mennenbgf

But he couldn’t help it, not when he remembered how at seven Merry would eat herself sick with the raw batter while baking two dozen tollhouse cookies, and a week later they’d still be finding batter all over the place, even up on top of the refrigeratorSo how could he hate the refrigerator? How could he let his emotions be reshaped, imagine himself being rescued, as Dawn did, by their leaving it behind for an all-but-silent new IceTemp, the Rolls-Royce of refrigerators? He for one could not say he hated the kitchen in which Merry used to bake her cookies and melt her cheese sandwiches and make her baked ziti, even if the cupboards weren’t stainless steel or the counters Italian marbleHe could not say he hated the cellar where she used to go to play hide-and-seek with her screaming friends, even if sometimes it spooked even him a little to be down there in the wintertime with those scuttling miceHe could not say he hated the massive fireplace adorned with the antique iron kettle that was all at once insufferably corny in Dawn’s estimation, not when he remembered how, early every January, he would chop up the Christmas tree and set it afire there, the whole thing in one go, so that the explosive blaze of the bone-dry branches, the great whoosh and the loud crackling and the dancing shadows, cavorting devils climbing to the ceiling from the four walls, would transport Merry into a delirium of terrified delightHe could not say he hated the ball-and-claw-foot bathtub where he used to give her baths, just because decades of indelible mineral stains from the well water streakedthe enamel and encircled the drainHe could not even hate the f ^ toilet whose handle required all that jiggling to get the thing to stop gushing, not when he remembered her kneeling beside it and throwing up while he knelt next to her, holding her sick little forehead
Nor could he say he hated his daughter for what she had done–if he could! If only, instead of living miu miu nappa chaotically in the world where she wasn’t and in the world where she once was and in the world where she might now be, he could come to hate her enough not to care anything about her world, then or nowIf only he could be back thinking like everybody else, once again the totally natural man instead of this riven charlatan of sincerity, an artless outer Swede and a tormented inner Swede, a visible stable Swede and a concealed beleaguered Swede, an easygoing, smiling sham Swede enshrouding the Swede buried aliveIf only he could even faintly reconstitute the undivided oneness of existence that had made for his straightforward physical confidence and freedom before he became the father of an alleged murdererIf only he could be as unknowing as some people perceived him to be–if only he could be as perfectly simple as the legend of Swede Levov concocted by the hero-worshiping kids of his dayIf only he could say, “I hate this house!” and be Weequahic’s Swede Levov againIf he could say, “I hate that child! I never want to see her again!” and then go ahead, disown her, forevermore despise and reject her and the vision for which she was willing, if not to kill, then to cruelly abandon her own family, a vision having nothing whatsoever to do with “ideals” but with dishonesty, criminality, megalomania, and insanityBlind antagonism and an infantile desire to menace–those were her idealsIn search always of something to hateYes, it went way, way beyond her stutteringThat violent hatred of America was a disease unto itselfLoved being an AmericanBut back then he hadn’t dared begin to explain to her why he did, for fear of unleashing the demon, insultThey lived in dread of Merry’s stuttering tongueAnd by then he had no influence anywayDawn had no influenceHis parents had no influenceIn what way was she “his” any longer if she hadn’t even been his then, certainly not his if to drive her into her frightening blitzkrieg mentality it required no more than for her own tiffany co jewelry father to begin to explain why his affections happened to be for the country where he’d been born and raisedStuttering, sputtering little bitch! Who the fuck did she think she was?
