Low and Slow

Almost every one of us needed glasses, pretty much from the moment we were born.

         If you came in on a Sunday, one of the twins would walk up to take your order with a little yellow notebook, same short oval frames on both their faces. I always thought it was obvious who was who because Jane was great with people and Ali always seemed polite but disinterested. “Hon” or “sweetie” – that’s what the regulars always called them.

         The rest of us were in the kitchen. George cut and chopped like we were a busier restaurant than we were. Hal did the washing because it was all Dad trusted him to do. At this point, I was too young to really help but I’d try my best at whatever little job I’d begged for. All of us, including Dad, had those same squat oval frames.

         There was old Rob too, and this guy with a big, wiry beard who made Rob look young by comparison. He came in a few times a year and I remember asking if I could help with whatever he was doing. He never heard me.

         It was always hot. Kitchens usually are, but Dad wouldn’t pay for an AC, and in the summer, customers would just melt if they weren’t near one of the rusty old standing fans. Even then, you had to suffer while it was turned to the other side. The order slips always had these big blotches from the sweat and sometimes, when the ink dissolved, my Dad would say, “You guys…” like he always did, like it was the twins’ fault. And that would be the first domino.

         Ali would say, “Seriously?” and Jane would mutter something about it being ridiculous. Hal would say something over his shoulder from the sink, usually about getting an AC. And George would say that we didn’t have time for this because that was how he was. And since we all wore those same glasses, I always thought we looked like a big gang of lawyers or something who had mysteriously found ourselves working at a restaurant.

         And finally, Dad would rub his Tom Sellick stache like he was shaping it to fit the contours of his mouth and mumble “Alright, alright.” That’s how it was. He was the boss, sure, but there were more of us.

         Simon was the only one with perfect vision. He was also tall for his age, so he was always minding the big metal pot of whatever soup or stew we had that week between helping with whatever else. When I think of him at the restaurant, it’s always in the corner, stewing over a big steaming something. He was pensive, even as a kid. I’d look over and see him stirring, eyes on the soup like there was a face floating in it. I’d go up to him and ask him if I could taste it. I always said it needed salt, even if it didn’t, and he’d crack the smallest smile and add some.

         But he was difficult. He hogged the bathroom more than anyone and he made it feel like the TV belonged to him. He wasn’t argumentative but I wish he had been. He loved his little sighs and, when he occasionally had to change the channel, he usually sulked for a bit and then drifted out of the room. He loved that TV. He woke up extra early for it, stayed up late when he could. And on the weekends his eyes were usually bloodshot and painful to look at. In retrospect, I don’t know how he never needed glasses.

         That day they’d been fighting, Dad and Simon. They never fought but they were always fighting. There was this constant tension between the two of them, but also between Simon and everything about our life, really. I don’t think anyone ever understood him. Honestly, I don’t know that I did either.

         The fight had been over some show that was going to be on TV that day. Simon was the least likely to join in or laugh when we were all joking about something, but he was also always watching sitcoms, reruns and all. So, at breakfast, he asked Dad if he could head back early from the restaurant to watch it. Dad said no. Simon asked why.

         Dad was a good Dad. He wasn’t too strict. Sure, the restaurant was important to him for a lot of reasons. It was our family time to him. And he always said that everyone ought to work in a restaurant or some kind of service job at some point in their life. “You can tell when someone hasn’t. You can always just tell.” We only ever went to church on Christmas but every Sunday, we helped out. But if we had homework, we had homework. And sometimes, if a friend had invited us over, or if we’d just had a bad week, he told us to take the day off.

         But a TV show? That’s what he said: “A TV show?”

         So, Simon explained the plot, said a friend had told him all about it. I don’t remember what he said but I do remember seeing Dad scrunch up his face like it was this presentation by a scientist. And throughout the whole thing, he rubbed and rubbed that perfect moustache. I honestly think it would have been better if he had laughed at some point, but he didn’t. Or maybe if one of the others had. I remember Hal and one of the twins nodding at some point but a nod’s not a laugh. I chuckled even though I didn’t get it either and because it was nice when Simon got excited about things. But Dad’s answer was the same.

         Simon looked down. His eyes were moving around a little, like the right words were somewhere on the floor. “I don’t know when it’ll be on again.”

