Thanks a lot for your interesting and thoughtful view of the piece. I think I’m about 50/50 for people who “get” the jacket and people who don’t.
Non-fiction / My Fashionable Plum Jacket
His blue eyes gleam with morphine. His mouth opens and closes, fish-like, the skeletal outline of his jaw working against thin, gruel-colored skin.
His chin quivers, and then quiets. The preternaturally bright eyes begin to droop; the lids flutter and close. I lean in, my hands clenching the silver bedrails.
“Dad!” I’m shouting, only a foot away from his bed. “You doing alright? You need anything?”
I look up at the clock –- the round, industrial variety -- perched just above the heavy gray fabric curtain that provides the hospital room its thin veneer of privacy. It is 8:46 and fifteen, sixteen seconds. Sunday evening.
“The boys wanted to come.” My words float out into the stale air and dissipate as I idly finger the edges of the fashionable plum jacket draped across my arm. I try to show Dad the pictures my sons have drawn for him, but he can’t see anything but the ghosts inside his head.
“I’ve got to go; I’ve got the last flight out,” I say out loud. But I am just speaking to myself.
I learned to appreciate rock-and-roll while listening to Dad’s car radio on drives to wherever Dad was living at the time, The Turtles and The Lovin’ Spoonful floating out of the dashboard speakers while my brother and I asked what we were going to do during “visitation” weekend. Sometimes we went over to visit my aunt and my four unruly cousins. Mostly we sat around Dad’s apartment or house or whatever accommodations he was living in at the time. We watched T.V. and argued and were bored until it was time to go back to mom’s.
The last place I remember visiting Dad was his small, rented property out in Fontana, an old wooden house sitting forlornly in the midst of chicken farms and other world-weary farm houses, rows of corn and wide dirt-lined roads spreading in all directions. Dad made us Kraft macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas. He had a cat he named Rat-A-Cat and a rooster he called “Bawk-Bawk.” He called my brother “Herbie Piccolo” and me “Baby Bunkins.” Sometimes he called us that.
Over the years Dad intermittently left the state in order to evade my mother’s child support demands. She made sure we got the details each time he stopped calling, stopped picking us up. I spent my teenage years taking care of the siblings born of my mother’s second marriage. Second husband was abusive and drank too much and eventually mom got rid of him, but not before my brother moved out and went to live with Dad. I was sad but also glad to see my brother go, relieved that he could escape the chaos and the violence. I must have missed him.
At the end of one of Dad’s silent disappearing acts he moved back to California just in time for my wedding. I was eighteen -- no longer eligible for child support. He called when my aunt got the wedding invitation. Why hadn’t he been told about this earlier? Wasn’t he invited? I responded pointedly that I didn’t know where he lived, ergo the lack of an extended invitation. My aunt got on the phone and said my dad should give me away. I handed the phone to my fiancé and left the room, words stuck in my chest like a congealed ball of super glue. When the wedding day arrived my great-grandfather gave me away, Dad watching from the pews.
He came and went over the years, long silent absences suddenly broken with a phone call or a visit and eventually, his move back to L.A. By the time he got sick I’d moved to San Jose. I saw him a few times over that last year, talked to him on the phone infrequently. Mostly the calls were benign, or about my impending divorce. I remember sitting in the tiny kitchen of my second-story “transition” apartment, looking out the window at the mild Northern California winter. I mentioned that I planned to go out for a walk. Dad’s voice came sternly across the telephone line: “You make sure you wear a sweater.” I remember this vignette quite clearly because Dad sounded like he might be worried about me.
Dad made the trek up to San Jose a few times, and each time I questioned him about his weight loss and pallor. Clearly he was sick and getting worse, but he stubbornly stuck to his incomplete answers, his vague references to inconclusive tests. Our last face-to-face was in my dingy apartment, at the center of the living room, my kids knocking about in the next room. We were talking about nothing in particular. “I made some arrangements with the VA,” my father said suddenly, with studied nonchalance. “Is cremation all right with you?” Never had there been a discussion of death or funerals. I looked hard at him and he looked back at me, unblinking. “Dad,” I said.
My nine-year-old ran through the room and Dad called him over, peeling a bloody Band-Aid off the inside crook of his elbow. He folded the plastic bandage in two and offered it to my son. “Would you throw this out for Grandpa?” I froze as my little boy reached for the bandage. I felt an internal surge of warning – don’t let him touch the Band-Aid. But I said nothing to my son as he took the folded bandage and ran to the trash can. If I had been a good mother, wouldn’t I have said, “Don’t touch that!”? And if I were a good daughter, wouldn’t I have said – well, that’s the thing. The protocol, as I knew from many years of practice, was silence. I knew at some primal level that something was terribly wrong, that something needed to be said, but I didn’t have the will to break our family’s sad tradition. I didn’t reason it through; my mind simply went blank as the moment passed in slow motion, my son running away with the bandage gripped in his little fingers as Dad’s cremation comment hung in the weighted air between us.
