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MANAGE YOUR SUBSCRIPTIONDr. Harris's Residence
This story originally appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review.
I REMEMBER being alone with my father only a few times. That person, a man, my father, was the tallest human. His hair was black, and darkness covered him in long, smooth suits, which now I recognize as beautifully tailored.
The first memory is in cool, sunny weather. He has taken me to a park: green ground, tree shadows, and leafy smell of earth. This is a time before words. I am stepping carefully along an oversized snake, a curving metal sculpture a few feet off the ground. My father, having set me on it, waits for me to balance my way to the end. But my foot slips and I fall; I find myself pressed against my father’s white shirt, caught. Safe and afraid.
MY MOTHER claims that when I was little, he was “very nice” to me. “You don’t remember,” she says. It’s true.
MY THUMB fit warmly in my mouth, my cheeks pulling in and my tongue moving around against the familiar flesh. This show of comfort outraged my father. “I’ll put it in the thumbscrew,” he said, and made a harsh twisting sound. “I’ll screw it off; then you won’t be able to suck it.”
The “thumbscrew” was a heavy vise mounted on his worktable. Two metal bars came together to grip wood while it was sawed, metal while it was torched, or a six-year-old’s wet hand. “Don’t move,” he ordered, and I stood crying as the cold metal pressed down harder and harder.
No marks. Not even a bruise. “He hurt my thumb,” I said, holding it out for my mother’s healing kiss. “Oh, he’s just joking, darling.” My mother held my head against her side for a minute, stroking my hair, but she had dinner to make. Four o’clock was the first hour I knew, because that was when my mother went to the kitchen to start, every night, a meal that was eaten at seven.
MY FATHER’S sister, my aunt, told me how their mother used to beat them with a wooden spoon — but only when they were really naughty.
HIS SHOES: so heavy and large; such a loud huffing he made cleaning them. In the neat, shadowy utility room, my father rubbed at his shining wingtips with a long, black-greased cloth, his elbow pumping as he buffed the perfect leather. Finishing, he might speak to me, saying, “There, that’s how a pair of shoes should look.” He aligned them on the counter top: rows of shoes, black and gleaming like his hair, his eyes.
Why should a pair of shoes be frightening? When I came into a room, he did not speak or look up.
WHAT MY mother said:
“That’s just how he is. Stop whining.”
“He isn’t like American fathers; he isn’t going to spoil you. This is how men in England are.”
“He’s not as bad as a lot of men, I’ll tell you that.”
“Stop making such a fuss.”
“At least he’s a good provider, and he doesn’t hit me.”
“What do you want? What do you expect?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. He was only joking.”
RULES ABOUT rooms: Do not go into their bedroom, ever. Do not go into the living room except on Christmas. Keep the back door to the garage hooked open in the summer, bolted shut in winter. You may have a blotter and a pen on your desk. Don’t brush your hair in the kitchen. The sliding door to the study must always be closed, even when you are in there. Alphabetize your books. Sleep with your bedroom door ajar, so the air can move through. Keep closet doors shut. Lights out at eight, at nine or ten when you are older.
Close the drawers, close the curtains at night, and don’t have lights burning during the day. Don’t waste electricity. Don’t waste hot water. Don’t leave anything on the stairs. No, you may not put the heat on — go outside and run about if you’re cold. Don’t leave things on the kitchen table. Close the piano lid when you have finished your lesson. Never put anything on the dining-room table without a mat under it. Put your bike away in the garage, lined up with this strip of tape. Use coasters on the tables. Don’t swivel about in the kitchen chairs. Rinse out your thermos and put it here until tomorrow. Stand on the bathmat to dry yourself, and when you have finished, drape the mat over the side of the tub. Spread your towel out on the rack; don’t bunch it together. The cat is not allowed upstairs. Close the window. Open the door. If you are going to have hysterics, go to your room.
