26. Absinthe and Cliff, Part 4

Frustrated and unnerved by his father's drunken blustering, Cliff decided to sort out his misgivings, walking to the liquor store for a fresh bottle of Aquavit, drifting in a circuitous route and plotting along the way that he'd probably get the cheap stuff in the bargain bin at the corner Discount Liquors just to be slightly spiteful.

On his way, Cliff wandered through a cemetery and stopped occasionally to read the names. He read them out loud, then combined the last names of different markers to create composite characters in his mind. Some of the names, he thought, could be used for Hollywood actors. He looked at husbands and wives, tied together in granite for all eternity. He noticed the dates, tried to do the math to figure out how old people were when they died. Cliff wasn't good at it. He liked to see the age differences between husbands and wives, especially those over ten or twenty years. Something about that appealed to him. And he smiled ever so slightly when he saw that the husband had expired before the wife, which was almost always the case.

One gravestone said "Libby Blinderly, 1994-2014. Beloved daughter and really good soccer player." Cliff shook his head. "Lucky stiff," he sighed. The girl's high school graduation photo had been carved into the face of the gravestone; she was attractive, full of enthusiasm, ready to take on the world. Her eyes locked on to yours, vibrant and engaging, as though she'd like to stop and chat for a while, get to know you a little, make you feel special. One could just tell that she was going places.

Will never reach 21

As he continued, he tripped over an uneven piece of ground and almost toppled into an arborvitae, the tree of life. He returned to the offending obstruction and found a piece of limestone: "Knucklehead Knoll." It said nothing else. Scratching his balding head, Cliff wondered if the cemetery weren't having a bit of fun at his expense. Some dark humor.

Then he stopped in front of his mother's grave, knelt down, and, after a few moments, began to dig away tufts of grass that were growing over her foot stone. She had died the day after Kennedy's assassination, on November 23, 1963, and two days after the birth of Cliff. As Cliff's father's put it, "Two bad omens in two days--I need a drink." Cliff's middle name, Kenny, was an oblique tribute to Kennedy. Cliff's father didn't like Kennedy--then again, he didn't like any president--but he thought a fallen president should deserve at least a marginal remembrance.

Cliff stood back and surveyed the family plot. On the left end was his mother's grave, all dates filled, with the tribute on the foot stone "Will be missed" requested by Cliff's father. On the right end was Cliff's father's grave; his name, military status, and date of birth all filled in. Only one space left to complete. Between his parents' foot stones was another, smaller one, with Cliff's name on it. Cliff stood, gazing at it, his mind filled with a premature sense of loss. It was as though, he thought, his destiny had already been decided, that the arrangement of his parents, with him sandwiched in between, had in some ways foreclosed on any other life for him. He was established in place as a perpetual child, between two parents, one he never knew, one he never cared to know, for the rest of an eternity. Why couldn't I make this decision? he thought. Why is it so hard to imagine that I could rest in peace next to a loving wife and mother? What did they know that I don't know? Cliff's life had already been planned out for him. Couldn't he at least plan out his own death? 

Wiping off his knees, Cliff fought against remembering his father’s repeatedly cruel and drunken rant playing like a scratchy recording in his ears: “It’s your fault, you know.” He’d take a long swig on the Aquavit and continue, “She took one look at you and decided she’d rather be dead!” Cliff shook his head. Why had his father chosen to misremember history? The truth was, as bad as it was, that Cliff’s mother suffered from an aneurysm that broke open in her brain from the strain of giving birth--a silent, asymptomatic killer just waiting for the cruelest moment to strike. It was not Cliff’s fault. He was just too little under the circumstances.  

After heading along the streets into town and thoughts drifting elsewhere, Cliff smirked—almost vindictively. He sneered to himself, "Corporal, U.S. Army." The old man had served three years in the European Theater. And that's all the better he could do? Only two steps above Private First Class. What a loser. (At Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, Cliff was given the designation of Major, as in The Major of Night Security. Now that was a respectable rank.) Cliff thought for a moment--yes, he'd do it, he'd request What a loser be engraved on his father's foot stone. But he soon gave up the idea. What would people think? he wondered. They'd shake their heads and point at the bad son. They’d stop inviting him over for coffee. He was probably already drinking, they’d think, the hard stuff, like that no-good father of his. Apple doesn’t fall far, they'd say. Cliff continued to Discount Liquors. 

It was closed.