what is a gerbil anyway?

Dad’s in interview mode again. “Did you have any other boys or girls in your outfit?” he asks. “Do you mean did I have any brothers or sisters?” I ask. “Yes.” “No.”

Next question’s a familiar one: “Is your mom still alive?” “No.” “What happened to her?” “She died when she was 56, she had breast cancer.” “There seems to be quite a lot of breast cancer, mostly in women it seems.” “That’s because women are the ones with breasts, Dad.”

“Were you born and brought up in New York?” “In Brooklyn.” “Oh, boy, you’re a real New Yorker. I was born in . . . “ “Essex,” I fill in the blank. “But I don’t remember it. Do you remember much of it?” “Some of it.” “Did anything really exciting happen?” “I got bit by a gerbil.” “Was it poisonous?” “No, but I had to go to the hospital and get a shot.” “What is a gerbil, anyway?” “Kind of like a mouse. It was a pet.” “I think people who are born in New York are a lot smarter and ready to go than other people, way out West.”

“What did your Mom do?” “She typed. She typed and transcribed. “ “And you stayed with her until she died.” “You used to help Mom with her work.” “Were you around then, too?” “Yeah, I helped, too.” “So that’s how we got to know each other.” Uh-oh. “We knew each other before that because you’re my Dad and you were there when I was born.” “She had a hard life or a good life or what?” “I think she had a pretty hard life.”

“I don’t remember anything as a matter of fact. I don’t remember anything anything anything. I might as well be a lone person in the wilderness.”

I start filling in memories for him. “You used to take me around the city in my stroller, and you built me a giant playhouse out of cardboard and painted it green, and you used to buy me shoes in the Macy’s shoe department.” “And I paid for them,” says Dad. “You paid for braces for my teeth and private school tuition, too. You came to my college graduation and then when I moved to Providence and was broke from working at a gay youth center, you came on the Amtrak train and brought a giant cheese in red wax.”

“15 minutes and I found a whole life,” says Dad. “Jesus motherfucking Christ, we belong to each other.” Back to the questions; “Where were you the last ten years?” “Living in Brooklyn. You used to come every week for dinner.” “Who made the dinner?” he wants to know. “Me! I like to cook,” I say. “Hey! I know that! You love to cook! You never hesitated one bit.”

“How did we happen to get together again?” “Again?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “I don’t remember you before the last year.” “I was here the whole time,” I tell him.

“Oh, oh, oh, you have made a life for me, I love it. Jesus Christ, how can I forget all these things? My whole life is forgotten.”

Dad starts with the questions again: “And you went through college in three years and then what did you do?” “I moved to Providence, Rhode Island and took classes.”

“How did I get into this?” “Well, I think you were friends with my mother.” “Yes?” “And then she got pregnant and the man she got pregnant with left, and you were helping out.” “I have a useless brain.”

“Then I was pretty old when I was doing things with you.” “You were 52 when I was born.” “You used to play with dolls with me.” “Well, we’re practically brother and sister then.”

“How did we get together?” he asks again. “My mother was pregnant and you were her friend and she needed someone to be a father for her baby, so you did it.” “Did I do a good job?” “Yes.”

“How long have I been with you?” “My whole life, 33 years,” I tell him. “I mean, close up.” “The whole thing.”

“Do you know who your father was?” “Albert Goldman, he’s dead now.” “When did he die?” “I was still in college, so 1994.”

“I didn’t know a thing about any of this. Do you remember it?” “Yeah, I remember it, that’s why I can tell you about it.” “Is it good or bad to remember things?” “Well, it can be convenient.”

“Thing is, I guess we’ll have to get married, that’s all.” “Why?” I ask, shocked. “Just to be married.” “But I’m your kid,” I say, still shocked. “But I’m not really your kid am I? he says. I ignore the fact that he has it backwards. “Well, not biologically, but emotionally.” “I’m flummoxed,” he says.

“And all the time you thought I knew all about you. I didn’t know a thing about you.” By now I’m trying to hide my tears.” “How is it I’m alive?” What a question! “Usually people who have no brains are dead,” he says. “Parts of your brain are working OK.” “Like what?” “You know how to eat with a fork and wash dishes and listen to music . . .”

“Well, well. we’re certainly going to be pals for the rest of our lives, the rest of my life, not yours,” says Dad. “So I’ve been with you all my life. I only remember a couple of months ago. I suppose I’ve been this way with everybody. But you’re the favorite.”

I guess the emotion building in the room was really powerful at that point because, suddenly, the recycling pile toppled over, spilling cardboard across the floor. “What the fuck is that!” Dad is startled. “The recycling fell over,” I tell him. “Recycling. What is recycling?” he wants to know. I try to explain. “It’s when they take something from the garbage and use it to make something new.”

More questions. “Did I ever do any work at all?” “You were a teacher.” “Other than that?” “ You cut fish on the docks in Gloucester. “ “That was a long time ago and I made a lot of money.” “ I know you worked at Macy’s wrapping up packages.” “I do remember that, I do, I do.” “And then you worked at a place called Radio TV Reports.” “I worked there for ages. I still do, don’t I?” “No, you’re retired and I don’t think Radio TV Reports is around anymore. That’s where you met my mother.” “ I don’t remember your mother.”

“We certainly tied together ourselves,” he says, “I had no idea of any of this.”

“What was I doing while you were eating?” he asks, oddly. “You were eating, too.” “Did I talk?” “No,” “Why not?” “Because your mouth was full.” Dad laughs. “That’s a good line,” he says.

Later, I came out of the bathroom. Dad was sitting at the dining room table with two empty cups in front of him. “How do you turn on the water?” he asked me. “Turn on the water where?” I asked him. “I want to rinse these dishes,” he said, gesturing at the cups. “Then I think you’d better come into the kitchen and rinse them at the sink,” I said, trying to project a calm matter-of-factness that was far from what I felt.