The Late News

Slow to anger and patient beyond any reasonable expectation, the old dog lays by the fire and watches - with mild interest - the antics of the cat and the ball of yarn. Nana has not discovered the intrusion into her knitting basket just yet, having fallen half asleep in her chair by the window just as the late news comes on. My daddy sleeps on the sofa, the Sunday papers spread carelessly over his upper body, an unfinished crossword still held in one hand. The sudden and sharp ringing of the old black rotary telephone startles them both to wakefulness.

It's November and there's a chill in the air. The streetlights seem hazy against the night sky, they glow with soft vaporish light and almost seem to throw off sparks as well as a low, static-y hum. A police car has appeared on the street, it's red and blue lights illuminating the yard as it pulls into the driveway. No way this is good news, I hear my grandmother mutter under her breath as she makes her way to the front door, the old dog trailing behind her like a lean, low shadow. The cat stops its play and jumps to the window sill where it ducks behind the heavy drapes and perches, silently watching and waiting. The peaceful and sleepy late night has taken on a grim feel and there is an omen-like aura to it, a warning of something dark about to emerge.

My grandfather - a successful funeral director in nearby Cambridge and a man of some local prominence because of it - has been arrested and returned home in handcuffs. He is truculent, uncooperative, indignant, hostile, and very drunk, barely able to stand even as he pours a steady stream of abuse on the police officers. His links to the coroner and the city have afforded him the courtesy of being driven home rather than to jail but the officers are weary of making this particular journey for a vile, old drunk and they tell my grandmother so. Their language is tactful but their point is made and Nana, too furious to cry and too ashamed to mount a defense, stands aside as they bring him in. My daddy half walks and half carries him up the stairs while she looks on - and for the first time I get a glimpse of a bitter and desperately unhappy woman, trapped and beaten down. I begin to comprehend my daddy and all that damage that alcohol can do, all the secrets it can force you to keep.

The old dog returns to the fireplace and the cat slips down from the window sill and curls up beside him. The commotion from upstairs - shouted curses and crying, the sound of something falling heavily onto bare floor - eventually dies out and the house grows quiet. The late news finishes and is replaced by an old black and white movie, a 1940's Jimmy Cagney film noir that promises high drama and a cast of award winning actors in their finest roles. My grandmother and daddy sit at the breakfast table smoking and drinking coffee, trying to rationalize and find some meaning and understanding in the events of the night. Like father, like daughter, I hear Nana say as she flicks light switches off and locks the front door, I don't know how much more I can stand.

I hold my breath and hope not to be discovered. I don't want them to know how much I've witnessed and will remember or how much it's all beginning to make sense. It'll be better in the morning, my daddy says softly, we'll figure something out.

It was easier and less dangerous to believe Jimmy Cagney.