A Man Named Dave

Father. A retired fireman of San Francisco, Stephen is survived by …” the priest paused to read his notes. “… Stephen is survived by his beloved wife, Catherine, and his four children: Ronald, Stan, Russell, and Kevin. Let us pray.”
    As I bowed my head, I realized: That was my father’s entire eulogy. Ten, twenty words. A lifespan said in a single breath. My father wasn’t even worth a single flower, a prayer offering, anything. How empty, I thought, his entire life spoken within a blink of an eye. Then I recalled the words: his four children. “Oh, my God!” I swore to myself. “She did it again!”
    I fired a glance at Mother, who wiped her swollen red eyes with a clean white handkerchief. As always, she didn’t miss the opportunity to make herself the center of attention. Surrounded by her children for others to behold, the beloved Mrs Pelzer played the role of the grieving widow to the hilt.
    The priest broke my trance. “Peace be with you.”
    “And also with you,” the congregation again answered.
    “This mass is ended. Go in peace.”
    While standing, I maintained my hard stare at Mother, who lost her footing as she struggled to get up. I could hear a series of muffled gasps from the crowd. Per her dramatic display, all eyes turned to Mother. From behind me, I could hear people rushing toward the widow. I shook my head in disgust.
    “Dah-veed?” someone called. “Dah-veed, do you remember? You remember us?”
    I turned toward an elderly couple standing before me. It took me a moment to realize that they were my old next-door neighbors, Tony and Alice. “You remember us, yah?” Tony asked in broken English. I could remember him smoking his pipe while he pushed his wooden lawn mower across the grass when I was a preschooler. But when I was older, I also recalled that winter when Mother’s game was having me skate up and down the block, nonstop in near-freezing weather, wearing only a worn-out T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Once Tony stepped outside, bundled in a thick jacket, to pick up his evening paper. All we could do was nod at each other. Somehow we both understood. The last time I had seen him was days before I was rescued. Because of the closeness of the houses, you could walk up the stairs that led to the front door and easily see into the small kitchen window of the neighbor’s house, which was just a few feet away. Late in the afternoon, Mother drove her foot into my face as I laid sprawled on the kitchen floor. For a second Tony’s eyes had met mine. Blood was pouring from my mouth and nose. As always, he understood, but was unable to do anything. Times were different back then.
    “You be okay now. I see you in the army air corps. You be fine,” Tony said with pride as he held my shoulders. With his wife, Alice, standing beside him, he stated, “We proud of you. Everyone knows. You a goot boy. We all, de whole neighborhood, know about you and Ronald, joining the service. You goot boys. Always goot boys.”
    Out of embarrassment, all I could do was nod. “You come to see Tony and Alice when army gives you time to come home.”
    Before I could reply, a band of men in dark blue uniforms stepped forward. I swallowed in awe as the group of firemen from Father’s station stopped in front of me. For a moment I thought they had mistaken me for a member of Mother’s party. A man, who I assumed by his commanding presence was the captain of the station, took my hand and whispered into my ear, “Your father was a good man and one hell of a firefighter. Don’t you ever forget that, son.”
    “Yes, sir, I’ll remember, Captain,” I promised.
    “And do you remember your favorite uncle?” a voice from the past asked.
    Among the group Uncle Lee, my father’s longtime partner, emerged, giving me a hug. One by one the men from the station paid their respects, in the process seeming to form a protective shield from Mother.
    “Thanks, Lee,” I blurted.
    “For what?”
    “You know … for acknowledging me. I was there when … he passed away. But you guys shouldn’t be with me. I don’t want to do anything that may set her off,” I said, glancing over at Mother.
    “‘Acknowledge,’ my ass. Ain’t nothin’ can pry us away. He loved you boys. You, David, need to know that. Maybe he didn’t say it, and maybe he wasn’t there for ya, but he always thought about you kids. Things just … well, they didn’t work out. And if Ronald was here, I’d tell him the same thing. You boys need to know. No one’s perfect. Your father did things I