The Offering

As Pascal entered the backyard and hugged his younger sister, Marianne, all the witty lines he had planned to say slipped from his mind. "The food smells great," was all he could say.

Marianne wore a light-red sundress, some open-toed sandals, and a slim gold necklace around her neck. And Heyward, Pascal's brother-in-law, stood dutifully at the grill, a greasy apron around his waist, a pair of silver tongs in his hand, as he monitored the sizzling meat. Marianne grabbed Pascal's hand and led him further into the backyard. She quickly introduced him to several of her friends—a married couple from Baltimore, another couple from Jersey City, and a former roommate from Penn State whom Marianne had stayed in touch with all these years. Pascal remembered their faces, but he couldn't recall their names. From their bashful greetings, he realized that none of them could remember his name either, which gave him a sense of ease. 

Yet when Pascal saw his father at the far end of the yard, his body tensed again. In a pink polo shirt, a pair of khaki shorts, and a sun hat, his father looked like a man in a fashion catalog, like a man whose comportment was so commonplace that his image blended with the background, allowing the clothes to take center stage. His father sat in a chair as a group of children ran in circles around him, and he laughed and played with them as if he had fathered them all. Pascal wondered how his father could be so kind to other people's children but not to his own. He wondered if anyone really knew the man behind the clothes.

But then Pascal caught himself. Today was his nephew's tenth birthday, an event he'd discussed with his therapist for weeks. Now he imagined his therapist sitting in her chair and heard her voice. "You must practice patience and tolerance with your father," she had said at their last session. Pascal closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In his mind, he concentrated on the chirping of a nearby bird. And he became so profoundly mindful that he barely noticed a small hand tugging at his shirt. It was Terrence, his nephew. 

Emblazoned on the boy's teeshirt was an anime character that Pascal had never seen, not that he was familiar with that genre. And the boy's face and jeans were soiled with dirt from playing in the backyard with his friends. 

"Uncle Paz," Terrence said, "what are you doing? You look like you're in a trance or something. You don't want to walk around while unaware of your surroundings. You might bump into something and hurt yourself. Are you in a trance, Uncle Paz?"

Pascal exhaled and said, "Yes, I was in a sort of trance."

"What's a sort of trance? Were you in a trance or not?"

Pascal chuckled. "You could call it a trance, I suppose."

"What do you call it?" 

"I call it mindfulness." 

"Mindfulness? That's a strange word. Is your mind full of something?"

Pascal chuckled again. "It is. My mind is filled with gratitude for such a wonderful day to be celebrating my favorite nephew's birthday."

"I'm your only nephew," Terrence said. "But if that's what mindfulness is, then it sounds alright to me." 

Terrence ran a few feet from Pascal and then looked back at him playfully, and Pascal knew that his nephew wanted him to play with him, so he followed. They played whiffle ball together, and Pascal forgot all his troubles and felt nothing but the sun on his face and a cool breeze on his skin as he chased each batted whiffle ball that his nephew hit. 

Soon, the smell of smoke and grilled meat clouded the backyard, and Marianne told everyone to gather around the grill for food. Terrence grabbed a plate and took his place in the food line. Pascal stepped in line, too, but Marianne said, "Paz, the tool shed is open. Could you close it before the dog gets in there?"

Pascal went to a tool shed that stood by a fence. Before he closed its door, he glanced inside and admired its contents. A lawn mower, rakes and shovels, a wheelbarrow—all the things that Pascal didn't have because he didn't own a home. He lived in a studio apartment and often felt like a failure because he didn't have everything his sister had. But then again, he'd been in therapy long enough to know it was foolish to compare himself with others. If he compared the person he was now with who he used to be, he'd get a much better perspective on himself. He closed the door and joined the others on the food line. 

When he got there, Marianne handed him a plate filled with food. And Pascal was about to thank her when she said, "Why don't you give this plate to Dad and say hello? You haven't said anything to him all day."

Pascal could feel his legs begin to shake. 

"He hasn't said anything to me, either," Pascal said. 

"Paz, come on," Marianne said. "Let's not do this. It's Terrance's birthday. Okay?"

Pascal tried to avoid her eyes, but he could feel them even when he wasn't looking at them. They drew him back. They resonated warmth and something else, something that Pascal couldn't name. All he knew was that he didn't have it. 

He said okay and turned to face his father, who was still sitting at the far end of the yard. His father sat alone now, as all the children had gathered around a table to eat their hamburgers and hot dogs. The walk to his father felt like a march to the gallows, but Pascal held the plate of food in front of him, hoping it would speak for him, an offering of goodwill that he found so hard to express. And he heard his therapist's voice again. "Set your mind to being kind and patient with your father, and it will happen," she had said. Pascal thought of her words like a mantra as he approached his father. 

"Oh, Pascal," his father said, "I almost didn't recognize you. How long have you been here?"

"Just a few minutes, Dad," Pascal said. 

"What's this?" the father said as Pascal handed him the plate of food.

"Just something Marianne put together for you."

His father admired the food on the plate as he set it on his lap. "Great day for a barbecue. Here, why don't you pull up a seat? Sit down for a while." 

