Montevideo

A few hours before dinner, Dad walked into the restaurant and placed a bomb under the table. He armed it, set the timer and walked out. Our reservation was at six.

We met in traffic. I was walking home and Dad was in his rental car, halted at one of the many red lights. The couple groceries I held in a beige tote weren’t perishable so I went ahead and hopped in, tossed the bag in his back seat. We edged through the slow rush over the hill to our destination, Tijuana brass blowing from the satellite radio. We probably talked but I don’t remember what he said on the two miles it took. A large arrow made of light bulbs made the corner restaurant unmissable.

All the metered spots were gone so we turned left and drove up the hill. We saw a gap between Hondas along an incline in the neighborhood and snagged it. The sidewalk was steep and we had to lean back slightly on our stroll back down, our awkward steps turned us into figures on the worn-in Keep On Truckin’ t-shirt dad hand-me-downed into my drawer a decade before. We had different gaits but anybody who glanced at us from passing cars or front porches could guess we were father and son. Cheeks and arms and I don’t know.

Dad made it to town on business once or twice a year and we used most of his free time eating or driving to museums and eating. My brother lived on the other side of the freeway, and he was meeting us with his new girlfriend. The reason for the arrowed restaurant was that it was across the street from Careen’s yoga studio. Careen and I had become a certain kind of southern Californian in the years since our marriage and move, my sickness and her health. She was finishing a class just before six and could walk right over.

I gave my name to the host. He told us to pick anywhere and Dad chose the table in the back of the small front room, across from the bar. We sat in the seats along the wall, next to each other. From there we could watch out to the street for Careen and the new couple.

I put my left arm across Dad’s back and squeezed his far shoulder, the way I always did when I needed to affirm a reality.
I’m glad we’re all doing this, I said, beaming.
We ordered beers and my foot touched something. I didn’t look to see what it was.

All of a sudden everyone was there.

Careen slid in first and came right to us, she’d changed from her yoga clothes into a long dress and we stood to hug. In the middle of our familiar embraces my brother and his new girlfriend appeared. My brother did the introductions.

Hello, said the girlfriend to Careen and they hugged.
Hi, she said to Dad, I’ve heard so much about you.
Me too, Dad replied, smiling.
Hey, she said to me.
I’d met her before.

Careen and the girlfriend sat down across from Dad and me, and my brother hunched into the remaining seat at the head of the table. The server came back and the women ordered wine. Dad downed his beer and ordered wine as well. I nursed and my brother abstained.

This place is good, I love it, the girlfriend said.
It’s our first time, I said.
Careen nodded and said I always see it but I’ve never been.
What’s everybody eating? The girlfriend asked and we dove into our menus to decide. She had the opposite of my little brother’s reserved approach to family situations, and she kept conversations humming without a moment’s lull. They were well matched.
What are you eating? She asked him again.
You’ll find out, said my brother.

My brother didn’t like to answer direct questions. He let his eyes wander over people and things. The server stepped up and took our orders, all salads and all pastas. Olives.

What’s that ticking sound does anyone else hear that? The girlfriend asked and Dad pointed to a clock on the wall above the bar.

The quiz show hosted by the girlfriend continued.
What’s everyone reading?
We all took a minute to answer. Careen and Dad were reading a lot at once. My brother and I each said the one thing. The girlfriend was reading a European novel. She was excited about it. She moved on to the next question.

If you had to live in one place, anywhere in the world, for the rest of your life, where would it be?
Dad took a gulp of wine and a long, deep breath, an indication that he was going to answer this one first.
The south of France, he said, simple and clean.
We all nodded our approval.
That’s where our stuffed animal is from, Careen said, and then she said that she was happy where she was, right now.
I said I wanted to die in New York City.
The girlfriend changed the subject.
How’s your visit been so far? She asked Dad.
I want to hear about your other trip, I said. A small interception.
Oh yeah, Careen enthused.
Dad was just in South America, I explained.
Oh! The girlfriend said.
Right? I said, You posted a bunch of pictures and I was like Woah I guess he went to South America?
Show us the pictures, commanded the girlfriend.

Dad pulled out his big phone, protected by a daddish red case. He pulled up a picture of a round tower and rooftops, a city at sunset.
Montevideo, he said.

You really went? My brother said, doubting. Why?
Uruguay, the girlfriend said, helpful.
It’s somewhere I’d always wanted to go, Dad said and swiped to pictures of a stadium, pictures of the ocean rimming the town. Careen and the girlfriend pivoted in their seats to see the images.

Dad called them wildhairs, these excursions to random places, a drive out to some part of the California desert or a train trip down south from his house in central Virginia.
Montevideo was the farthest he’d gone on a whim, unannounced.

That’s the last picture, Dad said and held it close to the girlfriend’s face.
Huh, she said.
This is April Fools, right? My brother asked. He was a child of disbelief, his incredulous was harsh and I tried to tame it.
It’s May, I said.