Imagine the vileness with which she would have assaulted him for revealing to her that just reciting the names of the forty-eight states used to thrill him back when he was a little kidThe truth of it was that even the road maps used to give him a kick when they gave them away free at the gas stationSo did the offhand way he had got his nicknameThe first day of high school, down in the gym for their first class, and him just jerking around with the basketball while the other kids were still all over the place getting into their sneakersFrom fifteen feet out he dropped in two hook shots–swish! swish!–just to get startedAnd then that easygoing way that Henry “Doc” Ward, the popular young phys ed teacher and wrestling coach fresh from Montclair State, laughingly called from his office doorway–called out to this lanky blond fourteen-year-old with the brilliant blue gaze and the easy, effortless style whom he’d never seen in his gym before–”Where’d you learn that, Swede?” Because the name differentiated Seymour Levov from Seymour Munzer and Seymour Wishnow, who were also on the class roll, it stuck all through gym his freshman year; then other teachers and coaches took it up, then kids in the school, and afterward, as long as Weequahic remained the old Jewish Weequahic and people there still cared about the past, Doc Ward was known as the guy who’d christened Swede LevovSimple as that, an old American nickname, proclaimed by a gym teacher, bequeathed in a gym, a name that made him mythic in a way that Seymour would never have done, mythic not only during his school years but to his schoolmates, in memory, for the rest of their daysHe carried it with him like an invisible passport, all the while wandering deeper and deeper into an American’s life, forthrightly chanel logo necklace evolving into a large, smooth, optimistic American such as his conspicuously raw forebears–including the obstinate father whose American claim was not inconsiderable–couldn’t have dreamed of as one of their own
The way his father talked to people, that got him too, the American way his father said to the guy at the pump, “Fill ‘er up, MacCheck the front end, will ya, Chief?” The excitement of their trips in the DeSotoThe tiny, musty tourist cabins they stopped at overnight while meandering up through the scenic back roads of New York State to see Niagara FallsThe trip to Washington when Jerry was a brat all the wayHis first liberty home from the marines, the pilgrimage to Hyde Park with the folks and Jerry to stand together as a family looking at FDR’s graveFresh from boot camp and there at Roosevelt’s grave, he felt that something meaningful was happening; hardened and richly tanned from training through the hottest months on a parade ground where the temperature rose some days to a hundred twenty degrees, he stood silent, proudly wearing his new summer uniform, the shirt starched, the khaki pants sleekly pocketless over the rear and perfectly pressed, the tie pulled taut, cap centered on his close-shaven head, black leather dress shoes spit-shined, agleam, and the belt–the belt that made him feel most like a marine, that tightly woven khaki fabric belt with the metal buckle–girding a waist that had seen him through some ten thousand sit-ups as a raw Parris Island recruitWho was she to sneer at all this, to reject all this, to hate all this and set out to destroy it? The war, winning the war–did she hate that too? The neighbors, out in the street, crying and hugging on V-J Day, blowing car horns and marching up and down front lawns loudly banging kitchen potsHe was still at Parris Island then, but his mother had described it to him in a three-page letterThe celebration party at the playground back of the school that night, everyone they hermes borse knew, family friends, school friends, the neighborhood butcher, the grocer, the pharmacist, the tailor, even the bookie from the candy store, all in ecstasy, long lines of staid middle-aged people madly mimicking Carmen Miranda and dancing the conga, one-two-three kick, one-two-three kick, until after two aVictory, victory, victory had come! No more death and war!
His last months of high school, he’d read the paper every night, following the marines across the PacificHe saw the photographs in Life–photographs that haunted his sleep–of the crumpled bodies of dead marines killed on Peleliu, an island in a chain called the PalausAt a place called Bloody Nose Ridge, Japs ferreted in old phosphate mines, who were themselves to be burned to a crisp by the flamethrowers, had cut down hundreds and hundreds of young marines, eighteen-year-olds, nineteen-year-olds, boys barely older than he wasHe had a map up in his room with pins sticking out of it, pins he had inserted to mark where the marines, closing in on Japan, had assaulted from the sea a tiny atoll or an island chain where the Japs, dug into coral fortresses, poured forth ferocious mortar and rifle fireOkinawa was invaded on April 1, 1945, Easter Sunday of his senior year and just two days after he’d hit a double and a home run in a losing game against West SideThe Sixth Marine Division overran Yontan, one of the two island air bases, within three hours of wading ashoreTook the Motobu Peninsula in thirteen daysJust off the Okinawa beach, two kamikaze pilots attacked the flagship carrier Bunker Hill on May 14–the day after the Swede went four for four against Irvington High, a single, a triple, and two doubles–plunging their planes, packed with bombs, into the flight deck jammed with American planes all gassed up to take off and laden with ammunitionThe blaze climbed a thousand feet into the sky, and in the explosive firestorm that raged for eight hours, four hundred sailors and aviators omega seamaster de ville die