My aunt called me a few times toward the end. She and I hadn’t said much to each other since my wedding, but she needed someone to talk to now that most of the family were not on speaking terms, ever since the BIG DEAL, since the fisticuffs and name-calling, the last time Dad and his six siblings would ever be in the same room, the same space. Why wouldn’t Dad tell her, she wondered, why wouldn’t he tell the family, what was wrong with him? He was asking for money again. Always with the money. He had a job. Didn’t he know how hard it was for her to say no to his requests for cash, even though she was alone now? She had to take care of herself, he knew that, why did he keep asking her for money? “Just don’t give it to him, Edith,” was all I could think to respond. There was a lot more to say but it was all bottled up from years and years of practice.
When Dad stopped recognizing family members his doctor drew my aunts and uncles into a circle in the hospital hallway and invited them to play 20 questions. “I’d have to tell you what is wrong with your brother,” the doctor said kindly, “I’d have to tell you what he has, if you guessed it.” And then my aunt guessed it, and she called my mother, who had become the sympathetic ear my aunt was looking for, an unlikely friendship developing decades after my parents’ acrimonious divorce. My mother immediately called me. “Are you sitting down?” she crowed, triumphant, proud bearer of breaking news. “Mom,” I protested. So she told me. “I always knew it,” Mom said smugly. But nobody knew it. How could we not know it?
I wonder what Dad would think if he had lived to see Queer Eye for the Straight Guy or How to Look Good Naked. What would he make of the beloved gay television stars as they dole out advice on fashion and self-esteem? I never knew Dad as a gay man. He was the sixth of seven children of an Iowa farmer, from a good Lutheran family. When his older brother came out of the closet just a few years before Dad got sick, the close family I’d grown up with split apart along religious fault lines. It was Dad who told me the story of the fist fight and the name-calling. It was Dad who moved in with his older brother, took care of him when he went blind. By then my uncle was living alone in a trailer, a former banker fired by his employer and divorced from his wife because of his sexual orientation (at least that was the family lore). Dad watched and learned, keeping his secret to himself until he was beyond the reach of family reproach.
At the funeral my aunt told me how she had to clean out Dad’s stuff from my uncle’s trailer. “When I die,” she said, “I am not going to leave behind things that other people do not want to find.” I thought about the trailer and recalled my one visit there, right after Dad went into the hospital. My only memory was the telephone, sitting on the counter of the small kitchen, a handwritten speed dial list pasted on its right side. My name was the first one on the list, next to the number one. For some reason this made me cry.
It is Sunday evening. I watch Dad’s chest shudder under the thin blanket. He looks up briefly at the white ceiling and says, “It won’t be long now.” In his tone is challenge; it says, “I am in control.” His doctor told me that he could have lengthened Dad’s life, made him more comfortable, but that my father had refused all treatment. Dad’s fevered eyes are closing now. I don’t know if he knows I am here or if he knows who I am.
I lay my plum jacket carefully over the bed railing, appreciating for a moment the splash of life that it brings to the room. My gaze rolls from left to right, skimming the colorless bedclothes and coming to rest on his waxen face. There is a trace of white stubble on his cheeks. Dad has been balding since his teen years, but now only a few streaked gray hairs cling to the sides of his head. Otherwise he is remarkably smooth, bland, gender-neutral.
From all appearances, the human being in the bed is not the longed-for father, the spoiled little brother, the loathed ex-husband. He is no longer the jokester who bestows silly endearments that settle in a warm corner of the heart. Gone is the hypochondriac; the thoughtful listener; the deserter. Left behind is a pale, bald, shriveled and nondescript life form with unseeing eyes that shift restlessly beneath hooded lids.
I lift my jacket from its perch on the railing and tell him I’d better go. I lean down to lay a kiss on top of the bald alien head.
Then I straighten up and stare down at him.
I lean over the railing, snapping the jacket out in the stale air and letting it settle on the bedclothes just beneath Dad’s chin. His ashen complexion picks up the deep blush of the plum and the warm color seems to creep into his sallow face. I tuck the collar around the edges of the blanket and pat it for good measure. He looks good in plum, almost like himself again. My Dad.
