On more than one occasion, I dozed off while praying, stumbling into mumbles and forcing Liz to give me a shove, “Beasley, you’re talking in your sleep. Go to sleep…” Tonight Liz was working. I was alone and no one would hear me if I mumbled.
For years I had been on the fence regarding prayer. After stepping away for who knows how long my Catholic upbringing and my children’s attendance at Catholic school chipped away at my absence. Everyone in my family prayed. Everyone but me. My thoughts kept floating back to the question of whether I should start up again. Eventually I asked myself, ‘Why not? Why not give it a try again?’ If prayer works, I’m covered. If prayer’s useless, I lose nothing, perhaps receiving a couple of extra shoves from Liz. What’s the downside?
I wrestled with what to say. As a child I was told to give thanks. I have lots to be thankful for. Of course I’ll give thanks. Should I ask for something as well? Seems a bit presumptuous; like a child asking for a gift. I sifted through a series of books and articles investigating prayer.
Drawing from one of the books on prayer, I set my goals for prayer not on a particular outcome, but on seeking the best possible outcome. I returned to prayer.
To start, I cleared my mind and pushed out all thoughts. Usually I was lying in bed, eyes closed, in what I envisioned as complete blackness. This in itself was rather soothing. The feeling was like emptying the garbage bin, getting rid of the random rubbish fluttering about. I then went through something like a mental slide show of all my loved ones, picturing them in sequence, thinking warmly of them and praying for the best possible outcome for each. Sleep followed quickly.
For years I continued to pray. However as time spun its tale I saw no evidence of a recipient and witnessed no evidence of a prayer’s benefit. I saw evidence of random outcomes. My daughter is tested for a rare skin disease. Good outcome. I am tested for cancer. Good outcome. My mother is tested for cancer. Bad outcome. A dear friend’s marriage collapses. Bad outcome. The list goes on and on. Perhaps it was a case of the pattern being invisible to me. Perhaps there was no plan or a best outcome. Again, it was easy to default to “why not? What’s the down side?”
I persisted, and the plan, or lack thereof, landed me on today; a day of last acts, the day of my last prayer.
As this day shifted into night I returned home from work and slipped into kid duty, a duty combining logistics and love. After shaking off the stress of work I begin discharging my duties on behalf of Gee and DJ. The effort comes easy as I am in love with them. The logistics of dinner and bedtime and our preparation for school the next day are made pleasant through games and much on-the-fly story telling. We have fun as we move through twilight towards bedtime.
This Monday evening our on-the-fly story revolves around the creation of Doody Bear, a small red bear with a one foot tall French companion we call Jacquo. Doody is based on one of DJ’s favorite stuffed animals. Gee and DJ take turns adding onto a blossoming story as we guide Jacquo through a desire to join a circus and then towards an introduction to Doody. We roll with laughter as our story unwinds, lurching forward as the plan for Doody and Jacquo comes to life. There is no script as the three of us pile on the nonsensical along with the beautiful. We shepherd Doody Bear to his destiny and bind him to his soon-to-be lifelong friend, Jacquo. Their future is assured as a child’s version of friendship and love unfolds just before bedtime.
Doody and Jacquo safely bundled within a cloak of friendship, I tuck my children into bed and walk downstairs. Not being much of a cook I order dinner from Urban’s and within 20 minutes the food has arrived. I settle down in front of the TV, my large jalapeno BLT at my side.
The phone interrupts my plan as I wipe jalapeno sauce with my sleeve. “God damn it, who the fuck is this?” I pick up the phone as I mute the TV.
I listen in silence as mom and dad begin to waltz through their hellos and ask about the kids. On the other end of the phone, 215 miles away, they each hold a receiver, which allows them to tag-team on the call. The TV silently unwinds its plot in front of me as I miss the all important first two minutes of Law and Order. I’m annoyed.
Mom asks about the kids. “Uh, huh. Yup, they’re asleep now,” I respond. I’m acting like an asshole. My plan has been interrupted. Sensing my snippy mood they both carry the conversation, softening me up as the tag team progresses. Time is on their side and eventually they win me over. I begin to participate.
Dad launches into an explanation on how he drove from New Jersey to Massachusetts and back today to pick up an order of some sort of epoxy he wants street crews to use to seal manholes in New York tomorrow. His one day trip had taken him within 20 to 30 miles of my house but he was in such a rush to get back to the city he didn’t call to try and get together.
