In 1978 I was a junior in high school. My brother was 23, had moved back home from college in Washington D.C., and had recently entered the New York City workforce. My sister was a junior in college and had transferred to CW Post from the University of Hartford where she had two years earlier met her soon to be husband. He graduated the previous semester and my parents wanted no part of him driving every weekend from New Jersey to visit their daughter. (And, as it would turn out, I wanted no part of him driving every weekend to our house on Long Island).
“Are you serious about him?”, my father asked.
There was a mumble. “Yes.”
My mother was staring at my sister. “Do you love him?”
The tears were welling up in her eyes. “Why do you need to know?”
My mother removed her glasses. “It matters. It matters.”
“Well, yes. I love him.”
My father inhaled. “Okay. You’re gonna transfer to a local school and if he wants to visit you, he can come here.”
That brief conversation and her tears about not returning to Hartford rendered the remainder of my high school life a disaster.
The nightmare begins
My brother and I were playing basketball on the driveway when our father walked outside. “I need to talk to you guys. Your sister will be seeing more of her boyfriend and she will now be commuting to school.”
“Okay,” my brother said, slapping the ball out of my hands. “Thanks for telling us.”
“Don’t you wanna know why I’m telling you?”
My brother stopped dribbling. “Just assumed you didn’t want us hearing it on the street.”
“Very funny wise guy. I’m telling you because it will affect both of you. He will be staying in Steve’s room, so when you guys come in, if you wanna place to sleep tonight, go down to the basement and bring up the cot and set it up in your room. I think your mother has sheets and a blanket.”
Talk about letting the air out of your basketball. He walked away before either of us could reply.
As the silence between us continued my brother tried spinning the ball on his index finger. “The basement’s paneled and there’s a TV. Why can he sleep there? Why is she transferring and why does that affect us?”
The game was over. We walked inside and attempted to defuse the bomb which had already been dropped with a large explosion.
We walked through the garage up the den steps into the kitchen meeting my mother in front of the refrigerator. “So, why can’t he sleep in the basement? Why does Steve get kicked out of his room? And why into my room?”
My father walked downstairs before she could answer. “He’s not sleeping in the basement. What’s the problem? I told you to get the cot. I don’t wanna discuss it. On weekends that he’s here and starting with tonight it will be most weekends, he needs a place to sleep. It’s all worked out. So, go peddle your bananas someplace else. Bring up the cot. If you don’t bring up the cot you have no place to sleep. It’s your choice.”
Still trying to figure out why I was born
And that was that. Don’t complain. Be thankful you have a place to sleep and hope they break up soon if you want your room back.
And then the kicker.
My father, noshing on a piece of Friday night’s leftover brisket, swallowed. “Oh, and we’re going out tonight with a few friends and Ellen and Jeff for dinner and a Broadway show. So, you guys are on your own.”
My mother, with a look of annoyance and burdon, turned to us. “Do you want me to make you something or can you go out?”
My father finished swallowing his second piece of brisket and reached for a napkin. “Excuse me. It’s just three o’clock and we’re leaving at four-thirty. They’re big boys, they’ll figure something out.”
With a look of relief, my mother nodded as she began walking up the stairs. “Okay, let me see where the sheets are and I know we must have an extra pillow somewhere.”
As my father hit the first step, an enormous amount of stupidity ravished my body. “Why are they going to Broadway with you?”
My mother on the landing with her head in the utility closet was reaching for a pillow. “Do not even think about making me feel guilty about these tickets. Neither of you wants to see a show. Couples are going and now that your sister is a couple, well, she qualifies. Now go help your brother with the cot.”
I could not understand why she was so angry with us. It would take me years to figure out that my sister was raised as an only child.
“Do you have any money?” my brother asked as both parents walked into their bedroom and slammed the door.
I looked anxious. It was more about losing my room then the cash I was about to spend.
We agreed he would buy dinner and the movie tickets while I bought the popcorn and soda, which cost more than the movie.
We arrived home at eleven-thirty and the house was dark. I made up the cot with the sheets and blanket left in my brother’s room and fell asleep at about twelve-fifteen watching my brother smoke a joint.
Within twenty minutes my brother and I were woken up. Thump! Thump! Thump!
We walked into our parent’s bedroom, opened the blinds, and looked through the window onto the driveway. Our parents, along with another couple and our sister were standing and talking. The boyfriend was talking and shooting layups into the basket attached to the front of the house. My brother looked at me, cursed, and went back to bed.
As I followed, I was about to shut the door when the banging subsided. Our parents, sister, and boyfriend walked in. We know they walked in because the talking was so loud it made us wish they were back outside and we were listening to the Thump! Thump! Thump! which seemed to be the lesser of the two evils.
My father left early the next morning to play golf. My brother and I awoke at nine-thirty. He poured a cup of coffee and as I was pouring my usual bowl of Cheerios and Life cereal together, he suggested we go outside and finish our game of basketball.
My mother was sipping her coffee while glancing at the front page of the Sunday New York Times. “Your game can wait until everyone is awake.”
Between bites of cereal I looked up. “Why? It didn’t seem to matter last night.”
“What are you talking about?”
My brother was buttering the bagel he had removed from the toaster oven. “Steve and I were sound asleep when you arrived. You not only were speaking at the top of your lungs, but there was a ball being thrown at the basket. I gather you know what that sounds like.”
“I do, and if we upset you last night, I apologize. Everyone was in such a good mood after stopping at the diner for dessert, well, I guess we forgot our manners. But Steven, you are not to go outside and shoot baskets until those two are fully awake. Look, this will take a while to get used to, but this is what we are living with now. I know your upset, but she said she loves him, and we want to make him feel comfortable.”
Between bites of his bagel my brother looked at our mother. “Great. At whose expense?”
Our sister woke up and heard the end of the conversation. “I told you they were going to make life miserable for him. This is all your fault.”
“No. It’s your father’s fault. He wanted you to transfer.”
“Well, they better get used to it,” she said before walking upstairs into my room, slamming the door in her wake.
My mother exhaled and poured a second cup of coffee. “Are you both happy?”
How much more?
And that’s how it was. It took a year to get up the nerve to ask if I could have my room back. My father said that I could, despite my sister’s complaints. For some reason, our mother apologized to both my brother and me.
Making matters more interesting, our father was biting his lip.“Now that they’re together, you can have your room back. We needed to make sure he was comfortable and if that was at your expense, well, go find another place to live.”
The day I took back my room was also the day they became engaged. Senior year for me included discussions of wedding flowers, seating arrangements, and who we must invite.
“I want to be a writer. Boston University has a great journalism school and I think I can get in.”
“Your sister’s getting married can’t this wait?”
And people wonder why I’m screwed up.