Dad shook his head and scrolled back through the Uruguayan opulence. We were paying attention but in some ways we didn’t care, caught up in our own west coast milieu, and Dad sensed this. He put his phone away in his pants pocket and as he did he shifted his chair back to steal a glance under the table.

All the food arrived at once and crowded our dynamic.

For fifteen minutes we looked mostly down and complimented the pasta as we ate the pasta, our mouth sounds drowning out what we thought was the ticking of the wall clock.

The sunset beamed in through the west-facing windows and I almost put on my sunglasses. The signs across the street had a frustrating blur. I looked at Dad’s prescription glasses and wondered how long until I’d need those as well. Then it was night.

The new girlfriend sat back and pushed her plate an inch forward on the table, indicating doneness. She smiled at my brother and then at me and then asked Dad her final question.

So which of your sons is your favorite?

We young people laughed, but Dad went quiet and stared down at the dwindles of his lamb ragu. A loaded moment passed. Then he spoke.

Actually, I just found out I have another son.

Our smiles stayed as long as was reasonable, and then dropped. Our hushed flat mouths and darting eyes, checking each other for reactions, prompted Dad to continue.

That’s why I went to Montevideo. My other son… he’s there, Dad said. The burden he was attempting to lift off his shoulders weighed his voice down to something sad and slow.
Like, a kid? I snap-asked.
No, Dad explained, No no he’s older. He’s forty.
So, I said.
So this was before, you know, before you boys were born, with someone else at Alabama. In college and she moved away. She found me online.

Dad pulled out his phone again and held up a picture of a tan-skinned, near-bald man, smiling and sitting in the stadium from the picture we’d already seen.
His name is Alberto. He works for IBM. This is from his apartment, Dad said and showed the sunset view.

Looking at the same pictures in this new and alarming light made the panic rear up in my compromised body. A submerged creature finding the surface again and gasping for air.

I was in the bathroom before I remembered leaving the table.

The bathroom was small and clean and the lock was a bolt. I used it and sat on the closed toilet with my head between my legs for a moment until I realized I really had to pee. While I stood and peed my eyes tore around the room like I was following an insect and then landed on the Glade plug-in connected to a low wall outlet. It said Glade in big letters. Glade was a good word, maybe my favorite word. As the tendrils of clench filled my chest and I flushed I thought Glade Glade Glade. I pictured myself in a real glade, a lush forest rising around and above me, fresh air.

I went to wash my hands and ended up splashing my face like a forest animal would, or like a panicking boy in a movie climax would. The splashes were sound effects and the room tone became loud and I strained my ears to hear past it, to hear what was happening at the table, but the gurgle of the water entering the sink drain enveloped everything.

The bathroom mirror appeared and I looked into it and saw someone I recognized. This is only a commercial for a happening, the creature in the mirror said. It’s okay. Just embrace it.

I put my hands against the wall on either side of the mirror and leaned in so the creature and I were almost touching. I saw the Dad in his cheeks and arms and I don’t know. We both smiled.

Embrace all the weird feelings existence offers.

The ticking sound drew me back to the table and I had momentum when I sat down.

Okay okay okay, I said, not sure if I was saying it out loud.
It must have been out loud because Careen eyed me oddly as if to say Other people are speaking. Other people were speaking. Careen had just revealed something and I knew what it was. Her family had experienced similar shocks. Her grandfather had at least one other wife and child in a different state, a fact that remained hidden for many years. She told Dad about this foundational element of her own father’s life, this lineage of deceit in her veins.

My brother and his girlfriend were silent in the corner of my eye as Dad nodded and Careen continued. I admired her generous intervention, her deepening empathy. This is an additional way we’re connected, I thought. Now we both have these mysterious lightning scars in our family trees.

But with my family, Careen said to Dad, It was a lie. And you didn’t know.
Until now, Dad said.
Right, until now. It’s not like you were keeping some secret from them.

Why are you doing this, barked my brother.

He meant now, why are you doing this now. My head snapped to him and I saw the roil of his anger. This was supposed to be a normal night, him introducing this new girlfriend to his dad and sister-in-law. Now the placid had vanished. What is this going to be for them, I thought, is this going to be an amazing story for their future relationship, a cementing of their bond, or is this too intense and weird and she’ll be scared off forever? She asked the big joke question, Which of your sons is your favorite. She invited Alberto into the restaurant. My poor brother, I thought, the one here with us now, not my new old South American brother.

My empathy was all over the place but it went audibly for Dad.

I want to be here for him, I said, Whatever he needs.
I turned to Dad and almost touched him.
Just tell us what you need, I continued, Because I know that no matter what I’m going through or we’re going through you’re going through way way more.

My brother touched my arm, something he rarely did. He usually bristled away from the shoulder touches I put forward to show my love or confirm my reality. But his touch now was definitive and strong. This meant something.

He said Maybe try not talking so much.

