Tuna Noodle Casserole Night

Even though James had never been in a bar before, he assumed it would look different than this, fancier somehow. There were several Formica topped tables along one wall with metal chairs stacked in the corner for overflow. A man, cigarette dangling from his mouth, was hunched over the pool table lining up his shot under two beer keg shaped lights. The room was smoke filled, the lighting dim, the floor gritty, the air dank. He took a deep breath and tried to place the smell. Smoke, dust, sweat, grease, beer, and for a lack of a better word, men. Four men sat at the near end of the fifteen-stool bar, their elbows on the butcher block top, their feet perched on the brass foot rail. Three Rolling Rock beer bottle lamps hung over the bar. The men wore heavy work boots with steel toes, and their lunch pails lay in a row on the floor like miniature mailboxes. A long shift at the mill meant a long shift at the bar.

James squinted to see better then stepped inside the open door. He was wearing a t-shirt, cutoff jeans, and sandals made of bamboo. Car keys dangled from one finger. He was grim-faced. Three more steelworkers nudged passed him, sat at the bar, and dropped their pails on the floor. The others looked up from their beers and nodded. Soon jokes flew back and forth, filling the air with gruff laughter. “ICs down here, Jocko,” said one of them. Jocko pulled the tap, then slid the glasses down the bar.

James didn’t want to be in a bar. Nowhere near twenty-one, he wondered if it was even legal for him to be on the premises. Growing more uncomfortable by the minute, he turned to leave, but thought of his mother and her injunction to get his father and bring him home. She said this without looking at him. Her eyes were narrow and her face was flushed. His mom had called the bar an hour earlier. He’d listened to her end of the conversation. “Time to come home for dinner,” was all she said, her voice toneless. Before his father could answer, the phone was in the cradle. She turned the stove down so the tuna noodle casserole wouldn’t be ruined.

His mother looked at the clock again. “What in the world is wrong with your father? This is ridiculous!” she said, her voice like a saw blade. She tossed the dish towel into the sink and shoved a kitchen chair across the room so hard that it dented the refrigerator. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, fists on her hips. She shook her head repeatedly and glared at the floor.  

James froze, not knowing what to say. She’d never spoken to him so directly, so angrily about his father. He felt like a door was being opened to a room he shouldn’t enter.

“I want you to drive over there and tell your father to come home. He won’t listen to me. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

He hesitated a beat too long. She turned and looked at him without speaking.

“Okay,” he said.

The word tell startled him. “…tell your father…,” she’d said. Like she was catapulting him ahead of his father on some invisible ladder of authority. Like suddenly he was above him looking down, and consequently, able to tell him what to do. He felt disoriented, but he also felt his mother’s anger. His dad had been different recently. He seemed unsteady, anxious, fretful. It frightened James, but it also made him mad. He shouldn’t behave like this. It doesn’t make sense. He’s the adult. No one should have to tell him to come home for dinner.

James couldn’t see his dad through the blue haze. He took another step and stood on his tiptoes. Nothing. Again, he considered leaving, but then his father emerged from the men’s room. He was zipping his pants as he returned to his stool. There were several bottles in front of him and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He flicked his Winston at the ashtray and took another drag. He waved to Jocko, who poured him another Duquesne. “Thank you, my friend,” he said.

His father was wearing a wrinkled brown suit, white shirt, loose brown paisley tie, and brown wingtips. His top coat was draped over the stool beside him. Since joining Waring, Inc. six months ago, he’d been selling bucket trucks, mostly to utilities and fire departments. His dad liked Waring, his mother did, too. “Maybe this will be the one,” she’d said when he was hired.

He was on the road two, three, sometimes five days a week. He’d call home regularly to ask about school and sports and how James was doing in general. Then his mother would go upstairs to pick up the bedroom phone so they could talk privately. Sometimes, James listened at their door. He could never hear what his mother was saying, but her tone was always encouraging…forceful and encouraging, like when she’d urge James to try harder in school. “You’re such a smart boy, James. You just have to give it your all.”