Again, Pascal heard his therapist's voice. It told him to take advantage of this opportunity. But what could Pascal gain? His father was elderly, and at times he seemed to have dementia. He'd never been diagnosed with it, but Marianne—who spent more time with him than any other family member—had said she was convinced his mind had fundamentally changed for the worse. Pascal doubted that. The rotten core of his father's personality would never change. If anything, it would only rot more. Yet perhaps his therapist was right. Maybe this was an opportunity for Pascal. If he could spend a few minutes with his father, it might help him build some tolerance. It might help him to heal some wounds. He grabbed a chair, sat down, and watched his father eat. 

His father chuckled. "You know, that boy of hers—oh, what's his name?"

"Terrence," Pascal said.

"Yes, Terrence. That boy Terrence has some wit about him. He's the smartest little boy I've met in a long time."

"I agree."

"Only someone as smart as Marianne could raise a child that smart. Did you know she had him playing Simon Says when he was three years old?"

"Yes, Dad. I remember it. I was there."

"Oh, were you? I don't remember that. I thought that was when you were overseas trying to be a musician or something. Still can't understand why you didn't become a doctor."

Pascal's jaw tightened, and he felt a twitch in his neck. How many times had he been over this with his father? He'd never been interested in med school. Not once. Even though he'd entered Columbia as pre-med, he only did it to please his father. And after one year, he knew he'd had enough. Dementia! If there had been any change in his father's mind, it had only been an increased focus on his son's shortcomings. 

Pascal wanted to leave the party. He wanted to jump into his car and drive as fast and as far away from his father as he could. But then Pascal thought about his nephew. It had been a while since he'd seen Terrence, yet the boy still enjoyed his company. Pascal didn't want to ruin that. Not to mention, Marianne might never speak to him again if he abandoned her son's birthday party. 

His father bit into a hot dog and wiped some mustard from his face. His expression hadn't changed. It showed no awareness of his son's upset. Pascal might as well act as if his father had said nothing offensive. 

Pascal cleared his throat and said, "Did you hear about the Phillies' new pitcher? He's supposed to be a real stud."

His father nodded. "If he can stay healthy. I hear he's got a history of injury."

"You're right about that," Pascal said. "But he got through spring training alright, and he's healthy now. So I think he'll be okay." 

"You think he'll be okay? Ha! Anyone who casually follows the game would know that the Phils are taking a big chance on him. But then again, you never did like baseball. Started playing that other game. Lacrosse! I'll never understand that game. It's not America's game. Baseball! Now that's America's game." 

Pascal's arms began to sweat, and a vein bulged in his neck. No, he didn't care how his father felt about lacrosse. And he didn't care that baseball was "America's game."

"There's nothing wrong with lacrosse, Dad," Pascal said. "And if you weren't so obsessed with molding me in your image, you might realize that." 

"In my image?" his father said. "You fool. How many times have we discussed this? You could've gotten a scholarship playing baseball. A free ride! But no, you had to go against your old man and play that damned lacrosse. And where did it get you?" 

"People get lacrosse scholarships too, Dad."

"They do now, but not when you were playing it. Nobody had ever heard of lacrosse back then."

"You're wrong about that. Plenty of people had heard of it. I had heard of it. And for your information, lacrosse was invented by Native Americans, which makes it more American than baseball."

A cockeyed expression twisted the father's face, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. "Don't tell me what's American. I've served this country and know what it's about, and baseball will always be America's game."

By now, the adults at the picnic table had taken notice of the altercation, and the kids were beginning to notice, too. Pascal needed to escape fast, but he couldn't abandon his nephew's party. So he searched the property for someplace to go and saw the tool shed. It wasn't a good place for dogs but it was perfect for Pascal. So he stood and made a beeline for the tool shed. 

Inside the shed, he sat down on a bag of fertilizer and tried to collect his thoughts. He focused on his breathing and a chirping bird in the trees outside the shed—but he couldn't calm himself. He jumped up, kicked a wheelbarrow, and howled in agony as a pain in his bruised toe shot up his foot. He sank so deeply into self-pity that he didn't notice the shed door open. It was Terrence, his nephew.

"Uncle Paz?" the boy said as he entered the shed. And the sight of the boy changed Pascal's consciousness. Instead of anger, he felt embarrassed. "Why are you in here by yourself, Uncle Paz?"

How to explain the history of resentment between a son and his father to a ten-year-old? Pascal couldn't find the words to begin. Not even to a perceptive ten-year-old like Terrence. 

Pascal sighed and said, "I guess I was looking for something."

"You guess? That doesn't make any sense. Don't you know why you came in here? I always know why I go places."

Pascal chuckled. "Is that so? Why did you come in here?"

"I came in here to see what you were doing. I saw you and Grandpa arguing, and you looked upset. And I heard you talking about lacrosse and baseball. And what I don't understand is, who's to say which game is America's game? And what does it matter?"

Pascal couldn't think of an answer to that, but he realized that if he couldn't think of a response to give to a ten-year-old, it probably didn't matter. 

Terrence moved toward the door and looked back playfully at his uncle. "I can see you're thinking hard on that question," the boy said, "but don't think about it too hard. We're playing whiffle ball out here, and if you keep thinking about all that stuff, you'll miss the whole thing."

Pascal sighed. A noisy, cluttered part of his mind wanted to stay in the shed and think of some pointed and persuasive words to shout back at his father, but it was so much work. Much easier to play whiffle ball in the backyard. So he followed his nephew, and soon Pascal was playing with the kids, and he felt the sun on his face and a cool breeze that blew through the trees. 

***