“Nick Papanides,” I say, spitting into the sink. “Let me tell you a little something, Mister. You can rot in Hell for all I care. You can. . .” I watch my saliva clinging to the rim of the basin and wonder where the bubbles come from. Is that air or are we all naturally carbonated? If Nick were to appear before me right this moment I might ask him that question but find myself bored with his answer. That’s the kind of guy he was. I wouldn’t even have thought of asking my father that question as the answer would have been both dull and uninformed, a double whammy of tedium. That was his claim to fame, we all knew it. My mother though, she seems to cling to an idea of this man. She never seemed to want him alive, but dead he assumes a potential for change. His corpse is something to be claimed and fought over while his life, like Nick’s, is transparent to a fault. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know what you’re getting yourself into, so if there’s blame, blame yourself.

It suddenly becomes clear that a cat has more sense than Nick Papanides. I slip the pictures back into my mother’s smock pocket and go down to the kitchen where I take Margery’s beer out of the refrigerator. I open the can, take a deep swallow, but spit it back into the can. I don’t get it, beer —it’s nasty tasting. I follow it up with a tug of Pepsi and close the refrigerator, the door of which is decorated with inspirational messages provided by Aunt Margery. There is a bumper sticker reading “Keep It Simple,” and a sympathy card reading “You are not alone!” But she is alone, my mother. She just doesn’t know it. It’s like falling asleep in your bedroom believing that someone else is quietly sitting in the living room. You feel their presence when actually they’re not home at all, they’re down the block, living it up. But if the false idea of your company helps them to sleep then why tell them otherwise? It’s pitiful. You might look upon a child or a simpleton with pity, no problem, but it’s ugly work to see your mother that way. It’s much more tiring than cleaning an empty apartment or attending a football game. Like seeing my naked father, clumsy, the words pouring out of him like brown water — I never wanted to see him like that. These thoughts become my job and I clock in and out, every day of my life.