His father could sell just about anything, stadium bleachers, refrigerators, electric lawn mowers, detergent, you name it. At the start of each new job, he would get up at the crack of dawn on Mondays so he could “stay ahead of the game.” When asked how the job was going, he’d say it was “going great guns” or “couldn’t be better.” But after a few months, he would barely mention his work. He’d linger in bed on Monday mornings, and hit the road grudgingly, sometimes not before noon.

When that happened, the firm but encouraging conversations would be replaced by thunder storms and lightning strikes, after which his father would take to his bed with a migraine. James would go to the door and tap lightly. When his father didn’t respond, he’d go back downstairs and ask his mother if there was something he could do. “No,” she’d say. “Your father just needs to find another job. Don’t worry, he’ll find one. He always does.” The look on her face did not match the words coming from her mouth.

Watching from the other end of the bar, his father didn’t look like a father at all. He looked like a guy, any guy. He gestured broadly and threw his head back when he laughed. He cursed and joked back and forth with Jocko. His father looked sloppily happy.

James wondered whether he should leave without bothering him. He’d have to lie to his mother: “Dad wasn’t there” or “I told him to come home” followed by a helpless shrug. Instead, he took several more steps forward and, with raised voice, called, “Dad? Dad, Mom wants you to come home. It’s tuna noodle casserole night.” There was surprise on his father’s face as he swiveled around and grinned at his son. James held his breath.

“James? Is that you?” he said, his face bright with surprise. “Jocko, that’s my boy, that’s James.” He gestured for James to come closer. Then he put his arm around him. “Take a seat.”

“Your dad talks a lot about you, young man.” Jocko extended his hand and James reluctantly shook it. “Fine lookin’ boy,” he said. “What can I get you?”

James swallowed hard. He searched for his voice. “Uh, I don’t…it’s too…Dad? We should go home, right?”

His father clapped James’s back. “He’ll have a coke.”

“Coke, it is,” said Jocko.

His father had beer breath and red eyes.  

“Dad, really, we should---”

His father leaned close, his arm still around James’s shoulder. “One Coke with your dad, okay?” His smile faded. “Your mom upset?”

“Well...”

His father exhaled a breathy chuckle.

“What did she say about me?”

James reached for his Coke. His hand was sweaty and the glass was wet. When he tried to pick it up, it slipped, and pop spilled across the bar. His father called to Jocko, who came with a towel. “Ain’t the first time that’s happened,” he said with a guttural laugh. He took the glass and returned with a fresh Coke. “On the house.”

“Good man, Jocko.”
He nudged James. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, mister…”

“Jocko, just Jocko,” he said.

“Thank you,” said James, his head down.

James no longer wanted a Coke, but he took a sip anyway.

“There you go,” said his father, clapping him on the back again. “Hungry? Want a burger? Hot dog?”

James didn’t answer. The smell of dead cigarettes in his dad’s ashtray made him feel nauseous. His father reached for his beer. His hand shook when he raised it to his lips.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

“Never better, James, never better,” he said, his voice a whisper, his eyes looking at nothing. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and with a cheerful voice said, “How’s school?”

“Dad.”

“How’s chemistry?” He gazed at his golden brew.

“Okay, Dad. It’s okay.” His father leaned against him, slinging his arm over his shoulder once more.

“You’re a good boy, James, you know that, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“No, really, you’re the best son a father could ever have. You’re a prize package, you are. That’s the truth.”

James nodded and looked down the bar, hoping no one was listening. He glanced at the clock on the wall. His mother would be wondering why they weren’t back. He took another sip of his Coke and then pushed it away.

“Dad, we better---”

“Do you ever think about the past, son?” Then he laughed too loud. “Of course, you don’t. You’re not old enough to have a past. But I am. And that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Past things. Sometimes it feels like those long-ago things are still right there in front of me. Like I could reach out and grab them.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “Did I ever tell you about…?” He shook his head and scratched his cheek. “No, I never did. I don’t think your mother did either. We wanted to, but---”

“Tell me what, Dad?” James reached for his father’s overcoat. His father ran his fingers through his hair and covered his mouth with the palm of his hand. “So, Dad?” His father seemed lost in thought, his eyes moist. James took a deep breath. “Dad, really---”

“You know, your mother…your mother, she almost died when you were born.”