Out on the street the chilled October air blows through me as I hurry through the hospital parking lot. I can’t help but notice the fall fashions, the colors dotted here on a coat, there on a skirt.
There’s a slight chill in the air today, almost like that long-ago October. If I had a plum jacket, would Dad admonish me to wear it? Would there be worry in his voice, a protective edge to it? If he were here now, would I wrap the jacket around him, putting the color back into his cheeks and assuring him that I am still his daughter and he is still my dad? I like to think that time heals all wounds, that the maturity I’ve gained would make a difference if I saw him today; that we could say things we couldn’t say then and I could do things I couldn’t do then.
I don’t know why I seldom think of him now, or why he is the only family member whose portrait does not adorn my office shelves. I‘ve never owned a plum jacket. I wonder if plum will be fashionable this fall, here in Southern California where the only sign of the change of the seasons is in the colors of the clothing on the people rushing by, the shades of fabric marking the passage of time.
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oknapp reviewed Version 3 -
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words congealing into a tight ball within my chest” I have a problem with the word “congealed” It reminds me of a poool of blood drying and thicking. Can you replace that word? How about, The words seem to stick in my throat? or stuck in my throat.”
My aunt’s voice marched into my ear,. I don’t care for the word “marched”, either. It reminds me of a group of ants headed toward a mole hill. Might you say, My aunts voice shrilled, spoke, or sounded in my ear?
Our last face to face “meeting” maybe? This added word makes it sound more mature.
suddenly Dad was saying,..” How about suddenly dad said, ... Was adds a certian passiveness to the sentence.
“Is cremation all right with you?” This could be misconstruded. It sounds like he is asking you if you want to be cremated. How about, I made some arrangements with the VA and i have decided to be cremated. Is this ok with you?”
But me: I never saw it coming. How could I not see it coming? Maybe because you said you never knew he was gay. I might take this part out.
But me, i never saw it coming. In retrospect, i wonder why i hadn’t seen it coming. add comma instead of colon.
Otherwise he is remarkably smooth, bland, gender-neutral. If you say this you will have to give a better description of how he looks gender nuetral. I think this would sound better without this line.
This is very important to the story. Who does the plum jacket belong too, you or your dad. I need to know this because if it were his, much could be made out of the color. The jacket with its deep plum color could be symbolistic to your fathers love of life, the secret he carries. Plum is a very vivd color and in a way very feminine. The color can represent so much here. I have read this before and loved it then as much as now. Your juxtaposition of the jacket and your fathers sickness is so profound. Very good work. One of my favorites. Sandi
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FrakKevin reviewed Version 3 -
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This was pretty deep. I like how you didnt actually point out why he left in the first place…could’ve been more than him just being gay. I got to know what type of family you have in less than 5 pages. I didnt even notice you began at the end. Grammar wise I didnt spot anything. I didnt actually get the ending with the jacket…but overall I enjoyed it.
martykate reviewed Version 3 -
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“I‘ve never owned a plum jacket. Perhaps plum will be fashionable this fall, here in Southern California where the only sign of the change of the seasons is in the colors of the clothing on the people rushing by, the shades of fabric marking the passage of time.”
Though this is a nicely written sentence, I’d leave it out. I’d use the sentence before that, maybe re-work it a little and conclude with that. I think it ends your piece more effectively.
Very good description of the drama that a deserted child feels. And the scene with the Aunt demanding that your father give you away at your wedding was also good.
Very nice transitions going to and from your father lying in the hospital bed and back to your narrative. Very brutally honest writing. The plum jacket was an interesting touch and I’d have liked to have seen you deal with it differently at the end.
Matthewtuckey reviewed Version 3 -
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I’m surprised your great grandfather was still alive when you were old enough to get married. How old was he?
Good grammar, excellent descriptions.
I don’t get “I‘ve never owned a plum jacket”- Do you mean until recently? Is there something I’m missing?
“Still my dad?”- why question mark?
Quite a heartfelt piece. Good work.
MisterP reviewed Version 2 -
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“Sometimes he called us that.” – this seems at odds with the sentence that precedes it. Is there a reason for this?
It is all too easy when writing about a personal moment in your life to allow yourself to get bogged down in the highly emotive nature of the moment that is being written about. This results is a torrent of self indulgent rhetoric.
What you have managed to convey includes all the threads of emotions that all the members of your family were experiencing and had experienced towards your father. Of your own feelings all I got was your sense of respect and love for the man.
I think you have produced a wonderfully honest piece. I hope you manage to take it further than this website.
wordman reviewed Version 2 -
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Nice handling of difficult subject matter. I want to know more. Here are a few of my thoughts:
P6: You use “living at the time” twice.
