How Could You

How could you?
How could you?
Say his name, out loud,
for everyone to see,
how could you?
All the fucking details, not kidding,
so ashamed, so embarrassed,
what the fuck,
how could you?

It’s always the woman who gets dragged through the village square, head shorn, spit upon, by her own shame, even 67 years after the fact.

Ooops,

I didn’t know, I wasn’t supposed to.

You betrayed me.

Ooops.

I’m sorry, but it’s a daughter’s prerogative. It’s what I was born to do. I am the curse you were looking for, also the blessing. Alas, you don’t get one without the other. Sorry.

Everything I know about love I learned when I first held you.

What?

Well, everything I know about betrayal I learned when you first held me.

***
I’ve lost my bearings. It’s been a while, a lot of writing in circles, which I will come back to, later, but for now, I need to get on with the damn Story.

How could you how could you how could you how could you how could you

Get born?

How could I not.

It turns out the best way to betray your birth mother is to fall in love with your birth father.

Robert Barry Fisher: (ok, even I feel a little sick saying his name) Gloucester fisherman, war hero, sea captain, doryman, entrepreneur, Harvard grad., professor, raconteur, liar, visionary, author, by all accounts, the Villain in this story, except for me.

We spent three days together driving around Cape Ann, through Gloucester, Bayview, Lanesville, Rockport, to the Essex Shipbuilding Museum where a boat that he said he’d sword-fished on was up on the rails. The Evelina M. Goulart. He told me stories, so many stories, about growing up in Gloucester during the Depression, about fishing, the war(s), his mother. Stories that made him cry. He wanted me to know him, he said. Down at the harbor, where fishing boats used to be tied three and four deep, boats named after wives, daughters and saints, he pointed out the ones he recognized, as if they were old friends. We drove past Roses Marine, the State Fish Pier, Rocky Neck, the Railways, out to the Fort, the “Italian section”. We stopped for lunch at Duhlie’s Dory, to say hi to his childhood pal Charlie Pamasano, the proprietor. I twirled back and forth on a stool, at the counter, sipping a free soda, as if I’d grown up there, at that counter, while the two old men reminisced. Charlie looked at me and said, Your fathah…. but words failed and he just patted Barry gruffly on the back, through tears, repeatedly, as if to say, I love this guy and you should, too.

We drove past Barry’s childhood home, near the cut bridge, across the street from his grandparents’ house, which is now home to Dr. Ahern’s Family Dental practice. Up “Portugee Hill” past Our Lady of Good Voyage and Destino’s Sandwich shop on Prospect, then past his great-grandparents’ house on Middle, you know, the old victorian, memorialized in an Edward Hopper painting. And the Fisher wing of the hospital? His family gave the money to have it built. And oh, yes, on the wall of city hall, the WPA mural, on the first floor, right next to the place where you pay your parking fines, is a portrait of Norman Fisher, a former city councilman, Barry’s father, your grandfather. We all have the same eyebrows. If I had been looking for a father I would never have thought to look for eyebrows. Thumbs of a mother, eyebrows of a father. Up to me to fill in the rest.

The Fishers were founding fathers of Gloucester, arriving in the 1600’s from England via Nova Scotia. There are none left on the “island”, except, well, if you wanted to count me. Which I didn’t. On the third day we stopped at the Oak Grove Cemetery where most of the family is buried. Joe and Dominique were with us. Barry went ahead and stood in front of the large granite stone with FISHER chiseled into it, his head bowed. I hung back with my family to give him some space. But then, without turning around, he motioned with an outstretched arm for me to come to his side. I hesitated, it felt awkward, too intimate, too emotional, I hardly knew him, but Joe pushed me forward, Go! Go to him! He wants you. Barry put his arm around my shoulders, and like a daughter, I stood by him, the bones of all those Fishers at our feet, while he wept.

***

He didn’t know that I’d been born, he said, and all he remembered about my birth mother was that she had velvet eyes and nice legs. In other words, not at all.

I didn’t even know that she was pregnant.

Which, according to her, was a lie. She said she’d told him and all he said was, You’re on your own, kid.

He said, she said. Who knows.

The last time he saw me I was on my way to having an abortion.

If I’d known she was pregnant, or if I had known about you, I would have done something, I don’t know what I would have done, but I would have done something.

If ever there was a man who needed to have had a daughter, he was one.

When we said goodbye, he kissed the top of my head, just like a father would.

Keep writing, he said.

He shared his feelings about our meeting with a mutual friend, Sal, who shared them with me. You can’t imagine how proud I am that she married a Gloucester Fisherman.

Proud?

Dear Emily,

It was so good and so satisfying to meet you and get to know you (Scary also!). I have always felt “easier” in men’s company although as a generalization I like women more. I think uppermost in my mind at the onset of the visit was the conditional feeling of “don’t you hurt this girl, you’ve probably done enough of that.” Then how do you get to know a thirty four year old daughter? The yolk is set, for Christsakes! But you took care of all that. You banished the cowardly lion and I think made this too short a time a treasure, I also began to become a little proud of me for being the father of such a decent lovely (slightly peripatetic) girl. The last affliction is the Fisher blood; not your fault.

I want to come back and see you again and soon. You mean much to me already.

Your father,

Barry

The Portuguese Church, Our Lady of Good Voyage, Edward Hopper..