Should things get scary, we realized, our rescue wouldn’t unfold the way
rescues did in the tidy after-school movies we watched on TV. It would not be
our dad who’d throw us over his shoulder with Herculean grace and carry us to
safety. If anyone, it would have to be Craig, who would eventually tower over
my father but was then still a narrow-shouldered, spindle-legged boy who seemed
to understand that any heroics on his part would require practice. Which is why
during our family fire drills, he started conjuring the worst-case scenarios,
ordering my dad to the floor, instructing him to lie there limp and heavy as a
sack, as if he’d passed out from smoke inhalation.
“Oh, good Lord,” Dad would say, shaking his head. “You’re really going to
do this?”
My father was not accustomed to being helpless. He lived his life in defiance
of that very prospect, assiduously looking after our car, paying the bills on time,
never discussing his advancing multiple sclerosis nor missing a day of work. To
the contrary, my father loved to be the rock for others. What he couldn’t do
physically, he substituted with emotional and intellectual guidance and support,
which is why he enjoyed his work as a precinct captain for the city’s Democratic
Party. He’d held the post for years, in part because loyal service to the party
machine was more or less expected of city employees. Even if he’d been half
forced into it, though, my dad loved the job, which baffled my mother given the
amount of time it demanded. He paid weekend visits to a nearby neighborhood
to check in on his constituents, often with me reluctantly in tow. We’d park the
car and walk along streets of modest bungalows, landing on a doorstep to find a
hunched-over widow or a big-bellied factory worker with a can of Michelob
peering through the screen door. Often, these people were delighted by the sight
of my father smiling broadly on their porch, propped up by his cane.
“Well, Fraser!” they’d say. “What a surprise. Get on in here.”
For me, this was never good news. It meant we were going inside. It meant
that my whole Saturday afternoon would now get sucked up as I got parked on a
musty sofa or with a 7UP at a kitchen table while my dad fielded feedback—
complaints, really—that he’d then pass on to the elected alderman who controlled
the ward. When somebody had problems with garbage pickup or snow plowing
or was irritated by a pothole, my dad was there to listen. His purpose was to help
people feel cared for by the Democrats—and to vote accordingly when elections
rolled around. To my dismay, he never rushed anyone along. Time, as far as my
father was concerned, was a gift you gave to other people. He clucked