So far, the visit was going fine. I hadn’t been expected, first of all, and so the initial surprise pleased my parents so much that any mention of our past difficulties dissolved in the affectionate air. Rather than asking–either pained or demandingly–why I haven’t been home before this, they merely smiled, were grateful, and said, “It’s been a long time.” “Too long,” was the only complaint, but issued by my mother who threw her arms around me again. “It’s good to have you home.” For nothing pleased my family–or so they believed–like a night spent together. And many nights were spent so. My brother still lived at home, for one thing, and through my sister was married and, allegedly, on her own, she could appear at my parents’ door in just fifteen minutes–and did quite regularly. But my continual absence at their continual gatherings was not unnoticed, and punctuated, I imagined, with genuinely heartfelt sighs and the words “Don’t you wish Stephen could be here?” directed at anyone save my father who was–as we all knew–as much responsible for the empty chair at the table as I was. But when the opportunity arose–and so unexpectedly–of having all of us together for a while, then let by-gones be by-gones, what’s past is past and it’s to dinner we all were to go. “Where would you like to eat?” they asked me once we found ourselves hugged and kissed out with nothing jolly left to say. “It doesn’t matter,” I replied complacently. “Anywhere is fine with me.” “How about the Ivanhoe?” my mother asked. “We haven’t been there in so long and you like it so much.” “The Ivanhoe’s fine.” “But it’s so far,” my father complained. “That’s halfway to the Loop. What about The Cork over here on Skokie Avenue,” and his weighty arm gestured towards the closet. “Fine.” “I hear the food is terrible,” my mother declared. “No!” “Terrible. Eileen ate there three days ago and nearly got food poisoning,” but then she turned to me again and said eagerly, “Unless you’d like to eat there, dear.” “Doesn’t matter. Anyplace is fine.” “How about Fanny’s?” my father asked her. “How about Fanny’s?” she said to me. “Fine.” “Should I call for a reservation?” inquired my father. “Oh, we don’t need one,” she scoffed. “Unless we go late.” “Are you hungry?” he asked me. “Starved.” “Why didn’t you fix him something?” he asked my mother angrily. “Do you want me to fix you something?” she asked. “I can wait,” I said to her. “Wonderful,” she exclaimed and scurried towards the telephone. “I’ll call Susie and we’ll all get ready and–” Good idea: let’s keep busy, for we can never be sure what ghosts will rise once our families turn silent. And so upstairs I went, scanned the bedroom where I once lived and that my brother had completely usurped, cracked open my suitcase, grabbed my dop-kit and headed for the Master Bath. The bathroom had been redecorated into something vaguely resembling a science fiction movie. The wallpaper, that also spread across the ceiling, shined like paper mirrors. Little yellow butterflies, trapped and motionless, formed regular patterns throughout the paper, and the yellow window curtains and the yellow shower stall and the yellow toilet paper and yellow tissue box and–impossibly–even the yellow rosebud soaps in a shiny soap dish all matched the butterflies’ color perfectly. On one entire wall and just above two separate, round-bowled, shiny sinks set in a black marble counter-top, a large, glistening mirror reflected the sparkling and yellow room. So sparkling and harmonious, in fact, that I had the distinct impression that I was the first person to ever set foot in here, and I hoped that my farts would be hushed and odorless and that water would not bead in the sink. “Hi,” I said, turning to my father as he entered. “Quite a place you got here.” He frowned uncertainly at the room, then at me, and after tugging several times at the elastic of his boxer shorts he concentrated on the array of shaving utensils stored in a small drawer beside the sink. I kept watching him as I wet and lathered my face–he had gained more weight and his bulky body seemed resigned to it–and though his moody brooding often anticipated his erratic rage, he seemed preoccupied, as if something confusing and far away was eating at him. Not until I had rinsed my razor and started shaving did he finally speak. “So how was the trip up here?” he asked tonelessly, his fingers and eyes still buried in the drawer. “Fine,” I said lightly and turned to him. “It’s spring.” “Any trouble with the car? “Not at all.” He frowned slightly as if his fingers came upon something that displeased him. “Why don’t you take the car over to Frank’s tomorrow? Tell him to give you a grease and oil. Put it on my bill.” “Oh, I had a grease and oil change less than two