Where We Going, Daddy__ Life With Two Sons Unlike Any Other - Jean-Louis Fournier [20]
The world of man and beasts has rarely seen such harmony. Something is communicated between the two birdbrains. Saint Francis of Assisi isn’t far away, neither is Giotto with his paintings full of birds.
The innocent have their hands full. Full of paint.
Thomas is eighteen, he’s grown, he has trouble standing upright, the brace isn’t enough, he needs a stake, a support. I’ve been chosen.
A stake has to have its feet deeply embedded in the earth, it has to be strong and stable, able to stand up to the wind, it has to stay upright in a storm.
Funny idea to have chosen me.
I now oversee his money, I have to sign his checks. Thomas couldn’t give a damn about money, he doesn’t really know what it is. I remember one day in a restaurant in Portugal he took all the bills from my wallet and handed them out to everyone. I’m sure that if I asked Thomas his opinion, if he had one to give, he would say, “Go on, Dad, make the most of it, let’s have some fun, let’s blow my disability allowances together.”
He’s no skinflint. We could buy ourselves a beautiful convertible with his money. We could set off like two old friends wanting to party, looking for a good time. We’d go down to the coast, like they do in films, we’d go to fancy hotels full of candelabras, and eat in big restaurants, we’d drink champagne and talk about cars, books, music, movies, girls …
We’d walk along the seafront in the dark, strolling over huge deserted beaches. We’d watch phosphorescent fish leave luminous trails in the black water. We’d philosophize about life, death, and God. We’d look at the stars and the lights glimmering along the coast. We’d have rows, because we wouldn’t have the same opinions about everything. He’d call me a stupid old asshole and I’d say, “Have some respect, please, I’m your father,” and he’d say, “That’s nothing to be proud of.”
A handicapped child has the right to vote.
Thomas has come of age, he’s going to be able to vote. I’m sure he’s thought long and hard about it, weighed the pros and cons, meticulously analyzed both candidates’ policies and economic viability, he’s inventoried the administrative staff of both parties.
He’s still hesitating, he can’t make up his mind.
Snoopy or Garfield.
After a silence he suddenly said, “How are your boys?”
He obviously didn’t even know one of them has been gone for several years.
There was probably a lull in the conversation, he didn’t want the social death of an awkward pause. The meal was over, everyone had talked about their news, the mood needed rekindling. The master of the house had the knowing twinkle of someone with a good joke to tell as he added, “Did you know Jean-Louis has two handicapped children?”
The information was greeted with deafening silence, then a strange murmuring, a combination of compassion, amazement, and curiosity from those who didn’t know. One charming woman started gazing at me with the sad moist-eyed smile women have in paintings by Greuze.
Yes, my news is my handicapped children, but I don’t always feel like talking about them.
What the master of the house expected of me was to make people laugh. A perilous undertaking but I did my best.
I told them about the previous Christmas at the institute the boys went to. How the children knocked over the Christmas tree, the choir in which everyone was singing a different tune, the Christmas tree then catching fire, the movie projector falling over during a screening, the cream cake being turned upside down, and the parents on all fours under the tables avoiding blows from some pétanque balls that one ill-advised father had just given to his son who was now tossing them up in the air, and all of this with “Away in a Manger” playing in the background.
At first they were slightly embarrassed, they didn’t dare laugh. Then, gradually, they dared to. I was a triumph. The master of the house was pleased.
I think