They went through about eight containers of Chinese takeout in twenty minutes. Marty had not eaten this much in months. After finishing the last of the moo goo gai pan, Marty belched and said, “When’s it gonna kick in?” Which they both found hysterical. Marty stared at the joint in his hand, rotating it, appreciating it.
“Where do they hide this stuff? It’s fantastische.”
“They don’t hide it, Dad.”
“Marvelous. Marvelous. Get me the phone, I want to tell the world about it.”
“The world knows, Dad.”
“Can I have more? Should I have more? Does it just keep getting better?”
“Not necessarily. Pace yourself.”
“Ah yes, pace. The ol’ pace. Can I have ice cream, then? I’m thinking that ice cream is a good idea.”
“Ice cream is an excellent idea.” Ted went to the fridge, pulled a quart, and handed it to Marty with a spoon. Marty stared, uncomprehending, at the container.
“The ice cream you want is on the inside of that carton, Dad.”
“Froooooozen glah-juh. Froooozen gladjehhhh.”
“That’s right. Frusen Glädjé.”
“What does it mean?”
“You know what it means, Dad, you made up shit like that yourself. It means to sound like ‘ice cream’ in a fake Nordic language conjuring blond images of tasty Scandinavian deliciousness. Fuckin’ works, too, hand it over. What flavor is that?”
“Cold.”
“Cold is not a flavor.”
“I meant, what does any of it mean?”
“Amen, brother.”
“Ted?”
“Right here.”
“Don’t ever let me be without marijuana again.”
“Okay, Dad. Got it.”
“Solemn oath?”
“Solemn oath.”
“And Ted?”
“Still here.”
“I can’t feel my arm.”
“That’s cool, I can see it. It’s there very near your shoulder, just below it.”
“No, it’s fucking fantastic. My arm usually throbs like a motherfucker and now it’s just floating there on cotton candy. You know you’re named after Ted Williams, right? Greatest hitter of all time. Teddy Ballgame. The ‘Splendid Splinter.’”
“I’m aware.”
“Frooooooooooooozen glaaaaaaaahjuhhhh—Haaaaaaagen Daaaaaaaaahssss.”
“Both names of ice creams.”
“Carl Yaaaaaaaaz-secezuh-tremmmmmmski. Harrrrrrrmmmmmmonnnnnn Killlllluhbrooooooo.”
“Both baseball players.”
“You must give me all your marijuana. I am opening the gate. I am walking through the gate.”
“Gateway.”
“Give me that reefer back.”
“Reefer? Really? We’re back in the fifties all of a sudden. Look at you. You want it all? Don’t wanna share? You Bogart.”
“Hummmmmm-freeeeeee Booooooo-garrrrrt.”
“Actor.”
“Smoker. No, I must have all your marijuana because my reality sucks ergo why remain in it? While you on the other hand must not have any marijuana because old as you are you have not yet made your true reality ergo you are running from something that does not exist. And regardless, if you created your reality you might find it good negating the need to escape from it through the use of marijuana, and besides if your reality when you finally created it turned out actually to be not so good God forbid then you could come to me—why? Because I would have all the marijuana and I would gladly share your marijuana back with you, I’m exhausted.”
“What? Wow. Okay, you win, all the marijuana goes to you.”
Marty held the joint up for close inspection. “Where have you been all my life?”
“When the student is ready, the master appears.”
Marty nodded at the old profundity as if it were new. Ted remembered something he wanted to bring up.
“Hey, you know, I wanna tell you that I’m almost finished reading your novel, and I think it’s really fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It is. It’s really good. I like how you constantly shift the storytelling POV from first to third person. Puts the reader on uneasy ground. Like a Dylan song. Like ‘Tangled Up in Blue.’ Can’t wait to see what happens with the crazy Doublemint Man.”
“It’s not a novel.”
“Whaddyou mean, it’s not a novel?”
“It’s a journal, Ted, from my life of that time, not fiction. I just made it look like a novel and threw in some curveballs so your mother, in case she found it, would get off my back, the snoop, she shoulda worked for the CIA. Maybe she did.”
Ted was stunned, absolutely stunned. He felt at once like he’d lost his high, and that he was higher than he’d ever been.
“A journal? You mean it’s all true? About this Maria woman?”
Marty did not answer, which was as good as a confirmation.
“Did you love her?”
“What does the book say?”
“Why didn’t you leave, then? Why didn’t you leave for her?”
“’Cause it wasn’t right. Men don’t leave, they die. Instead, I really got into the Sox.”
“What?”
“I didn’t give a fuck about baseball, Ted. I mean I liked it, sure, but what kind of man roots for a team like it’s life and death? I just found that if I acted crazy enough about the Sox your mother would leave me alone when I was watching a game or reading the paper, whatever. I could be elsewhere. For years. Whenever the Sox were on, I could disappear. And when I disappeared, I didn’t miss her so badly.”
“I don’t even know where to begin asking questions.”
“Then don’t.”
“So the whole baseball thing is a lie?”
“What do you mean, a lie?”
“Something that is not true, Dad.”
“I guess if you wanna be literal. Started out that way, and then as time passed, I didn’t think about Maria that much anymore at all; just thought about the Sox. She became the Sox and the Sox became her. I don’t know how to put it in words. It was like Maria disappeared into the Sox and didn’t really exist for me anymore or existed in a way that didn’t hurt so much anyway.”
“So … you checked out of both worlds, hers and ours.”
“Making a choice was wrong.”
“Not making a choice was more wrong.”
“I make no apologies, son, my life was shit, and I made it that way ’cause that’s what I deserved. I was not a good man. I hate marijuana. It’s a terrible drug. I’m falling asleep on my feet. I’m asleep now. I’m sleeptalking.”
“You made your life shit? Maybe that’s what you deserved, Dad, but we deserved better from you. Mom and I, we deserved better.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m just saying. There’s collateral damage.”
“Stop. I need to sleep. I can’t do anything for your mother, God rest her soul. I missed that boat. She deserved better than what I gave her, yes, and I wish I could have told her that I understood that while she was alive. But whatever you need, or whatever you needed, can’t you just make believe I’m giving it to you or I gave it to you? That’s something I’m afraid you have to do for yourself at this point. Can you do that for me? Lie to me.”
“I don’t know, Dad, I’m not sure I know how to go about even starting something like that.”
“I bet you do. Good night, Ted. May I kiss you good night?”
“Of course.”
Marty walked over and kissed the top of Ted’s scalp. “Good boy,” he said, and left to go lie down for the night.
“I don’t hate marijuana” were his final words of the evening. Or so Ted thought until Marty popped his head back in and asked, “Hey, can you take me to see that movie The Animal House?”
“You wanna see Animal House?”
“Yeah, looks good.”
“It’s not George Orwell’s Animal Farm, ya know. Very different.”
“Looks funny.”
“It does? Looks like the end of the world to me. Looks like the kids have taken over.”
“Looks funny to me. I like that Chevy Chase.”
“He’s not in it.”
“Whatever. Still looks funny.”
“I’ll take you.”
“We can have licorice and popcorn. Good night.” And this time he left and stayed gone.
Ted remained seated at the kitchen table, marveling at how big the emptiness inside him felt, and how the smallest thing, a sideways word from his father, could tear it open, and how the smallest thing, a kiss from his father, stitched it up in light. Ted wondered how he could hold on to that feeling of being kissed, even as the feeling faded. He reached for more Frusen Glädjé.