weeks ago. Thanks, though, Dad.” He pulled a razor from the drawer and studied it somberly: I knew he didn’t believe me about the car and that nothing short of producing a bill could convince him otherwise. For an instant I wanted to embrace him, to kiss his saggy face and assure him the car ran well. But before I did, he asked, “Do you need anything while you’re home?” “No,” I replied, “I don’t think so.” “No underwear? No socks?” “None.” “How about a few of those summer golf shirts I wear?” he asked, a wavering glimmer in his eyes. “No, nothing. In fact, I think I still have shirts like that from last summer I haven’t worn yet.” “T-shirts? Shoes?” “I’m fine, Dad,” I replied. “But thank you.” He returned his focus to the razor, but I could see distrust swell in his eyes. I knew, from our past, what was happening here–how my refusals of what he offered denoted some rejection of what he had to give. This would anger him, and though the anger was only the underside of pain and frustration, that made it no less dangerous: I can remember, for example, when he grabbed me once and slammed me into the refrigerator and screamed, “Don’t let me ever hear you say no one loves you in this house!” And so wanting to avoid a confrontation this early in the visit, I decided to finish shaving and do whatever else I had to do in here once my father was done. I hurried through the next few strokes with the razor as his ponderous silence filled the room more than the steam from my faucet, but once I rinsed my face and made to put my razor away my father exclaimed, “Good God, look at yourself!” A dozen tiny cuts were scattered across my face, and a deeper one below my chin dripped blood slowly down my throat. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said bravely. “They’re all surface cuts. I just put in a new blade.” With our eyes meeting in the mirror, he learned forward suspiciously and asked, “What type of blades do you use?” “Personna 74 I think.” He turned quickly and reached into the small drawer, slapped something on the counter and shoved it towards me. “Use these,” he declared and revealed a packet of razorblades still in their cardboard wrapping. “They work just as well and they’re not as sharp. Your face is still too soft to use tungsten.” He turned back to the mirror and began lathering his face aggressively. “Will they last as long?” I wondered, careful not to sound argumentative. “Sure, why not?” He ceased his lathering and turned to my reflection in the mirror. “And if they don’t, I’ll buy you extras. I’d rather spend a few more pennies than have you walking around with your face sliced open.” Suddenly he grabbed the razors and held them an inch from my nose. “They’re better for you,” he cried. “I’m telling you,” then he slapped them down again. I stared at the packet for a moment, conscious of him watching me in the mirror as he slashed away at the whiskers on his face; whether I need them or not–and regardless if they cut my face any less–these razors had better leave this room with me. I reached over and dropped them into my toilet bag. “Thanks, I’ll take them.” And if this were a movie then faint, sweet music would begin, for with my words the tension dissolved in his face and he shaved calmly: long, graceful strokes that left pink highways through the snow. I thought I even detected a smirk emerge in the corner of his mouth. “I’ll tell you what I could use,” I said, assisting my visit with a request I genuinely intended to make anyway. “Some hair tonic or something. My hair’s been dry this winter.” “I’ve been telling you that for years,” he announced triumphantly. Again he reached into the drawer beside the sink and this time set a little green jar on the counter. “This is just what you need.” “I’m not using that stuff,” I cried. “It’s not greasy!” “No,” I insisted, sorry I had ever raised the subject at all. “I don’t want to plaster it down. It’s just a little dry, that’s all.” He glared at me impatiently for a moment–he knew I had just betrayed him–then he shouldered me aside and reached into the cabinet below the sink. He brought out a tall bottle that had some yellowish liquid splashing about the bottle. “This stuff is’n’t greasy at all,” he declared, a husky insistence in his voice. “Dave at the barber shop gave it to me,” and he pointed proudly to an ornate label. ‘For Professional Use Only’ ran the inscription. “It’s terrific stuff.” “Thanks, I’ll use it,” I said and took the bottle immediately, hoping to end this. “Sure you got enough?” “Plenty. I’ve a whole ’nother bottle.” Suddenly his head snapped back and his eyes went blank. Then he hurried from the bathroom, leaned over the banister and called downstairs. “Ella!” “What is it?” my mother responded. “Where’s that other