“Dad? Are we American?”
I look at William, almost twelve now, the same age I was when my parents sent me away. “Absolutely,” I say. “In fact you’re the first natural born American in my family. Do you know what that means?”
William gives me a “you’re kidding” look and says, “It means I can run for president.”
My youngest, Angela, lights up. “Can I be president?”
“Sure. Someday. If you like.”
“Can you?” My younger son, Matthew asks.
“Nope,” I reply.
“How come?” Matthew says. “That’s not fair.”
“Because he wasn’t born here, stupid.” William thumps his brother on the arm.
“He’s African!” Angela giggles.
I can’t help but smile.
“No he’s not. He’s Irish or British. Right Dad?” William says. “That’s why he didn’t go to high school.”
Matthew looks doubtful.
“I went to what’s called boarding school,” I say.
“What kind of school is that?”
“The kind that you live in.”
Matthew’s eyes widen. “All the time?”
“Yes, silly,” William snaps, cocking his fist.
I disarm him with a sharp “no” before he can unload on his brother again.
“You said add hot pepper,” my wife asks while writing notes in her Indian cook book, the one bought in Soho, London, or maybe at the Michaels just up the road.
You’d never know she’s from Rock Hill, South Carolina.
The phone rings. I grit my teeth. Ignore it. “And cut back the salt and ghee,” I say. “Otherwise that was an excellent curry.” Maybe tomorrow I’ll cook one of my specialties.
The phone rings again. I should have turned it off. Too late now. Damn.
“Who is it?” Wanda asks.
I glance at the caller I.D. “Florida.” I’ll let my dinner settle first. He’ll call back anyway. He always does.
Matthew cocks his head and looks at me very seriously. “Don’t you like Uncle Roger?”
The question cuts a swath of revulsion and sadness through me. Memories flash by. Dad lunging and smashing a fist into my brother’s face, the explosion of red and Dad snarling, “You’re in enough goddamned trouble as it is!”
Roger crying, pleading, “Send me back to boarding school.”
If we’d known then what we know now, would it have made any difference? Sometimes I think it might have been easier had my brother stayed dead the first time, but he didn’t.
I miss him every single day.
