My grandmother for many years would only refer to my grandfather in the following terms:
Him
Big Shot
Big Spender
Schister
You know who
I found out a few weeks after moving in that he had left her. Apparently he had gotten in touch with a lawyer buddy that my grandmother called “Shitvitski” and decided to get a divorce. I find it strange that he was the one to initiate the separation. After all his cheating, drinking and abuse he was the one that left her. It makes me wonder about what had happened between then that was so hard for him to handle.
I was reading one of the many tabloids my grandmother had laying around the house I think the title was “Cheaters and Beaters” or something salacious like that. She walked in the room and said to me “You know I had a talk with him once about other women. When he was still married not when he was single.” I looked up. Despite the elusive language I knew exactly who she was talking about.
I said “Really?”
“Yes sir. I hate those men but I think the women are just as bad. They think they are so much better than the wife. They like being better than people. That is why women do that you know?”
I eyed her warily. She got in moods sometimes where it was hard to tell what kind of response she wanted and with me it was usually ninety percent sarcastic. She didn't always appreciate or understand that. Especially in conversations like this. So I looked at her intently. Trying to figure out what she wanted me to say. For her my grandfather has always been a sore subject.
Though I had noticed that shortly after I moved in she had started to refer to him by name very frequently. I couldn't help but notice that every once in a while it was even tender. One night I was looking through her jewelry and found a ring with gray pearls in it. I looked at it and asked her “Hey is this one of those Sarah Covington pieces?” She looked at the ring for a second with a mixture of longing and sadness and then took it in her hand.
“No.” was all she said.
“Oh. Well where'd you get it? It's pretty.” I replied.
“Frank gave it to me. It's real you know.” She said handing it back to me so I could put it away. I looked at the ring in my hand. I had never once seen a wedding ring or band mixed in with her jewelry or stowed away in a box somewhere. I had never heard her admit that she had kept any relic of affection from him. Nothing except for that gray pearl ring slipped in amongst costume jewelry. Inconspicuous along side the rest of the fake and gaudy clutter that filled her whole house.
I knew as I returned the ring to its rightful place that she loved him despite everything. I knew it and it cut through me like a hot knife because I also knew how much he had hurt her. How much she resented him for shucking away the life they had. How much she resented him for not giving her a penny in their divorce. For making her raise her two sons on her own even when they were married. For convincing her that he had loved her in return. For never apologizing. For gaining her trust only to throw it in her face. For leaving her when she was no longer as young, gorgeous and vibrant as she had been.
He had hurt her and yet she loved him. She loved him and that is what made her so bitter everyday. That is what made her think her life had been a mistake and that she had made all the wrong choices. She still had the embarrassment of loving him. Despite all the good that ever came out of their union she still had that hurt and shame to bear to the world.
Part of the reason my father and his mother don't have a great relationship is because of that pain. He is half of his father after all. Every word of criticism, every time she refused to say his name was a shot at a piece of the man that she had with him. Even though my father became a million times the man my grandfather ever was.
My father is devoted to my mother and has been for many years. He gave up drinking and refuses to touch addictive substances. He would never leave or abandon his children and has supported all of us past that point of requirement. He has never denied us anything we have asked of him and he could give to us, though he often made us earn it. He has done everything in his power to give us better lives than he ever could have dreamed of having as a child.
Despite all of that I know that my grandmother sees in him his father. She both loves and hates that piece of who he is. I know this because she feels the same way about me and my brothers. I know because what she says about him is so contradictory sometimes that it seems like you are talking to two different people. A person who loathes their mistakes and a person who refuses to love anyone else.
Him
Big Shot
Big Spender
Schister
You know who
I found out a few weeks after moving in that he had left her. Apparently he had gotten in touch with a lawyer buddy that my grandmother called “Shitvitski” and decided to get a divorce. I find it strange that he was the one to initiate the separation. After all his cheating, drinking and abuse he was the one that left her. It makes me wonder about what had happened between then that was so hard for him to handle.
I was reading one of the many tabloids my grandmother had laying around the house I think the title was “Cheaters and Beaters” or something salacious like that. She walked in the room and said to me “You know I had a talk with him once about other women. When he was still married not when he was single.” I looked up. Despite the elusive language I knew exactly who she was talking about.
I said “Really?”
“Yes sir. I hate those men but I think the women are just as bad. They think they are so much better than the wife. They like being better than people. That is why women do that you know?”
I eyed her warily. She got in moods sometimes where it was hard to tell what kind of response she wanted and with me it was usually ninety percent sarcastic. She didn't always appreciate or understand that. Especially in conversations like this. So I looked at her intently. Trying to figure out what she wanted me to say. For her my grandfather has always been a sore subject.
Though I had noticed that shortly after I moved in she had started to refer to him by name very frequently. I couldn't help but notice that every once in a while it was even tender. One night I was looking through her jewelry and found a ring with gray pearls in it. I looked at it and asked her “Hey is this one of those Sarah Covington pieces?” She looked at the ring for a second with a mixture of longing and sadness and then took it in her hand.
“No.” was all she said.
“Oh. Well where'd you get it? It's pretty.” I replied.
“Frank gave it to me. It's real you know.” She said handing it back to me so I could put it away. I looked at the ring in my hand. I had never once seen a wedding ring or band mixed in with her jewelry or stowed away in a box somewhere. I had never heard her admit that she had kept any relic of affection from him. Nothing except for that gray pearl ring slipped in amongst costume jewelry. Inconspicuous along side the rest of the fake and gaudy clutter that filled her whole house.
I knew as I returned the ring to its rightful place that she loved him despite everything. I knew it and it cut through me like a hot knife because I also knew how much he had hurt her. How much she resented him for shucking away the life they had. How much she resented him for not giving her a penny in their divorce. For making her raise her two sons on her own even when they were married. For convincing her that he had loved her in return. For never apologizing. For gaining her trust only to throw it in her face. For leaving her when she was no longer as young, gorgeous and vibrant as she had been.
He had hurt her and yet she loved him. She loved him and that is what made her so bitter everyday. That is what made her think her life had been a mistake and that she had made all the wrong choices. She still had the embarrassment of loving him. Despite all the good that ever came out of their union she still had that hurt and shame to bear to the world.
Part of the reason my father and his mother don't have a great relationship is because of that pain. He is half of his father after all. Every word of criticism, every time she refused to say his name was a shot at a piece of the man that she had with him. Even though my father became a million times the man my grandfather ever was.
My father is devoted to my mother and has been for many years. He gave up drinking and refuses to touch addictive substances. He would never leave or abandon his children and has supported all of us past that point of requirement. He has never denied us anything we have asked of him and he could give to us, though he often made us earn it. He has done everything in his power to give us better lives than he ever could have dreamed of having as a child.
Despite all of that I know that my grandmother sees in him his father. She both loves and hates that piece of who he is. I know this because she feels the same way about me and my brothers. I know because what she says about him is so contradictory sometimes that it seems like you are talking to two different people. A person who loathes their mistakes and a person who refuses to love anyone else.
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