bottle of Beau Kremel?” he asked, straining forward to hear. “In the linen closet.” He straightened up, reentered the bathroom where he rinsed the lather from his partly shaven face, then said, “I just realized you can take some back with you,” and hurried from the room, over to the closet. He opened the door, pushed sheets and towels aside–a few spilling to the floor in broken folds. His large body squeezed further into the closet; bottles were upended and I heard the faint rumbling of obscenities. Finally he emerged, his face red and his hair all disarranged, with an unopened bottle of the hair tonic he had just offered me. “Dad, I can’t take all that!” He picked up the sheets and towels, stuffed them back into the closet and slammed the door. While walking excitedly back to the bathroom, he ripped at the plastic seal around the neck of the new bottle. “I’ll put some in there,” he said anxiously, indicting the other bottle with a glance. “There’s not enough in there to do you any good.” He tossed the plastic seal at the waste basket. “I just want to give you a little more.” My father unscrewed the caps of both bottles, then carefully tipped the new one upside down so the spouts touched. But each spout had only a small hole and so just a solitary drop dangled from the spout and fell faintly to the liquid at the bottom. After a moment another drop appeared, hesitated, then slid reluctantly down the old bottle’s side. He waited for a third drop but one never appeared. He turned the new bottle upright, glared at it reprimandingly, then, grabbing the old bottle, he squinted his eyes as if taking aim. Quickly, he tipped the new bottle and the spouts clinked together, hair tonic squirting into my father’s wrist. He tried again, but again he missed. He continued jerking at the bottle, repeatedly harder and harder, no longer taking aim but believing that hair tonic would find its way to the other spout simply because of his intense commitment. “Dad, this’ll take you all night,” I said as little yellow drops dripped from the hair on his forearm and fell steadily to the counter-top. “If the stuff works and I like it, I’ll take more back with me the next time I’m home.” I reached over and took the proffered bottle, but he snatched it back and shoved it to the counter. “You could be bald by then,” he said darkly, then turned to the bottles with steadily angering eyes. While he frowned at the bottles, the anger in his eyes spread throughout his face; these bottles, it seemed, had done him a great wrong, and now that he had them at his mercy he planned what way to show none. Finally, with a precise and concentrated gesture, he put his thumb on the spout of the new bottle and clutched it by its neck. He tipped the bottle upside down, gripped the old bottle with his other hand, then placed the spouts together with his thumb in between. He eased his thumb out, the spouts came together, then he shook both bottles simultaneously. The spouts separated but he continued shaking them as hair tonic squirt all over the bottle, onto his fingers, squirting, even to the counter-top. That his plan wasn’t working didn’t stop him at all—it made him only angrier at the bottles and he shook them wildly until a spout banged his finger joint. “Damn!” he cried and snapped the new bottle upright. He looked at them with unforgivable reproach, turned, ripped a towel from a rack and wrapped half around the old bottle. He grabbed the new bottle, clutched both bottles by their thickened spouts and shook them until he resembled a man on a pneumatic drill. I could hear the muffled glass scratching together, and after several moments the towel around the spouts grew dark and wet. Hair tonic soon oozed from the towel between my father’s fingers and began dripping to the counter-top. Drops gathered, and a little yellow lake spilled over the side in a steady stream and was sponged up by the rug on the floor. It wasn’t working and he knew it, for he finally slammed the bottle to the counter-top, tore off the towel which he used to mop the counter, and flung it in the tub. His hand reached down and sucked up the rug and he flung that, too, in the same direction. We turned back to the bottles; the new one was nearly half empty now, and the amount in the bottle he had given me had not visibly changed. “Dad,” I cried weakly, “this is fine for God’s sake, I’ve got plenty in this one,” and I moved towards the bottles. “Stay out of the mess!” he snapped. “We’re going out for dinner you know.” He turned and looked me in the face. “You want hair tonic,” he whispered, “you’ll get hair tonic,” and he stormed out the door. Helpless, I tried thinking what to do before the visit splashed to the floor along with the hair tonic and our