S

approvingly at pictures of cute grandkids, patiently endured gossip and long
litanies of health woes, and nodded knowingly at stories about how money was
tight. He hugged the old ladies as we finally left their houses, assuring them he’d
do his best to be useful—to get the fixable issues fixed.

My dad had faith in his own utility. It was a point of pride. Which is why at
home during our fire drills he had little interest in being a passive prop, even in a
pretend crisis. He had no intention, under any circumstance, of being a liability—
of winding up the unconscious guy on the floor. But still, some part of him
seemed to understand that this mattered to us—to Craig in particular. When we
asked him to lie down, he’d humor us, dropping first to his knees, then to his
butt, then spreading himself out obligingly, faceup on the living room carpet.
He’d exchange glances with my mother, who found it all a little funny, as if to
say, These damn kids.

With a sigh, he’d close his eyes, waiting to feel Craig’s hands hook
themselves solidly beneath his shoulders to start the rescue operation. My mother
and I would then watch as, with no small amount of effort and a good deal of
awkwardness, my brother managed to drag 170 or so pounds of paternal
deadweight backward through the imaginary inferno that raged in his
preadolescent mind, hauling my father across the floor, rounding the couch, and
finally making it to the stairwell.

From here, Craig figured he could probably slide my dad’s body down the
stairs and out the side door to safety. My father always refused to let him practice
this part, saying gently, “That’s enough now,” and insisting on getting back to his
feet before Craig could try to lug him down the stairs. But between the small
man and the grown man, the point had been made. None of this would be easy
or comfortable if it came to it, and there were, of course, no guarantees that any
of us would survive. But if the very worst happened, we at least had a plan.

lowly, I was becoming more outward and social, more willing to open
myself up to the messes of the wider world. My natural resistance to chaos and
spontaneity had been worn down somewhat through all the hours I’d spent
trailing my father through his precinct visits, plus all the other weekend outings
we made, dropping in on our dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins, sitting in thick
clouds of barbecue smoke in someone’s backyard or running around with
neighborhood kids in a neighborhood that wasn’t ours.