Sunday, November 13, 2005
The Story of Peter (2)
The Story of Peter (2)
THE STORY OF PETER
Chapter 2
Peter's Dad, standing in the train station, reminded him of a plump peach, his soft exterior hiding, at the core, an extremely tough nut that could break your teeth if you ever tried to crack it.
As a younger child Peter had been afraid of him, without much justification. “Just wait till your father gets home!” was one of Peter's mother’s standard threats, as a result of which the poor guy had only to walk through the front door for Peter to shake in anticipation of a spanking or a beating.
And though he was for the most part an even-tempered and tolerant parent, his occasional volcanic blasts were all the more terrifying for being unpredictable, as though a mask had been torn from his familiar face to reveal a diabolic stranger burning red-hot with suppressed resentment and retribution. Peter was in perpetual terror.
But what Peter was feeling at this moment was a combination of sadness and relief. Peter's Dad really cowed him, more than his physical size, more than his analytical mind, more than his formidable obstinacy, was his silence. His impenetrable, unbreakable silence. Peter's Dad seldom spoke. But when he did it was always with authority, confidence and arrogance. And he was always deemed correct.
Peter assumed that his Dad's strength, intelligence and stubbornness were connected with – maybe even followed from – it! Whatever "it" might be.
With time Peter hoped he might loose that sense of alarm. He was only 12 so he thought he had lots of time to change his perspective. Perhaps sometime in the future as a teenager, heedless of the consequences, he might recklessly provoke his Dad's fury with in-his-face rudeness.
Perhaps, Peter felt, he might never get over the discomfort he felt at not knowing who he really was or what he was really thinking. Indeed, the more he studied the woebegone face and hangdog expression on his Dad's face on that rainy afternoon in the train station, the more he imagined him resenting the money wasted sending him off like this.
"Just as well", thought Peter. "Dad hasn't shown a minute’s interest in what I have been working on or doing for the past ten years". Or ever, really.
Or perhaps at this moment he was inwardly irritated by Peter's leaving, strangely enough even if it was him forcing him to go. Peter looked at himself in the mirror.
He looked at the reverse image in his imagination of a vagabond in jeans, sneakers, a knapsack, and thick disheveled hair. In reality, Peter looked the part of a boarding school preppie! Which he soon would be.
"Oh Shit" Peter cried as the tears of humiliation streamed down his face. He cried all the time but never before in such a public place as a train station. And surrounded by his soon-to-be-peers.
One possibility Peter didn’t consider was that his strong, successful father envied him, his weak and unconfident son. For Peter was going off to school. A new chance at life! Opportunity anew for a good name for the family! While Peter's Dad, lost in a years-long dead marriage filled with torment, alcohol and subtle abuse, remained behind to salvage what he might be able to rescue.
Peter's Dad had once told him that he was now near the very age that he had gone to war, and though his father seldom spoke about his experiences as a private overseas during the war, his regimental years may well have been the longest and most intense period of happiness in his life.
Fighting overseas had been his duty, of course, but it had also been his Grand Tour, his rite of passage, his great escape.
In discipline, he found freedom. In danger, he found confidence. In exile, he found friends.
While peace brought him the many comforts of home, the initial excitements of business, and the domestic satisfactions of starting a family with the childhood sweetheart who had awaited his return, a part of his soul must have felt he was walking the plank as he descended from the ship with his kitbag over his shoulder and his medals on his chest.
"Remembrance Day for Dad", thought Peter, tears flowing freely, cascading down his reddened cheeks
by now.........
To be continued........
THE STORY OF PETER
Chapter 2
Peter's Dad, standing in the train station, reminded him of a plump peach, his soft exterior hiding, at the core, an extremely tough nut that could break your teeth if you ever tried to crack it.
As a younger child Peter had been afraid of him, without much justification. “Just wait till your father gets home!” was one of Peter's mother’s standard threats, as a result of which the poor guy had only to walk through the front door for Peter to shake in anticipation of a spanking or a beating.
And though he was for the most part an even-tempered and tolerant parent, his occasional volcanic blasts were all the more terrifying for being unpredictable, as though a mask had been torn from his familiar face to reveal a diabolic stranger burning red-hot with suppressed resentment and retribution. Peter was in perpetual terror.
But what Peter was feeling at this moment was a combination of sadness and relief. Peter's Dad really cowed him, more than his physical size, more than his analytical mind, more than his formidable obstinacy, was his silence. His impenetrable, unbreakable silence. Peter's Dad seldom spoke. But when he did it was always with authority, confidence and arrogance. And he was always deemed correct.
Peter assumed that his Dad's strength, intelligence and stubbornness were connected with – maybe even followed from – it! Whatever "it" might be.
With time Peter hoped he might loose that sense of alarm. He was only 12 so he thought he had lots of time to change his perspective. Perhaps sometime in the future as a teenager, heedless of the consequences, he might recklessly provoke his Dad's fury with in-his-face rudeness.
Perhaps, Peter felt, he might never get over the discomfort he felt at not knowing who he really was or what he was really thinking. Indeed, the more he studied the woebegone face and hangdog expression on his Dad's face on that rainy afternoon in the train station, the more he imagined him resenting the money wasted sending him off like this.
"Just as well", thought Peter. "Dad hasn't shown a minute’s interest in what I have been working on or doing for the past ten years". Or ever, really.
Or perhaps at this moment he was inwardly irritated by Peter's leaving, strangely enough even if it was him forcing him to go. Peter looked at himself in the mirror.
He looked at the reverse image in his imagination of a vagabond in jeans, sneakers, a knapsack, and thick disheveled hair. In reality, Peter looked the part of a boarding school preppie! Which he soon would be.
"Oh Shit" Peter cried as the tears of humiliation streamed down his face. He cried all the time but never before in such a public place as a train station. And surrounded by his soon-to-be-peers.
One possibility Peter didn’t consider was that his strong, successful father envied him, his weak and unconfident son. For Peter was going off to school. A new chance at life! Opportunity anew for a good name for the family! While Peter's Dad, lost in a years-long dead marriage filled with torment, alcohol and subtle abuse, remained behind to salvage what he might be able to rescue.
Peter's Dad had once told him that he was now near the very age that he had gone to war, and though his father seldom spoke about his experiences as a private overseas during the war, his regimental years may well have been the longest and most intense period of happiness in his life.
Fighting overseas had been his duty, of course, but it had also been his Grand Tour, his rite of passage, his great escape.
In discipline, he found freedom. In danger, he found confidence. In exile, he found friends.
While peace brought him the many comforts of home, the initial excitements of business, and the domestic satisfactions of starting a family with the childhood sweetheart who had awaited his return, a part of his soul must have felt he was walking the plank as he descended from the ship with his kitbag over his shoulder and his medals on his chest.
"Remembrance Day for Dad", thought Peter, tears flowing freely, cascading down his reddened cheeks
by now.........
To be continued........
# posted by John @ 5:40 AM 
