The first thought is that he beat his wife. It’s such a big thought and it carries so much weight that, like a fat lady in the doorway, it’s hard to get past. The second thought is of a young man, late twenties, standing in the doorway of the room where I sleep. I am supposed to be asleep but can’t so I wave from the playpen as he passes by and I call out to him.
“Hey, Uncle Pete!” He stops and looks in at me. I am four maybe five, too old to be in a playpen. But it is where I sleep when I stay with them and I stay with them because my mother is having another baby and they have taken me in to help her out. I like staying with them.
“What?” he asks. There is a shortness in his voice that tells me I am supposed to be asleep.
“Guess what, Uncle Pete,” I say with wide-eyed excitement. I want to engage him if even for a minute; I want him to save me from the boredom of the quiet dark room and the rickety playpen.
“What?” he repeats. I wait a bit and hold him in my gaze. He stares back with intrigue and impatience as I smile my best smile.
“That’s what!” I conclude with arms up like I’ve just successfully stuck my landing. He smiles and shakes his head a bit ashamed and amused at being got by a kid. That’s what he calls me: kid.
“All right kid, go to sleep.” It is this second thought that makes my heart soften with sadness. He is leaving town today, off to meet his maker. His daughters and sons are making their way home to pay their last respects. It’s hard to imagine respecting a father who acted the way he did. I never saw that side of him in action. Only heard the stories and watched as our grandfather abruptly left our table one night at dinner because “Pete was at it again and this time he little Pete got in the mix, and he was tossed against the wall.” It was hard to digest anything after hearing that news. I sat at our dinner table with the rest of my family and watched the food go cold.
I like to think of Uncle Pete as the man who stood in the hallway and shook his head with a smile. I’d like to think that when I pass on, that all my trespasses will slip from the memories of the ones I leave behind and that my best self will be the one that leaves the strongest mark.
I’d like to think that all my fat ladies will be escorted out by forgiveness.