Dad looked sad when Simon said that. But it wasn’t guilt. I think it upset Dad that Simon didn’t fit in, but I think he also saw it as Simon’s fault somehow. And it felt like all of that was packed into him saying “Can’t do it.”

         There was this horrible moment after when it felt like one of them was going to say something else but then neither of them did. Everyone just went back to eating. Doesn’t seem like much of a fight but it was. We all fought sometimes but for those two it always felt like it was all building up to something. It was the argument waiting to happen. It was like closing your eyes on a rollercoaster as it climbed and climbed. And it never went away, it just crept slowly.

         But we were back in the restaurant and if you were an outsider, you would have thought that everything was normal. The twins were in and out with orders, Hal at the sink, the rest helping with food. It was as hot as ever, like the air over a pan and everyone’s face looked disgustingly wet. Simon was in the corner with the stew..

         But I could see that he was upset. He just kept stirring that pot over and over even though he just had to do it every now and then. Never changed the rhythm of it. Nobody else was looking at him as far as I could tell. If any of us had a fight with Dad, that was how it went. You wanted to be left alone. But I don’t know if anyone would have said anything either way. Dad would ask for this or that, but he didn’t bother Simon.

         But that was also the way it worked most of the time, leaving Simon to his own devices. How does that always happen with one of the siblings in a family? I think we all knew, despite never really talking about it, that Simon didn’t really want to be there, in a restaurant on the weekend or in a family that big. I got tired of it too sometimes, wearing Ali’s old stuff that never really fit right, the lack of privacy when I was older, but it was more than that with Simon. And it was always there. It was never loud but it was constant.

         I went over for myself as much as him and I asked him if I could try the stew. He looked down with an attempt at a smile. The problem with his eyes being bloodshot all the time was that it was hard to tell if he’d been crying.

         “Maybe another time, Bee.”

         I was panicking. I felt like my eyes were extra wide, like there was more surface area for a blink to cover.

         “Okay?” he asked.

         I tried to think of something to say but I just ended up walking back.

         Pretty soon after, Hal called me over to help with the dishes. I’d do the drying, he’d do the washing.

         “Ford-style,” he said.

         I nodded. I didn’t know what he meant.

         I think he wanted to show me that he was good at what he did. He spent extra long on each plate. “You gotta get in the nooks,” he said, but there was a spot or a smear on everything. It smelled like mouthwash and cigarettes when he spoke.

         I kept glancing back at Simon and I’d feel that rollercoaster creeping up-up-up the track. Hal must have noticed because he said, “Wanna wear it?”

         For a second, I didn’t know what he meant.

         He wore this black and yellow cap. He practically lived in it. When he was really young, George said, there was a time when Hal didn’t wash his hair for two weeks and a teacher called Dad about it. Once, just once, I made the mistake of grabbing it from his room while he was showering – I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. Hal made me cry.

         And now, I realized that he was offering it to me. I had won a prestigious award. I felt stage fright, but I nodded, blinded by the ratty cap. He took it off his head and, gripping it by the rim, tried to pass it to me. But I pushed it back, suddenly afraid. I didn’t explain because I didn’t really understand what I was feeling, that something as kind as that only added to how big everything felt just then. Hal shrugged and went back to washing dishes. I dried and did my best to ignore the grime. And that was all I did for a while.

         Out of the blue, Dad said, “What if we saw a movie after?”

         I felt like the ride had jerked forward. I remember grabbing Hal’s arm and him looking down at me with an expression that could have meant confusion or that he understood. I was already perplexed by how tactless people could be.

         Nobody responded. Everyone was waiting, glancing in the direction of the stew. Simon had stopped stirring. From the back, he looked like he might not have even heard. Only Dad continued to work, spatula in hand.

         “Well?” he asked, like he couldn’t imagine it being a bad idea. I wanted to scream at him. He was squeezing a glass like it wouldn’t shatter and leave his fingers bloody. And why? Was it for Simon? For himself?

         Finally, it was George who said something. I thought he was going to say yes to the idea, but it almost sounded like the words “I don’t.” The second of these words, however, was interrupted by the squeak of sneakers against the floor. And this is the part I remembered over and over again for years after. Without a word, without looking back, Simon walked to the door. He did it like he was just going to grab something. He stopped at where we hung our jackets and put his on. Slowly, calmly. He zipped it up. Then he walked right out.

