Dandy, III

"Dandy, you are going to worry a hole into that sweater if you don't leave it alone," Grandma said.

"Dandy, no one is going to want to eat the food you prepare when they see your nails bitten to the quick," Grandma said.

"Dandy, do not make that face. What are you going to do if your face freezes that way?" Grandma said.

"Dandy, you are going to go blind if you do not eat those carrots. They are good for your eyesight," Grandma said.

"Dandy, where are your house shoes? You will catch your death if you do not keep your feet warm," Grandma said.

These were the first five commandments of Grandma. She was the worst. I mean, I knew she meant well, but it was always, "Dandy this," and "Dandy that." I told her to quit calling me Dandy.

"Dandy, why would you want to be called anything other than your name? How will you know who you are?" Grandma said. I think that was her sixth commandment. There were definitely ten, probably more like 10,000.

One time I tried to advocate for myself, "Grandma, no one is going to take a man named 'Dandy' seriously in the world. Can't you just call me 'Dan?'"

Grandma became very quiet, appraising me with sorrow and a growing ire. "Your granddaddy was named Dandy, and he was the finest man I ever knew. When he spoke, people listened to him, and they all called him by his name. Dandy meant respect in these parts. Do not disrespect your granddaddy by disrespecting his name. You should be honored to share something so precious with someone so revered."

She put me in my place, and I silently seethed every time she issued another commandment. At my school, everyone just called me Dan. The first day of school was always the worst when the teachers called roll. One teacher actually had to stop herself from laughing when she reached my name on her roster. "Is, uh, there a Dandy here?" she asked. God. I heard all the snickers rippling across the classroom.

"Ma'am, it's Dan, and I'm here," I answered. Once I reached ninth grade, the kids all knew who I was, and I'd had a growth spurt over the summer. No one was going to laugh, at least not out loud, when, invariably, some teacher was going to ask if Dandy was present. By tenth grade, I was just Dan. They all knew who I was. I played football, basketball, baseball, dated a cheerleader, a homecoming princess, a drum majorette. If anyone even whispered, "Dandy," they were on the receiving end of a withering glare and the potential of violence in the boys' bathroom between classes or in the locker room in gym.

"Dandy, you need to escort a girl to her classes and carry her books, or she is going to think you are an uncaring neanderthal," Grandma said. This was actually one of the commandments I found of value. I always carried my girlfriends' books. I didn't keep girlfriends for long, but every girl I dated knew I was a gentleman who delivered her and her books to each class during the course of our relationship.

I stayed out of trouble, mainly because Grandma would read me the riot act, and she would add to the list of commandments and find even more ways that I was lacking. One night, I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her with what must have been a vacant look on my face. "Dandy," she said. I remained placid. "Dandy. I am talking to you," she continued. She snapped her fingers in my face, drawing my glance directly to her. "Dandy, we need to talk about your grades. How are you supposed to make something of your life if you bring home something less than an A? Your father never brought home anything less than an A, and he did very well for himself. Your granddaddy never brought home anything less than an A, and he became the mayor of this town. How are you going to make your mark, Dandy?"

In that moment, I pictured myself reaching forward and wrapping my hands around her neck and squeezing and squeezing until her face turned purple, her eyes bulging in their sockets. Then I pictured us waltzing, because she made me learn to waltz, toward the kitchen sink where it was filled with warm water and suds for washing the evening pots, pans, and dishes. And I would gently twirl Grandma in my arms, letting go of her neck momentarily to execute the move, regaining my purchase, and plunging her into the water and holding her there until she stopped moving. In my mind, I would think how the water was warm, comforting, soothing. But then Grandma was snapping her fingers in my face again, pulling me away from my peaceful thoughts.

"Dandy, it's time to think about the future. You have to be the best. If you're not the best, you may as well be the worst because no one gets awards for being second best." I wanted to refute her and say something about getting a second place ribbon in the art show at school or the science fair or in track, but it was splitting hairs, and I knew it. Also, I couldn't sit through the idea that one commandment could possibly spawn another. Grandma accompanied me to my athletic awards dinners. She was always the only woman in the room wearing a corsage.

"Dandy, no woman wants to be with a man who does not respect her enough to present her with flowers that can be shown off to everyone else. Any woman who would settle for less is not worth your time. Do not choose a floozy. Your father chose a few floozies, and it took me a while to get used to your mother because she did not command respect. Do not repeat that mistake," Grandma said.

I didn't like it when she spoke harsh words about my mother. My mother was a small, thin woman, with the fine birdlike bone structure of a sparrow. She wore her thick brunette hair in a low chignon bun that set off her cheekbones and her deep-set brown doe-eyes. She was a ballet dancer when she met my father, and she gave it all up to be his wife. She traveled with him when he traveled for work. She threw dinner parties. She hired people to maintain the house to his exacting specifications. She was more like an employee than a wife, and I was more like an accessory than a son to him. I could never understand why he would insist on naming me Dandy. He hated it, too. Why on earth would he perpetuate the misery?

I remember the day my mother told my father that she wanted to teach ballet and had found a studio and situation in town where they could use her. I was ten at the time. My father, Dandy, Jr., didn't see me sitting behind the sofa, quietly looking through the latest issue of National Geographic Kids.

"Alicia, no man wants to be with a woman whose attention isn't 100% focused on him. How can a man succeed without his wife's focus?" he bellowed. This was one of Dad's commandments.

"Dan, I have spare time," she said meekly.

"You should be spending that time thinking of how to make me more successful at home and at work," he said.

"I do, Dan. I really do, but I think I'm tapped out and need something else to do," she said, a note of begging in her voice.

"Alicia, what have I said about begging? No man wants to be with a woman who's weak. What's our son going to think of his mother being weak? Are you going to be happy with him choosing a weak woman as his wife?"

"Dan, I don't think I'm happy anymore, and I don't think it's good for our son to be in this environment either," she said. "I've been talking to a therapist, and Little Dan and I need to have a better balance in our lives."

"So, you're saying you want to leave with our son because I won't let you teach ballet? Do I have this right?" Dad asked.

"It's more than that, Dan, and you know it. We don't love each other. You treat me like an employee who services you sexually every now and then, and you issue these idiotic decrees all the time. I'm tired of it. You make me feel small and insignificant. Little Dan and I are props in your life," she said. I think it was the most I had ever heard her say to my father about how she felt about anything--ever.

"I'm sorry you feel that way. A man can't be successful if his partner isn't willing to support him, and I can't have this kind of smudge following me around. Could you stay right where you are for a moment?" he asked her. "I need to go get something in the other room."

I was so quiet, and I scooted very quietly away from them. I didn't want to see them, but more importantly, I didn't want them to see me. When Dad left the room, I made my way as quietly as I could to Grandma's room. She lived with us because a man took care of his mother. I opened her door, holding my finger to my lips when she looked at me, ready to issue a commandment about sneaking into places. And then we heard it. One shot followed by a second shot.