“What?” He lay the coat down and leaned against the bar. “What are you saying?”

“What I just said.”

James shook his head and opened his mouth slightly, then closed it. What’s he talking about? How drunk is he?

“Don’t you worry. You were out of your mom’s belly and in a bassinette before things got bad.”

“Dad, are you serious? Or is this just…” He gestured at the bottles. “You’ve had a lot…have you had too much? I mean, you’re not making sense.”

“Listen, so…listen to me. This is real, it is.”

James’s breaths came quickly. He felt anger welling up from deep in his belly.

“Okay, Dad, I’ll bite. What went wrong? This better be good. I mean, why would you say this?” His tone was more clipped than he intended.

His father had his hand over his mouth again, and his eyes were closed, like he was trying to remember something, remember it clear and true. He opened his eyes.

“The doctor, he came out, I’ll never forget, his face was all sweaty, and at first, he just stood there, but then he told me flat out. He said your mom, she was bleeding bad. And they had to get you out in a hurry. And, well, the blood kept coming and wouldn’t stop. He said it looked like she had an infection of some kind. I didn’t know something like this could happen. But it did. She got this infection, a bad one…what was it called?”

“She almost died?”

His father nodded his head and wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve. James felt a chill run up this spine.

“They sent you home, but your mom had to stay. Your grandma came for a couple weeks to help out. Thank God, your mother got stronger and finally they let her go, but it was close, it was.”

“It was ‘close’?”

“Yeah. Too close.”

“I never knew this. Why didn’t someone tell me?”

“We thought about it, we did, but you were just a kid growing up so we decided to wait and then after a while, it didn’t seem to matter. So, we never told you. What was the point? we thought.”

“Was Mom okay after that? I mean---”

“Yes, she was. But that wasn’t the whole thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I went to visit your mom early one morning and the doctor was already there. And his face, it didn’t look right. Your mom was crying.” He swallowed. “And I said, ‘What’s going on here? What’s wrong, doc?’ And he said I should sit down, so by then I was scared bad. I looked at your mom and asked her what was going on, but she couldn’t speak. Now, I was getting angry. I pointed right at him and I said, ‘What did you do?’ and your mom said, ‘Listen, just listen.’ The doctor said a lot of things about what had happened, what went wrong, and how lucky we were. And then I heard ‘No more babies.’ He said it would be too dangerous for your mom.” His dad’s shoulders sank as he looked at the ceiling. “Yeah, that was something. It was.” He picked up his beer again, then put it down. His face was ashen.

James froze, his mind a jumble, his feelings a whirlpool of confusion.

“So, why are you telling me now?”

His father pulled him close again and smiled into his face.

“Because you need to know, you were our dream come true, you were. Really. That’s no lie. Our one and only dream come true.”

James looked down, then wiped his hands on his shorts. He wanted to say something, but   words failed him. He sat stiffly, not knowing what would come next. His dad finished the beer in front of him and called Jocko for another.

“I don’t need a glass, the bottle’s fine.” He wiped the bottle top with his hand and then gulped. He tapped his pack of cigarettes against his fist and pulled one out. He lit a match with the flick of his thumb nail and held it to his cigarette then drew in the smoke and blew it out.

“You have dreams?” his father said.

“What do you mean?”

“Dreams, you know. Things you want in life.”

“I don’t know.”

“You gotta have dreams. They keep you going. When I was your age, I had lots of dreams.” He snickered. “My first dream was I was going to be a major leaguer. A catcher, of all things. That didn’t last long. Later I had more sensible dreams. I was gonna get married, have a family, a big house, picket fence, nice car, and a good job, one that people would admire, one that would give me a sense of purpose. A reason to…you know what I mean? A reason to be in this world.” He leaned on the bar, his elbows holding his weight. “But don’t you worry, James. Give yourself some time. The dreams will come.” He stretched his arms out in both directions.

