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“I can’t believe you’ve kept those, Mum.”
We were sitting around, nursing our tea, breakfast finished.
She was very matter-of-fact, as usual. “Well, even though the content was rubbish, not fit for the bing, really, they were well-written.”
From my Mum, this was a compliment. “Thanks, Mum.”
My Dad piped in with his two cents’ worth. “That McCartney’s the reincarnation of Eddie Hascal. I wouldn’t write about him if my life depended on it.” He slurped his tea loudly.
My mother responded sharply. “Aye, well no one’s asking you to, Archie.”
“Blether, blether, blether.” He adjusted his glasses.
This was the comfortable pattern of their conversations. When I had first brought Allison home for dinners, she had been very upset by the arguing and raising of voices, but now it was old hat to her, too. “Esme, can I get you another cup of tea?” she asked sweetly.
Mum had put all of my Steven columns up on the fridge.
“Donny, you’re almost as famous now as Steven,” Mum said.
Again, Dad had to insert his opinion. His voice was bitter. “Steven McCartney’s no’ famous. He’ll end up in jail with Donny once this is all over.”
“He’ll not!” Mom responded angrily. “I’d be so lucky if you went to jail, Archie!” She turned back to me as if nothing had happened. “I bought tickets for the show. Your Dad and I will be going.”
“Aye, I’ll be going, pissed out of my mind.”
“Shut it, Archie.”
“Are you sure you want to come? What if Steven doesn’t show?” I asked.
My Dad loved that one. “Achh, that pimply-faced weasel won’t show.”
“Dad, why do you suddenly hate Steven so much? What has he ever done to you, or to anyone, for that matter? I’m the one who’s done the damage here. You should probably hate me.” I felt a sick wave of shame again. Allison put her hand on top of mine reassuringly.
Dad was not in the mood for analyzing his feelings. That sort of thing was definitely not in his genetic make-up. He growled, “I’m just sayin’ that if I see that McCartney boy, I’ll break his bloody face.” My mother’s eyebrows went up as prelude to another blow-out.
Allison intervened again. “How about I freshen up your tea, Archie? And would you like another slice of toast?” Dad’s mood suddenly changed. Tea is like mother’s milk to a Scot, I think.
“Yeah, and some o’ that nice blackberry jam wi’ that, Allison. That’s good stuff, that.” He leaned conspiratorially over to me as Allison headed over to the stove. “Allison’s putting on a bit o’ weight round her belly, son. Time to cut back on they sandwiches.”
Mum stared in shock at Dad. “You old fool, she’s pregnant! Eight months! Did you not listen to any of the hundreds of conversations that we had about this all year?” She scowled in disgust. She’d finally had enough, hobbling over to the TV, where I heard the soccer match between the Celtics and the Rangers come on. Her tone immediately changed. “Oh, oh, Archie! It’s the big game! Come on, Rangers! Kick their arses! Come on, Arch! You’re goin’ to miss it!”
And just like that, Dad and Mum were a team again, united in their love of the Rangers, temporarily in a truce. Dad shuffled quickly into his Lazy Boy armchair, tea slopping out of his cup. Allison and I could have had wild sex right there on the table and they wouldn’t have noticed. Some things never change.
But sometimes people do.
With all of the painful changes wrought in me over the past weeks, I realized that there was now one more to add to the list: I was a grown-up, fully, truly, irreversibly, in a way that I had never felt before.
You know how annoying it is when you are a young adult, holding down a job, living on your own, fully independent, and then a married friend with a child says something or does something that makes you feel like the frivolous kid in the group? I knew that feeling well. But now I suddenly got it. Now I was the guy with the ultimate responsibility, the ultimate path to growth in life. I was a dad. And even if there was some kind of going back, I did not want to. I was no longer my parents’ wayward child. I was a man.
I looked at my parents, who were completely under the spell of the World Cup, and felt ... detached. Not lacking in love for them, just fully separated. It didn’t matter to me anymore whether they approved or disapproved of my choices. I didn’t need them for comfort or safety. I didn’t feel any more anger, resentment, or shame about them. I was just glad that they were in this world, and that I could share some time with them.
I felt a warm arm slip around my shoulders. Allison was smiling meaningfully at me. “Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered. “I have something to show you. I think that my breasts have grown another cup size.” She always did know how to sweet-talk me.
