In the fwidge.”
“Good thinking to refrigerate in this heat, George” June fanned herself. “Perhaps we should also turn on the A/C? It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
“What’s A/C?” I asked.
“Air conditioning, Patrick,” Dad said.
My friend Keith, whose dad worked as a cameraman for Warner Brothers had air conditioning in his house. You walked in there and it was like being in a giant fwidge.
“We don’t have any air conditioning, Ma’am,” I said.
June sighed. “Oh well. I suppose I’ll make do without the air. And Patrick, you can call me June.”
June, June. Fly away on a balloon, I thought.
Then she linked her arm through Dad’s. “Or Junie, if you prefer.”
“Junie, Junie,” Joey started stomping again, “A big fat looney!”
I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself. I sounded like a hyena.
“Boys,” Dad raised his voice, “That’s enough!”
“Junie, Junie,” Joey was on a roll, “Your face is a moony.”
“Joseph! Stop, this instant!” Dad never yelled at Joey. And he never called him Joseph. You’re a real piece of work, you cute little jerk, was his usual response when Joe was being a doofus.
But Joey was right. June’s face was a moon. It was a white round, cold thing. It was like a frozen pie. Even without A/C.
June, June, I thought, get outta here soon.
***
But June didn’t get outta there soon. In fact, she stayed the whole darn day. We ate the sandwiches and then we each ate a measly sliver of her stupid dessert, which was the kind of dry, fruity cake grown-ups like, and kids only eat if there’s nothing better around, so really a measly silver was enough.
She ignored Joey after his loony, moony comments, but asked me three questions: What was my favorite subject at school, did I play any sports, and did I have a girlfriend. The answers to which were: I don’t like any subjects at school, I’m not good at sports but I’m really good at Checkers, and girls have cooties.
Dad showed her around the house, which didn’t take very long because our house is pretty puny. I noticed he only opened the door to his bedroom, they didn’t go in. They just stood in the doorway, Dad looking uncomfortable while June stroked his arm like he was a goddamn cat, like she wanted to dive in there and lay on the bed with him and smooch, or do the other gross stuff grownups do in bedrooms when they don’t sleep. Dad shut the door.
***
June gave Dad a big one right on the lips when she finally left right before dinnertime. Dad closed the door after she left and walked into the bathroom. I thought he was taking a piss, but he was in there for a long time, so then I figured it was a number two. Then it took a really long time, and I had to go myself so I just walked in there as usual, and found him sitting on top of the toilet seat with his hands covering his face.
No no no, I thought, not again. No Creature from the Black Lagoon, please. But there were no scary noises coming from Dad this time, just loud breathing. In, out, in, out. But he definitely wasn’t whistling any happy tunes.
Dad looked up at me like I was the Boogey Man. “Pat! You gave me a shock!”
“Sorry. Why are you sitting in here?”
“Just gathering my thoughts.”
“Penny for them?” I said, which is what he’d say to me when I was acting like a mopey-dope.
He just shrugged. No swurch me. No rhymes. His shrug was a defeated, tired thing. Movie monster sadness would’ve been better. His limp, weak gesture gave me the creeps. Actual shivers up my spine. Even though I was eight years old and not a wimpy five year old anymore, I was still in danger of falling down that motherless hole.
I patted his knee. “Later, gator,” I said, and then I left him sitting there, alone.
***
At least I got to wear a real grown-up tie, not a stupid clip on one at the wedding a year later. And no buzzcuts at Vinnie’s. My tie was purple to match the color of the frou-frou dress June’s dumb niece wore as we walked down the aisle together. And you gotta hand it to my idiot brother Joey, who dropped the wedding ring off the little purple cushion, right in the aisle and all the guests had to get down on their hands and knees to help find it.
We’re moving into the new house down in Covina today. Joey is happy because there’s a jungle gym in the backyard. And June is all get-up because of the A/C and the modern appliances in the puke colored kitchen. Dad smiles a lot and rhymes every now and then. But not like in the old days. So, is Dad happy? Swurch me.
I get my own room, so there’s that. Dad told me it would be okay if I wanted to keep the college photo of mom. I’m gonna put it on my nightstand and angle it just so, right next to my pillow where it belongs.
***
I’ll always remember how Dad made our favorite for dinner; spaghetti with ketchup that first time we met June. It would be the last time we ate it, because afterward June was there all the time and insisted we have real tomato sauce. But that final night we sat around the kitchen table the way we always did; me in my place, Joey in his high chair, Dad in his place. The folding chair we’d put out earlier for June was propped against the wall, stiff and closed. I got up and shoved it in the closet. Dad didn’t say anything, rhyming or otherwise. We slurped, letting bloody strands uncoil from the bowls into our mouths, ketchup collecting at the corners of our lips before licking our mouths clean. Joey tossed a few strands at me, or Dad, or at the floor. When we were done, I showed them how I’d perfected rubbing my belly and patting my head at the same time. Then we had a belching contest. Dad won.
Alice Kaltman is the author of the story collection STAGGERWING, and the novels WAVEHOUSE and THE TANTALIZING TALE OF GRACE MINNAUGH. Her new novel, DAWG TOWNE is forthcoming in June 2021 from word west. Her stories appear in numerous journals including Hobart, Lost Balloon, Joyland, and BULL: Men's Fiction, and in the anthologies THE PLEASURE YOU SUFFER, ON MONTAUK, and FECKLESS CUNT. Alice lives, writes, and surfs in Brooklyn and Montauk, NY.