“The big picture will come clear.”

“Dad, you think we should---”

“You got to be careful about dreams, though.” He raised his eyebrows as a sad smile crossed his face. “That’s for sure. I’m telling you, I’m an expert on what can happen.” His right cheek twitched. He took another drink and pointed at James for emphasis. “At first, those dreams are shiny, you know? Glittery. They look like treasure at the end of a rainbow, so bright, so dazzling, and the road to get there looks smooth as silk. You know why that is?”

“Huh uh.” James shifted is weight on the barstool and leaned away from his dad’s finger.

“Because you don’t know anything about anything. You think you do, but, trust me, you don’t. You think ‘I’ll do this, and this, and that’ and the dreams will come true, all of them. But you don’t know a thing. Life knows everything. You know nothing.” There was a scowl on his face now. He gripped his bottle so tightly James thought it might shatter.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Pretty quick, you learn that a rainbow is an illusion, it is. An illusion you climb at your own peril. I went on the road ready to conquer the world, or at least my part of it. I went on the road looking for doors to open, doors to bust through, doors of opportunity and success. But what happened was, well, I chose the wrong doors. Every single time. After a while, you notice that the rainbow’s colors are fading, but you say to yourself, that’s okay, there may not be a treasure chest out there, but there’s something. There’s got to be something. Right?”

He looked at James, his eyes beckoning. He smacked his lips and sighed.

“Then here’s what happens. Listen. The pages of your life keep turning, whole chapters come and go, and you don’t even know it, and then one day you’re sitting at a bar drinking beer, late for dinner, your job gone, creditors knocking at your door, your wife waiting for you at home. And you don’t want to go, you don’t want to go because you can’t face the disappointment in her eyes. You can’t face that look, the one that makes you feel so small, so inconsequential, so incidental. Like you’re…nothing. And you’re looking at your son who is almost a goddam man and you’re hoping he can avoid the path you have followed. That he will find better dreams and make better choices than his old man.” He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp.

James was speechless. He felt afraid, afraid for his father. Fathers were pillars, they held things up. You count on them, their unflagging steadiness and strength. He looked at his father, empty bottle in hand, shirt open at the neck, dangling tie like a flag of surrender.

He felt afraid for himself, too. Afraid of everything he didn’t know. Afraid of life, which was out there waiting. Would he find his way?

“Dad, we should go, don’t you think?”

His father stood, buttoned his shirt collar, and tightened his tie. James held his topcoat while he searched for the sleeves. He swiped the lint off his father’s coat. He put his hands on his father’s shoulders and squeezed them gently. His father turned around.

“How do I look?”

“Like a million bucks.”

His father chuckled. “I’d settle for ten bucks.” He started for the door and stumbled, James catching him before he fell. His father grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No big deal. How about I be your chauffeur?”

“But what about my car?”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll get it later, after we eat. Okay?”

His father didn’t answer. He held onto the door jam for balance, then stepped into the dusk. He immediately fell asleep in the car, his head against the window, his breathing thick.

When they got home, his mother was sitting in silence at the kitchen table. There were three plates on the table filled with tuna noodle casserole, corn and peas, and buttered bread. There were glasses of water for his parents and milk for him. There were napkins under the silverware. Everything was cold. The food, the room, and everyone in it.

His father kissed his mother on the head as he pulled his chair out and took a seat. James sat across from them. His mother forced a smile but didn’t speak.

His father side-eyed his mother and nudged her gently.

“Guess who came to visit me today?” he said, in a jocular tone.

James winced. His mother reached for her glass of water and took a sip. His father sat motionless, one hand resting on the table. The shrill silence rang in James’s ears. He took a bite of the tuna noodle casserole and shook his head appreciatively.

“Really good, Mom. I mean the best.” “Thanks,” she said. He smiled at her, then looked at his father. “Try it Dad, it’s good, you’ll like it.” James took another bite. “C’mon, you’ve got to try it.” His parents’ utensils remained on their napkins. “For real. All I’m asking is that you two give it a try.”