THAT TIME I WATCHED MY FATHER CRY

I wish I could say I was changed after the accident, that the enormity of losing a brother impacted my behavior. I would ask where he went and would be gently told “to a better place.” I was four and from all accounts I resumed my role of toddler, one with a giddy penchant for tearing things apart. I can barely work a wrench these days, but back then my nimble fingers dismantled cribs, beds, transistor radios, anything that could be broken. My parents would find me all smiles surrounded by screws and wire. How could they be mad? Each mess was proof: I survived.

 My father dealt with death the way he dealt with life: solitude, late night television, gin, and smokes. Every evening I dozed off to the scent of Pall Malls wafting from downstairs. Gazing from his chair, my father was a study in coiled sadness. He hadn’t cried at the hospital or at the funeral. I’d seen him bawl with laughter watching Johnny Carson. Maybe he cried in the shower but tears of grief weren’t for public consumption.

 Mom sobbed during her soaps. And while cooking dinner. And while just sitting at the table, clipping coupons for a now smaller family.

 Two summers after the crash, I could feel a change, a rising tension marked by hushed voices, barometric signals that even a six-year-old couldn’t miss. I would play out of sight, humming AM radio hits while stacking my toys in piles to be toppled over Godzilla-style. This proved mighty satisfying – kicking and stomping miniature cities like a towheaded god. However, the devastation I sought was incomplete. There was a missing piece.

 Though not much of a hobbyist, my father kept a modest collection of coins, stamps, and one beaut of a model car – a 1940 Ford Deluxe – he’d assembled with the help of my brother. He said it reminded him of his grandfather’s “jalopy.” I thought it resembled a gleaming blue cloud, the same shade of our old car, the one that rained shattered glass. He kept the model hidden on a shelf in his bedroom closet. I knew it was off limits . . . until I decided it wasn’t.

 Spying from a window, I watched my parents bicker in the backyard before sneaking into their closet, climbing atop a suitcase to nab the forbidden fruit, and scurrying back to my play area. I positioned the car in the center of the rug, and encircled it with Lego structures, stuffed animals, hand-me-down Star Wars figures and anything else I could grab, a funeral pyre courtesy of Toys “R” Us. With a roar, I thumped my chest, wagged my arms, and stomped across the land.

 Now here’s what I remember most: I hoped the car would survive. After all: my father built it (along with my brother.) It felt sturdy, weighing more than my other toys. I was curious whether this beautiful thing could emerge intact from the destruction I caused. Like magic. Decades have not explained my impulse to put it in harm’s way. I guess I needed to restage the past, desperate for a different result.

 The rampage ended. I backed away and surveyed the damage. The car, incredibly, appeared unscathed. I picked it up, twirled it around. All that mayhem and nary a scratch. This outcome was different. No broken glass. No twisted metal. No blood.

 I jumped for joy before feeling my father’s icy presence. He stood in the doorframe, backlit by the hallway light, crying silently, his fists clenched tight.

 “It’s ok!” I said, offering the car with a smile. “I didn’t break it!”

 “You should not have found this,” he said. “This is not for you.”

 I never saw the car again. That particular summer felt cold and lonely. He would eventually forgive me, and I would continue breaking things, though never again with a smile.