P7: Sometimes he called us that. -> redundant
P8: stopped calling, stopped picking -> insert “or”
P8: I was sad… must have missed him. -> rework for clarity.
P9: “congealed ball of super glue” seems like a oddly forced analogy
P9: “Dad watched from the pews.” should be its own definitive sentence.
“the BIG DEAL, since the fisticuffs and name-calling” -> I want to hear more about this
I get that nobody talked about anything openly in you family, but was the big disease with the little name never uttered? You infer with his failing health, band aid, and gay TV shows, but surely you can say it in this piece.
In his tone is challenge; it says, “I am in control.” -> How about: His tone says, “I am in control”
“From all appearances…”: I love the way this paragraph sums up his life.
When you say, “I’ve never owned a plum jacket” are you saying you imagined the vivid hospital scenes and they never happened? I’m confused.
Overall, I love the piece, just needs some touch ups. Memoir themes are often more universal than they seem when we write them. I don’t have your direct experience, but I recently lost my father to Alzheimer’s. I found that much of what you said here resonated strongly and reminded me of him. I look forward to reading more.
max reviewed Version 2 -
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I have to make this admission--I loathe non-fiction memoirs. Sincerely,...loathe them. With that said, I found this one to be riveting, genuine, non-preachy, non-judgmental, and incredibly well written. There was no self pity in the authors tone--only a powerful descriptive narrative that didn’t beg the audience for pity, but brought a quiet grace to a tale that in the wrong hands could have been the reason why personal narratives are so relentlessly unreadable. Excellent work.
JaneLloyd reviewed Version 2 -
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Avoid repetition when you can. In the first paragraph you start almost every sentence with “His”. Repetition like that is noticeable and when you have a paragraph that’s as emotion packed as that one is aiming at, you don’t want the reader distracted by little things like “His”
He called my brother “Herbie Piccolo” and me “Baby Bunkins.” Sometimes he called us that.
This sentence is a little awkward, I would suggest merging them together to keep up with the flow.
Clearly he was sick and getting worse,
Clearly,
I think this is a beautiful and poignant piece. You capture so many aspects in such a short story, from the hate/love relationship of a child and the parent who wasn’t there to a family dealing with a “scandal”. My only suggestion would be to up the importance of the jacket a little bit, I felt disconnected to that and wasn’t really sure what you really wanted to do with it. Other than that, this is beautiful and would surely make anyone cry. You really capture their entire lives in the span of this one moment. Wonderful!
TnD reviewed Version 2 -
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-Amazing first paragraph. Grabs the readers by the eyebrows and pulls them in.
-“Sometimes he” => This sentence is unclear. Last sentence, you said that he did call you those names. Now, you’re saying it was sometimes?
-years[,] Dad => This sentence also gives me the feeling that it’s kind of rushed. As though you just glossed over your mother’s involvement in this situation. If that’s the case, then don’t mention her. I think that if you went from ‘demands’ to the next paragraph, you’d be fine.
-sick[,] I’d
-clearly[,] because => This paragraph paints a good picture of how your father was over the years.
-BIG DEAL => This was kind of glossed over in the paragraph. I think that it may want to be discussed more, if you’re going to give it that much emphasis. (Edit : Read about it later on. Good job with keeping it in the reader’s mind)
-say[,] but
-members[,] his
-funeral[,] my => Also, in this sentence, you’re saying that your father is dead. Yet, in the next paragraph, he’s alive again?
-street[,] the
-An interesting premise for your story. I appreciate the way you painted your father’s life and subsequent death, all related to a fictional plum jacket. Very well done. There’s just a few issues, which I pointed out above. Overall, I think it’s a good start.
Thanks for sharing and good luck.
DCAllen reviewed Version 2 -
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After just the first four or five sentences I can tell you have talent.
gruel-colored skin (excellent)
Your name being the first on the speed-dial list . . . (very good detail)
The paragraph beginning “From all appearances . . .” is full of poignant observations of a life coming to an end. Very good. And wrapping him in the plum jacket brought tears.
The end is a bit of a twist in that you say that you’ve never owned a plum jacket, which throws an odd light on the story.
Proofreading notes:
to mom’s = to Mom’s
farm houses = farmhouses
What is a dirt-lined road? “Lined” with dirt seems to imply “framed” with dirt. I think you mean dirt roads.
mom got rid of him = Mom (upper case when used in place of a name)
If I had been . . . Here you use the third conditional (If I had been) and then the second conditional (If I were) for the same experience. You should use one or the other in this situation.
I don’t quite get the twenty-questions moment. A bit more of dialogue might clarify this.
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