My dad is passionate about his responsibilities. He believes the city’s current administration takes security seriously. They periodically order manholes sealed as a precaution against the placement of bombs under the streets of NY. In the past welders were called in to weld shut hundreds of manhole covers. Tomorrow’s sealings sought to reduce the risk associated with a large UN function and a legal proceeding scheduled for later that week. Dad excitedly explains how this new epoxy is easy for the crews to apply and remove.
After some good natured teasing about what dad may wish to do with his epoxy, I shift the conversation towards our recent week together on Block Island. Mom and dad had pushed for a joint vacation resulting in our trip last month. Today mom chimes in about Gee and DJ and dad talks about digging for clams and building little surf canals with the kids. He’s a civil engineer and again he becomes animated.
Mom guides the conversation towards my time with dad. “And don’t forget, the two of you went to the gym before breakfast a couple of times, right.” Though she knew the answer, she continues, “and how was the gym there? Good?”
Dad’s passion for working out kicks in and he goes on and on about the gym’s facilities. In response I tease him, mimicking Rain Man, “Hey Beasley, very good gym, Brooklyn-made free weights. Very good. Clean facility. Work out at 7AM. Very good. Many reps. Very good.” Mom joins in the teasing and dad humphs about trying to come up with a response, eventually settling on simply, “In your hat, hump.’ Mom and I burst out laughing at his disjointed response. I imagine him shrugging on the other end of the phone as he quickly joins our laughter.
Mom darts in and out of the dialogue like an expert facilitator. In contrast, the easy give and take of a child parent conversation does not come naturally to dad. Unlike me, he didn’t have two parents caring for him in childhood or calling him every week in adulthood. His childhood was difficult. His emotional development was stunted as he endured a home life led by two alcoholic parents. Neither of his parents loved the other and both were prone to violent rages. Emotions were either unpleasant or nonexistent. Like the clams dad and my kids collected on Block Island he must be pried open.
As dad continues speaking about our time on Block Island I chide myself for being such an asshole at the beginning of our call. Even in my late thirties I can still embarrass myself by being a jerk to mom and dad. With dad continuing about Block Island I randomly latch onto a memory. Sometime in my teen years, I can’t recall when, I had let dad know he had embarrassed me at one of my hockey games. I can’t even recall what he said or did but I remember his response. “Embarrassed? You don’t know what embarrassed is like until you come home from school, step over your drunken mother in the hallway, find your little brother and sister and go and hide in a neighbor’s apartment before she wakes up and chases you with a belt. That’s embarrassment, Beasley.”
Now I am embarrassed at my earlier lack of contribution to this evening’s phone call. It would be our last and he was trying to reach me.
Lost in my thoughts I hear dad return the conversation to the epoxy.
“Hey, dad you’re a knucklehead,” I interrupt. “Why didn’t you send a messenger for the epoxy or stay at my place tonight? You could of gone home tomorrow morning. I’m stuffing a BLT in my face and chugging a Coke right now. You woulda loved it. Mom, what’s with this guy?”
“Got me, Bease,” she laughs, “Got me.”
“I guess I could of but I wanted to be in the field with the guys tomorrow morning. If I’d stayed up there I wouldn’t of been back till noon. Ya know, this stuff is going to save the guys a lot of time. They’re gonna love it.”
Running out of steam, he begins to conclude our conversation, “Well, a, we’ll let you go now and you can get back to doing whatever you were doing.”
“Just eating dinner and talking with you two. That’s it. Hey, I wasn’t really ready for a call tonight but thanks for calling. This was nice. I love you, mom. I love you dad.”
“We love you, Beasley,” said mom, hanging up her receiver.
Dad stammers a bit as he struggles towards a response. Perhaps his ability to receive with grace a simple emotional statement had slipped from his grasp as he stepped over his mother some 60 years ago.
Tonight, he goes with a standard refrain as he responds to the last words I will ever share with him.
“OK. Ah, good enough … see you on the big job.” We hang up and I enjoy the moment. I smile and think that’s good enough for me.
I look at the clock and realize I have to get ready for tomorrow. It’s Monday evening and I have to wake up early tomorrow to get Gee and DJ ready for school. I prep for our morning routine and, once finished, seek bed.
Under the protection of my covers I pray, thinking of Liz, Gee and DJ, my friends and mom and dad. I picture the pair of them with the kids at Block Island and on the phone earlier this evening chattering away. I picture mom feeling content as she hangs up the phone and dad nervously pulling at his lip after I say I love you. I pray for the best possible outcome.
It is my last prayer.
