"Happy birthday dear Ed-die.. ." then quickly, "happybirth-day to
you."
Eddie props himself against a pillow. His burns are bandaged. His
leg is in a long cast. There is a pair of crutches by the bed. He looks at
these faces and he is consumed by a desire to run away.
Joe clears his throat. "Well, hey, you look, pretty good," he says. The
others quickly agree. Good. Yes. Very good.
"Your mom got a cake," Marguerite whispers.
Eddie's mother steps forward, as if it's her turn. She presents the
cardboard box.
Eddie mumbles, "Thanks, Ma."
She looks around. "Now where should we put this?"
Mickey grabs a chair. Joe clears a small tabletop. Marguerite moves
Eddie's crutches. Only his father does not shuffle for the sake of
shuffling. He stands against the back wall, a jacket over his arm,
staring at Eddie s leg, encased in plaster from thigh to ankle.
Eddie catches his eye. His father looks down and runs his hand over
the windowsill. Eddie tightens every muscle in his body and attempts,
by sheer will, to force the tears back into their ducts.
ALL PARENTS DAMAGE their children. It cannot be helped. Youth,
like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents
smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged
little pieces, beyond repair.
The damage done by Eddie's father was, at the beginning, the damage
of neglect. As an infant, Eddie was rarely held by the man, and as a
child, he was mostly grabbed by the arm, less with love than with
annoyance. Eddie's mother handed out the tenderness; his father was
there for the discipline.
On Saturdays, Eddie's father took him to the pier. Eddie would leave
the apartment with visions of carousels and globs of cotton candy, but
after an hour or so, his father would find a familiar face and say, "Watch
the kid for me, will ya?" Until his father returned, usually late in the