When he'd fled New York, he'd chosen the shore as his new home because he'd always loved swimming in the surf and battling the waves, and because of the happy childhood associations he had with this stretch of Jersey1 beach, and because, even if Nancy wouldn't join him, he'd be just over an hour away from her, and because living in a relaxing, comfortable environment was bound to be beneficial to his health. There was no woman in his life other than his daughter. She never failed to call before leaving for work each morning, but otherwise his phone seldom rang. The affection of the sons of his first marriage he no longer pursued; he had never done the right thing by their mother or by them, and to resist the repetitiveness of these accusations2 and his sons' version of family history would require a measure of combativeness3 that had vanished from his arsenal4. The combativeness had been replaced by a huge sadness. If he yielded in the solitude5 of his long evenings to the temptation to call one or the other of them, he always felt saddened afterward6, saddened and beaten.
Randy and Lonny were the source of his deepest guilt7, but he could not continue to explain his behavior to them. He had tried often enough when they were young men — but then they were too young and angry to understand, now they were too old and angry to understand. And what was there to understand? It was inexplicable8 to him — the excitement they could seriously persist in deriving9 from his denunciation. He had done what he did the way that he did it as they did what they did the way they did it. Was their steadfast10 posture11 of unforgivingness any more forgivable? Or any less harmful in its effect? He was one of the millions of American men who were party to a divorce that broke up a family. But did he beat their mother? Did he beat them? Did he fail to support their mother or fail to support them? Did any one of them ever have to beg money from him? Was he ever once severe? Had he not made every overture12 toward them that he could? What could have been avoided? What could he have done differently that would have made him more acceptable to them other than what he could not do, which was to remain married and live with their mother? Either they understood that or they didn't — and sadly for him (and for them), they didn't. Nor could they ever understand that he had lost the same family they did. And no doubt there were things he still failed to understand. If so, that was no less sad. No one could say there wasn't enough sadness to go around or enough remorse13 to prompt the fugue of questions with which he attempted to defend the story of his life.
He told them nothing about his string of hospitalizations for fear that it might inspire too much vindictive14 satisfaction. He was sure that when he died they would rejoice, and all because of those earliest recollections they'd never outgrown15 of his leaving his first family to start a second. That he had eventually betrayed his second family for a beauty twenty-six years his junior who, according to Randy and Lonny, anyone other than their father could have spotted16 as a "nutcase" a mile away — a model, no less, "a brainless model" he'd met when she was hired by his agency for a job that carried the entire crew, including the two of them, to the Caribbean for a few days' work — had only reinforced their view of him as an underhanded, irresponsible, frivolously17 immature18 sexual adventurer. As a father, he was an impostor. As a husband, even to the incomparable Phoebe, for whom he jettisoned19 their mother, he was an impostor. As anything but a cunthound, he was a fake through and through. And as for his becoming an "artist" in his old age, that, to his sons, was the biggest joke of all. Once he took up painting in earnest every day, the derisive20 nickname coined by Randy for their father was "the happy cobbler."
In response he did not claim either moral rectitude or perfect judgment21. His third marriage had been founded on boundless22 desire for a woman he had no business with but a desire that never lost its power to blind him and lead him, at fifty, to play a young man's game. He had not slept with Phoebe for the previous six years, yet he could not offer this intimate fact of their life as an explanation to his sons for his second divorce. He didn't think that his record as Phoebe's husband for fifteen years, as Nancy's live-in father for thirteen years, as Howie's brother and his parents' son since birth, required him to make such an explanation. He did not think that his record as an advertising23 man for over twenty years required him to make such an explanation. He did not think that his record as father to Lonny and Randy required such an explanation!
Yet their description of how he'd conducted himself over a lifetime was not even a caricature but, in his estimation, a portrayal24 of what he was not, a description with which they persisted in minimizing everything worthwhile that he believed was apparent to most everyone else. Minimized his decency25, then magnified his defects, for a reason that surely could not continue to carry such great force at this late date. Into their forties they remained with their father the children that they'd been back when he'd first left their mother, children who by their nature could not understand that there might be more than one explanation to human behavior — children, however, with the appearance and aggression26 of men, and against whose undermining he could never manage to sustain a solid defense27. They elected to make the absent father suffer, and so he did, investing them with that power. Suffering his wrongdoing was all he could ever do to please them, to pay his bill, to indulge like the best of dads their maddening opposition28.
You wicked bastards29! You sulky fuckers! You condemning30 little shits! Would everything be different, he asked himself, if I'd been different and done things differently? Would it all be less lonely than it is now? Of course it would! But this is what I did! I am seventy-one. This is the man I have made. This is what I did to get here, and there's nothing more to be said!
1 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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2 accusations | |
n.指责( accusation的名词复数 );指控;控告;(被告发、控告的)罪名 | |
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3 combativeness | |
n.好战 | |
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4 arsenal | |
n.兵工厂,军械库 | |
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5 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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6 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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7 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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8 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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9 deriving | |
v.得到( derive的现在分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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10 steadfast | |
adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
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11 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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12 overture | |
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
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13 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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14 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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15 outgrown | |
长[发展] 得超过(某物)的范围( outgrow的过去分词 ); 长[发展]得不能再要(某物); 长得比…快; 生长速度超过 | |
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16 spotted | |
adj.有斑点的,斑纹的,弄污了的 | |
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17 frivolously | |
adv.轻浮地,愚昧地 | |
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18 immature | |
adj.未成熟的,发育未全的,未充分发展的 | |
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19 jettisoned | |
v.抛弃,丢弃( jettison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20 derisive | |
adj.嘲弄的 | |
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21 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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22 boundless | |
adj.无限的;无边无际的;巨大的 | |
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23 advertising | |
n.广告业;广告活动 a.广告的;广告业务的 | |
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24 portrayal | |
n.饰演;描画 | |
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25 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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26 aggression | |
n.进攻,侵略,侵犯,侵害 | |
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27 defense | |
n.防御,保卫;[pl.]防务工事;辩护,答辩 | |
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28 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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29 bastards | |
私生子( bastard的名词复数 ); 坏蛋; 讨厌的事物; 麻烦事 (认为别人走运或不幸时说)家伙 | |
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30 condemning | |
v.(通常因道义上的原因而)谴责( condemn的现在分词 );宣判;宣布…不能使用;迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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