My Birthright

The day began for me as just another 10-year-old shanghaied by his father into helping with chores around the house. It was a happy house this spring morning, Dad whistling while he worked to organize the basement, Mom humming a gay little tune in the kitchen making an apple pie. All this wholesome family gayety was about to change.

Dad, his back toward me as he stood atop a ladder hanging curtains, his gaze staring out the window as I rummaged though a pile of faded old cardboard boxes trying to discern trash from treasure.

Flipping through a box of books, I came across a padded white case resembling those in which diplomas are presented. Never had I seen a white diploma case, but understood when I parted the two halves to find my parents marriage certificate inside.

The pre-child years of my parents’ lives had always been a shrouded foggy mist, so I carefully studied the plastic covered certificate trying to gain some insight into their early existence. Had I not been the eldest of several children the date of their marriage probably wouldn’t have struck me as being in conflict.

“Dad?” I asked as he continued fumbling with the curtain rod.

“Yes…”

“I’ve got a question for you. I learned in school that it takes nine months to make a baby. Is that right?”

“Yes… that’s right,” he haltingly replied with his confidence level obviously shaken. “So what’s the question?”

“Well, I was just going through this box when I came across your marriage certificate. It says you and Mom were married in June of 1956. My birthday is in November of that same year. Now that’s only five months, so what happened to the other four months?” I cluelessly asked.

 The room became overwhelmed with a pall of human silence, only the creaking of the wooden stepladder upon which he stood the sole indicator that time hadn’t frozen still. I turned to see if he’d heard the question, only to see the small ladder swaying heavily under his teetering feet. The ladder shot out from under him as my Father disappeared behind a mid-air explosion of billowing white curtains.

He crashed landed in a pile of now crushed cardboard boxes, the curtains covering his head and face like a shroud. Rushing to his aid, I parted the two curtains covering his face to find tears streaming down his cheeks. Never having seen my father cry before, surely he must be badly hurt.

“What’s broken?” I asked as years of Boy Scout first aid classes had me looking around for materials from which to fashion a splint.

He tried to talk but the words wouldn’t come. It took me a few seconds before I realized he couldn’t speak because he was overcome with a fit of laughter that was about to consume him. Those tears streaming down his face weren’t from pain. Reminiscent of hearing a dying man’s last words, I placed my ear close to his lips where through his broken speech I was able to decipher the words “Go ask your Mother.”

“What’s going on down there?” my Mother asked without interrupting her rolling pin stride.

“Oh Dad just fell off a ladder and into some boxes,” I reported.

“Is he hurt?” she asked without breaking her fixed concentration on the ever-expanding circle of dough atop the counter.

“At first I thought he was because he was crying, but I think his crying has more to do with a question I asked him.”

“Did he answer your question?” she asked.

“No. He started crying and all I could get out of him was to come ask you.”

“OK, so what’s the question?” she asked with a suspicious tone.

I repeated the question verbatim; again that same silence.

Ever so slowly she lowered her face to the counter until her nose pressed into the center of her nearly perfect circle of yellowish dough. Drawing her hands from outside the circle to her face at the center, the bear claw like slashes through the dough led to the edges of her face where she gathered mounds of dough around like a protective moat. Tears dribbling out from beneath her dough-submerged face glistened under the bright kitchen lights as the small beaded streams followed the floury terrain like a river would a mountain range.

Again, another series of barely intelligible sob-racked words, this time further muffled by mounds of dough. Moving in close, I was able to edit out the sobs to decipher the words “Go… ask … your… father.”

Dad was still deeply entrenched within the crushed boxes, his legs sticking up and over the top of one side, his neck resting atop the dented edge of another, the rest of his body visible only though the sheer white curtains draped over him.

Grasping one arm I was able to help raise him only a few inches from the box, as he’d lost the strength to free himself.

Propped halfway up on one elbow he asked, “What did she say?”

“Nothing. She buried her face in the pie dough, started crying, and told me to go back and ask you,” I reported.

Roaring with laughter he fell back to the bottom of the box.

“OH YOU JUST THINK THIS IS SOOOOOOO DAMNED HILARIOUS, DON’T YOU!” my Mother shouted down the stairway, which only made my Father laugh all the harder.

“Why don’t you go out to play,” my Father told me, which was something I didn’t need to be told twice. Passing my Mother in the stairwell, she looked at me with her red tear-streaked cheeks and said, “Why don’t you go out to play.” I didn’t understand what had happened, but I sure did appreciate the results, both parents simultaneously telling me to forget my chores and go out to play. Whatever it was I’d done, this was definitely a technique worth remembering.

For the remainder of the week I got off Scott-free from any and all chores. When asked to help around the house all I had to do was suggest it’d be great opportunity to further discuss questions still lingering on my mind. At this point I didn’t want an answer, for that would have forever ruined this new shirking skill I’d developed. Still, I did still wonder what all the commotion had been about, and sought to learn the answer without letting my parents know.

After a week of conversationless dinners around our crowded table, even I began to tire of this thick atmosphere where for an hour each day the only sound was the clinking of silverware against plates. Seeking to rescue us all from this oppressive tension, I thought to offer some relief.

“Dad?” I said, breaking the weeklong silence and bringing my mother’s fork to a mid-air halt.

“Yes,” he said, glancing cautiously at my mother.

“You know that question I asked you last weekend, well I don’t need an answer.”

My Mother’s lungs collapsed as a sigh of relief escaped her body, her fork falling to her dinner plate with a distinctive clunk.

Instinctively, Dad knew a piece was missing from this puzzle. Cocking his head slightly to the side and squinting one eye, he asked, “ ‘Why’ don’t you need an answer?”

“Because,” I proudly proclaimed, “I asked my teacher at school.”

Dad ducked as my Mother’s silverware came flying in his direction.

“Oh, you handled that just wonderfully, didn’t you!” she yelled standing over and looking down upon my Father. “Now the whole damn school knows!”

Her napkin was still clinging to his face when she stormed out of the dining room and Dad told us all to go out and play.

“But I’m not finished eating yet,” one brother protested, for we were only a few minutes into our meal.

“Never mind, go out and play!”

Shoving a handful of food into my pocket I was out the door in a flash, glowing with the pride of knowing I’d fixed everything for the better.

I had indeed posed the question to one of my teachers at school, but the response wasn’t what I’d call an answer.

“That’s something you should discuss with your parents,” my teacher told me.

I’ll bet she couldn’t wait to get to the teachers’ lounge to share this encounter.

Come to think of it, I never did get an answer to my question.