         The kitchen had never been so quiet. There was the click of George turning the burner off and it became even quieter. The twins were looking at each other without blinking. George was looking at Hal. I looked at everyone. Soon, all their gazes turned and landed on Dad. He was rubbing his moustache, eyes fixed on the door. I couldn’t tell if he was avoiding looking at us or if he just hadn’t noticed that we were all staring at him. I knew that once he let his hand fall, he’d say something. We all knew. The sink sputtered out some water; we all started. Not Dad, though. From the center of that moustache, black and neat, his fingers spread out and right to the edge. I couldn’t breathe.

         Eventually, more to himself than anything, he said, “If he’s watching TV when we get back…” And that was that. He started up the burner again. He asked George to do the same, told the twins to go out and check on the customers, take some water around. He pressed a towel to his forehead and looked around with this smile that I think he thought would comfort us. He looked like an idiot. I love my Dad but even now I wonder whether he was fit to be a single parent.

         And it was tough, I know. What was he supposed to do? Shut down the restaurant? Leave one of his kids in charge? But I saw Ali come over and ask him something.

         “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. She’d asked to check up on Simon.

         Dad was a good Dad – but I also think he was the first person I hated, not in his entirety but for who he was in relation to my brother. And that makes me sad.

         And in the last hour or so, it was business as usual. I didn’t hate the others. I was resentful though. Hal kept adjusting his cap. George looked nowhere but the pan in front of him, the chopping board, the fire. The twins came in and out and got water, left the order slips, said nothing. Behind identical glasses were identical eyes, slow-blinking and awkward. Uncomfortable. But not hateful – and I couldn’t stand that.

         I could feel Hal looking at me sometimes, probably seeing how angry I was. I’d imagine him offering me the cap again and snapping at him (“No!”). Then, I’d feel guilty.

         Worst of all was the pot of stew. Dad would go and check on it sometimes and it was like sitting in Simon’s chair, defacing his memorial. This was bad enough that I had to look away, but I could still hear the scrape of the spoon against the sides of the pot, Dad’s steps frustratingly calm and evenly paced. It was all so normal on the surface.

         The worst of it was when my anger burned low because I’d think about what Dad had said. If he’s watching TV. What if he was? What would happen? The rollercoaster creaked and tipped towards the horrible precipice and suddenly I wanted us to stay at the restaurant, to sleep there overnight. I felt myself start to cry, the heat leaking out at the corner of my eyes. Maybe, I thought, it would be a great distraction to bawl just then. But then the tears simply would not come.

         We walked home in a solemn single-file line, a funeral procession for our brother who we all knew was in fact watching TV. We walked by a neighbor and she waved. Nobody except for Dad waved back. I’d never wanted to go home less in my life.

         But, when we got back, the lights were out. The TV was off. I still remember one of the twins (I’m not sure which one) saying “Oh.” My first thought was that Simon had run away but a quick, quiet check by Ali confirmed that he was in his bed. Simon was asleep.

         And Dad looked relieved. I swear I heard him let out a quiet sigh in the dark. The rollercoaster feeling was gone, but I felt stuck somehow. I was trying to understand why I felt disappointed, why I wasn’t smiling to myself like Hal and George. Hadn’t this been the best possible result? I wondered through the night, sat up in bed while the twins were snoring. I stared into my bowl of cereal in the morning, flakes bobbing up and down as I moved my spoon through the milk. I glanced at Simon then Dad. There had been a conversation, we all knew. About responsibility and how the restaurant needed all of us to function. That had been it. It was all normal again. Good.

         I don’t know when I really thought about it more. It might have been the next day. It might have been months later. But the incident popped into my head at some point, and I thought: well, shouldn’t they have talked about it more? Hadn’t the whole thing really been ignored? What, really, had changed? I wanted to say something, but I knew that was pointless.

         And when Simon went to college all those years later – that was when it hit me. Watching him drive off, everything he owned in that car, I knew that he would be a stranger. I wondered if it could have turned out differently. Maybe if Dad had laughed at the show, or if Simon had said something. Maybe if he’d been watching TV. And when I looked at my Dad’s eyes, dry but thoughtful behind those short oval glasses, I wondered if he was thinking the same thing.