Free Beyond Nostalgia by Tom Winton

far-out behavior that drove him out of our apartment every night. He'd volunteer for every church function he possibly could, just to get away. Six, seven nights a week he'd go down to Saint Leo's to help at bingo, say Novenas, do the stations of the cross, or pitch in at bazaars and Las Vegas nights. He'd help out at Sunday masses too, either by ushering or lecturing, and was a devout member of the Holy Name Society. Only four years after converting to Catholicism, he was named 'man of the year' in our parish. 
     
    Too bad he couldn't have spent more time at home instead. Sure, I know it could have been worse. He could have gone out and got drunk all the time like most of my friend's fathers did. He could have chased women too. Maybe he did. I don't know. One lady from the church used to call our place all the time, making sure dad would be going to this meeting or that one. But, then again, it was possible that nothing went on between them. Either way, it wouldn't have changed things at home. 
     
    I don’t know maybe he was a bigger man than I realize, just for coming home every night, for bringing home his paycheck each Friday, or for making all those TV dinners, because Ma would not cook. You see, she was terrified she might get germs on our food that would, in her mind, ultimately kill us all. Sure, Dad could have easily given up, just deserted us, but he didn't. Despite all his shortcomings, he hung in.
     
    Still, life in apartment 1B was a real trip. With Dad's trigger temper and Ma's irrational behavior, even on the occasions when things seemed almost mellow, you had to be real careful. At the drop of a hat the ambience could change. The slightest irritation could get my old man going. Sometimes he’d go from almost docile to ballistic in a nanosecond. It was like we were constantly walking on blasting-cap eggshells instead of cheap linoleum and that remnant carpet. 
     
    A perfect example of Dad’s volatility took place the first time Theresa came to our place. I knew inviting her was risky, that things could, and probably would, turn into a first-class fiasco, but I had hope. I kept after Ma until she finally agreed to make us a Sunday dinner. I wanted to show her off to my parents just like Theresa had wanted to show me off to her mother that 'lovely night' I met her. I thought maybe, if I got lucky, some of the neighbors would see my prize too. 
     
    I told Ma how much Theresa meant to me, pre-pleaded with her to try to act normal. And she did, try that is. For the first time in months, she got out of that stained robe, got dressed, and actually cooked a small London broil. Boy, did she cook it. She cremated it.  So long, and in an oven set so high, it was impossible for anything short of a pit bull’s teeth to penetrate it. This too was part of her illness. The way she saw it any meat that wasn’t totally scorched would definitely kill her family, trichinosis, salmonella, whatever. Lord only knows how many times before Theresa came over that day Ma washed and scrubbed our dishes, and her hands. Nevertheless, despite all the careful preparation, it still wouldn't be enough for her. Knowing Ma like I did, I knew she'd have new unfounded worries to add to her repertoire after we'd eaten. Maybe an extra rosary later on, after Theresa and I left, might save us all.
     
    I remember sitting in the living room with Theresa that day, waiting for Dad to come home from another day of hustling his cab all over Manhattan. Arm-in-arm, we sat on the rickety wooden-legged sofa, while Ma, a nervous wreck from thinking about what her cooking was about to do to us, sat across from us in her chair. I remember the grievous look she shot at me after I got up and opened the shade over the dark room’s only window. Of course, she was sly enough not to let Theresa notice, but I picked up on it. I knew exactly what Ma was thinking: Are you crazy! Why'd you do that? God knows what germs you just picked up by touching that