The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 14: "You Never Talk to Me"

Dad began building his first sailboat in his basement workshop. It was winter, and the garage was too cold. While he worked on the boat, Mom came down and sat in an old upholstered chair next to a floor lamp, knitting sweaters or reading The Boston Herald that Dad bought each evening to read on the bus. They rarely spoke. At bedtime, Leslie and I went to the cellar, looked at Dad's boat, and kissed him goodnight. Mom came upstairs to put us to bed.

When spring came, Dad moved the car into the driveway and cleared a space in the garage. He'd made more progress on the boat than expected. While preparing to move the boat, he realized the width of the cellar door would not accommodate the hull. I was in the backyard with friends when we heard a huge bellow from the cellar followed by some words I'd never heard before, but instinctively knew I should never repeat. For the rest of the afternoon, the sounds of splintering wood came from the cellar. But even after he ripped out the frame of the door, the few inches gained were not enough. He then began hacking out part of the foundation. With a neighbor's help, he finally transferred the boat to the garage. I'm sure his engineer's ego was battered by the end of the day.

During the summer, Dad worked on the boat every evening and all weekend when he wasn't mowing the lawn. Mom moved to a beach chair in the garage with her novels and magazines.

Our parents never argued by shouting or slamming doors. The one exception was a Saturday evening in summer when I was eight and Leslie was six. We never knew what prompted the argument. Perhaps Mom became tired of the silent evenings, a silence more obvious in warmer weather and longer days. Or perhaps Dad had looked forward to working on his boat alone, hoping Mom would find another way to occupy her evenings. Or was the sailboat simply the excuse representing something more troubling in their relationship?

On that evening, Leslie and I were playing in her bedroom which overlooked the backyard and garage. We enjoyed the evenings when our parents were busy and forgot about us. We were in our pajamas, our teeth brushed, ready for bed. Every minute past bedtime a gift.

Leslie and I became aware of loud voices coming from the garage. "Are you planning to work on this boat every free moment you have?"

"I want to sail it before the summer ends."

"But you never talk to me. Sometimes I don't think you remember I'm here."

"I'm concentrating. I can't afford to make a mistake."

This is the argument I imagine they had. Fifty years later, it's an explanation that makes sense. As hard as I wrack my brains, I remember only four sentences, but four sentences spoken as clearly as if said today. Dad, irritated and out of patience, shouted, "What do you want me to do? Raise the boat up to the rafters and let it crash to the floor? Will you be satisfied then?"

"No, George, I didn't say that."

The unfamiliar sound of fright in my mother's voice disturbed me most, but I was also afraid my father would crash the boat in anger. The thought of destruction struck a chord in me. I recognized the rage I often experienced, when, working on a project for school, I made a silly mistake. Instead of stopping to examine the situation calmly, I'd destroy the project as if it had betrayed me. When my rage passed, I'd be consumed by regret and the fear Mom would find out what I'd done. I had many secrets. Like a magician, I made the results of my destruction mysteriously disappear, consigned to the bottom of the trash bin.

Leslie and I leaned out the window. "Mommy, don't cry," Leslie screamed.

"Don't hurt the boat, Daddy," I shouted.

We were terrified something irrevocable had happened, something that could never be fixed, something that would be consigned to the bottom of the trash barrel.

Our shouting ended the argument. Our distress brought home to our parents the fact that their behavior was scaring us. And if we could hear them, so could the neighbors.

Over the years. Leslie and I became used to their arguments and never again experienced the fear of that summer evening. Divorce was never a worry and unthinkable in those days.

Looking back, I imagine the seed of any evening's argument was planted long before Dad arrived home from work. Maybe being angry was the only way he could face the family. Or perhaps my mother, having spent the day alone, hoped for an evening of companionship that would rarely happen. Most arguments began at dinner after each of them had consumed one or two double martinis. Whatever the reason, the alcohol only magnified the dissatisfaction that already existed and closed all exits but one.

I understand my parents. And I sympathize. I find parallels in my thirties when the stress of family life with two small children was overwhelming and I felt inadequate at work. On the way home alone in my car, I'd argue with Rachel over something inconsequential that I'd blown out of proportion – an offhand remark, an annoying request, an expectation that seemed unreasonable.

I look back at this tendency to argue with myself, finding it disturbing, but acknowledging it was a way to relieve the stress of parenting and fight against hopelessness. I inherited my mother's streak of stubbornness and disillusionment, and my father's sense of being cheated out of the way he wanted to live his life. The behavior was self-defeating, but a way to escape a pervasive unhappiness with my life that was all too real at the time.