reconciliation. Responsible for this and unable to prevent it from occurring, I felt that my car–even with the brakes on–was skidding unavoidably into the back of a truck. It was happening, I couldn’t stop it, and–worse yet–I had time to watch it occur. My father lunged into the bathroom carrying–of all things–a single sheet of paper. With his head bent down and taking large, heavy steps, he marched directly to the window and threw it open; his wet hands smudged the glass and left three dark stains on the curtain. He returned to the counter and rolled the sheet of paper into a tight funnel, an end of which he stuck into the spout of the bottle he had given me. He widened the lips at the top of the funnel, picked up the new bottle of hair tonic and frantically poured into the rolled paper. Streams of hair tonic jumped into the funnel with irregular spurts, making a damp ‘smack’ as it hit. My father jerked at the bottle with hard, rapid strokes. More and more hair tonic streamed into the paper. He stopped, readjusted the funnel, then poured even harder and more rapidly, up and down, again and again. Tiny drops of perspiration ran down his forehead, hid in his eyebrows, reappeared above his lip. He began breathing furiously. “Anything happening?” he gasped. “Yes,” I replied miserably. “The paper’s soaking up all the hair tonic.” “Damn!” he cried, banging the bottle to the counter-top, directly on the razor that spun and jumped to the floor. He turned, kicked at the razor and sent it flying across the room. “Do something for a change,” he yelled. “Here!” and he shoved the bottle into my chest. “You pour!” Exasperated and panting, he flicked thick fingers through his eyebrows, then across his lip, and after taking one deep breath like he was diving under water, he crouched towards the wet and already shedding funnel and cupped both hands around it. He froze in this position for an instant before yelling, “Today, today, let’s go!” I jumped towards him while muttering apologies, then began pouring. “It’s working,” he cried, his eyes following each drop falling into the bottle. “Pour a little faster.” With his wild eyes and half shaven face, my father looked like the mad scientist whose creation lived. “Good,” he exclaimed. “Harder!” I pounded away, saved from disaster by my father’s persistence and whoever invented the funnel. But then that funnel–having absorbed so much liquid–gave way entirely and melted over my father’s hands just when hair tonic exploded from the spout, all over his belly, pressing hair wet and yellow against his pink skin. “Shit!” he screamed and jumped back, his arm tipping the bottle that fell and skidded to a stop in the sink. He grabbed for another towel and furiously scrubbed his belly while groping for the overturned bottle. “Seymour,” cried my mother from downstairs as hair tonic gurgled down the drain. “Seymour!” “What do you want?” he shouted back, his body in a twist of contrary motions while his face strained towards her voice. “What’s that awful smell I smell?” “Not a God damn thing,” he yelled, lurching from the bathroom and still rubbing his belly with a towel. “I’m giving your son a little hair tonic.” “Well I can smell it down here.” He was about to scream a reply, hesitated, then dragged the towel across his perspiring face. “We’re just having a little trouble,” he said faintly. He returned to the bathroom, avoided my eyes, leaned heavily on the counter-top and stared at the two bottles. Both were nearly empty, and when he reached for one the decorative label shed into the hands. Just then my mother appeared in the doorway with a worried face that transformed into astonishment; the mess in the bathroom had gathered enough force to knock her back a step, what with hair tonic across the counter-top and streaming in a puddle to her bare floor, the rug and towels limp in the tub, a razor in the corner, with windows smudged–and with her soaking husband, desperate and partly shaven, and my pathetic eyes. “What’s been going on in here?” she asked, amazed. My father, not turning to her, waved a hand despairingly my way. “His hair’s dry.” His head swung back and forth and his mouth fidgeted like he was about to say more. But no words came and his confusion exhausted him; his excess weight sagged on him and he turned sad-eyed to my mother who yanked in a breath, blew it out, and began rolling up her sleeves. “Alright, everybody out,” she said nervously while moving through the room. “I’m cleaning this up right now.” She fussed with her sleeves a moment longer, picked up the razor, then pounced on the heap in the tub. She wrung and squeezed at something–I wasn’t sure, for then my father folded his towel neatly, placed it beside the bottles on the counter, and quietly left the room.