Our server misjudged the vibe and asked if we were ready to see dessert menus. Dad’s normalcy kicked in and he shot us all glances of encouragement, which we all shut down in our own micro ways. Dad shook his head at the server, whipped out his wallet and handed over a card to pay the check. On instinct I said Thanks Dad.

The server retreated from the rough cloud of our dead conversation and Dad returned his wallet to his pocket and produced his phone again.
Did you see what else I posted? He said and turned the phone back to me. The Montevideo album again. All I saw this time was the date, April 1st. It had seemed more recent. Time flew by for us in the sun-drenched same of LA.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Dad said, scrolling to a picture of only text.
It was a short paragraph about the suspension of disbelief. In my exhausted brain I thought it must be from some museum. I half-read. Two words popped out at me before I looked away: poetic faith.

My brother’s new girlfriend came back to life. Wait, she said and took the phone.
Does Alberto have kids? Careen asked. The implied question: Are you a grandparent?
Dad hesitated. The girlfriend passed the digital Coleridge passage to my brother and he held the glow close to his face like an old man might.
Wait, he barked again, Is this real?

Yes, replied Dad, Everything except the trip and the son.

A full minute passed in the unspoken space after his declaration and the ticking sound got so loud it was all I could hear. Dad’s lie hit us each in turn like a row of dominos. None of this was true. But all of it was real.

We were standing to go when our server brought back the check. Dad quickly tipped and signed and said Who’s ready for ice cream.
No, my brother snapped and walked out. His girlfriend followed.
Dad looked at me and said How bout y’all?
Um, I said and looked to Careen.
A nightcap at the cottage? Dad near-pleaded as we abandoned the restaurant for the sidewalk.

He was staying in a small backhouse rental three blocks from our place. There were beers in the fridge. Careen and I never drank so much as when Dad was in town. We stood in the glow of the large arrow made of light bulbs and I said Sure, okay, we’ll come by.
You can grab your groceries from my car then too, Dad said, placated. Goodnight, he shouted at my brother.
My brother waved over his head, defiant and final as he hopped in his truck. The girlfriend stood outside the passenger side waving and said Nice to meet you.

Careen and I watched her join my brother in the truck and could see them very quiet through the windshield. The truck peeled out and Dad disappeared around the corner. We waited for a lull in traffic and jaywalked to where Careen had parked. I got in the driver’s seat and as I adjusted the mirrors and waited for Careen to enter I looked out the window at the restaurant.

The restaurant didn’t explode. It didn’t erupt with a blinding fire flash and spew bricks and tables into the night air. The large arrow made of light bulbs didn’t disconnect and fly across the street and smash a gaping hole in the yoga studio.

As Careen and I drove the two miles back home we decompressed, loudly, our voices overlapping and smacking into each other like waves in the kiddie pool of the car.
That wasn’t okay, right? I asked.
No it was fucked up, agreed Careen. I mean I told him about my family, she said and continued to say, He knew that, I mean I’ve told him before. And like, I get it he constructs this elaborate what, online April Fools joke and no one pays attention so it just keeps going in this weird way until-
Yeah he’s not a great listener, I said, interrupting, And he knows I have a panic disorder. Imagine if that was my first time meeting your dad, Careen said.
I know I know I feel so bad for them.
I feel so bad for her.
And now I’m kind of pissed it isn’t true, I said and continued to say, Like I was all processing it. I was really ready to have a secret brother. I was ready to meet Alberto. I don’t want another drink, Careen said.
Yeah no, I said.

We settled on that I would go and confront Dad alone. I’d walk over to his cottage to grab my groceries and refuse a nightcap and find out what was up with him. What made him think what he did was okay.

I’m definitely writing about this, I thought. My body felt like gore.

I jumped out of the car at the same spot where Dad had picked me up. Streetlights were sparse in our neighborhood and the sidewalk was barely visible under my feet. Sunset seemed like a month ago. I headed in the direction of Dad.

My brother texted what the fuck
I’m walking over to talk to him now, I type-replied, are you two okay
yeah we’re fine, its whatever. just stupid

I walked slow, the pasta still settling below my anxiety pains. On the two-block trudge I rehearsed what I’d say. I’d frame the confrontation as a role-reversal. I’d remind him of the times in my youth that he sat me down when I’d fucked up and I was embarrassed but it was necessary. Like when I rear-ended a parked car or OD’d at a party. Those times he told me calmly that something wasn’t okay. I’d tell him now it was my turn to be the dad. This approach could open him up. He might tell me he was having a hard time at work, that he was underperforming. He might tell me he needed a change. He might announce his retirement. I might tell him I love him.

The creature that I carried inside me took the form of my little brother and said Maybe try not talking so much. My fists tightened. What I really wanted to do was ask why life always had to be a true story.

A beam of white light hit me from above. A helicopter, or the moon. In the glare I couldn’t be sure if I was walking to or running from the cottage where Dad sat.

Under the table in the darkness of the closed restaurant, the bomb ticked away.