oh, my god
Though I try not to use the word journey to describe any part of my life - never mind spiritual journey - it’s hard to deny that spirituality, which started out as Catholicism, has always played some kind of role in my life. There were two Catholic churches in the coastal New England town I grew up in and as far as I knew every family in town went to either one or the other. One church sat on the edge of the nice part of town so if you said you went to St Christine’s I knew you were rich. Needless to say my family went to the other one. St Ann’s By The Sea stood steps from the Atlantic Ocean in what was then the rundown part of town. It smelled like salt water, frankincense, and denial, desperately needed a paint job, and offered a 4 o’clock mass on Saturdays. In 1984 we did two things really well as a family: we went to church and we went out to dinner, and if we went to the 4 o’clock mass on Saturdays we could do one right after the other. My sister, Shannon, and I couldn’t have cared less about what was being taught from the alter so church time was our time for shenanigans. My mom would glare at me side-eyed silently threatening me against my urge to yell ‘It’s The Ice Cream Man!’ every time the alter boy rang his little bell, and Shannon - who I was not allowed to sit directly next to - would try to get my attention by leaning forward to look at me. Then she’d flash a huge Cheshire Cat smile and expose the handmade braces she just crafted from the paperclips pulled off the community announcements. As we choked into two heaps of silent giggles my mom would pretend not to notice and stare directly ahead biting down on the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from joining us. My dad monitored the throngs of parishioners seated behind us and would lean over our laps whisper-yelling, “Ted O’Toole and his son Teddy Juniah ahh heeh. They helped shovel ahh driveway in the Stohhm of 78.” My mom would tap him on the thigh letting him know we heard him while also encouraging him to stop talking, but he couldn't, “Great hockey playah. Funny bastihd.” For a moment he’d lean back in the pew and look forward, but then he’d remember, “His youngest son has cerebral palsy.”
When Mass was over and my dad was finished finding Mr. O’Toole to tell him a dirty joke we would pile in his Chevy Caprese Classic with red interior and head to dinner. As we pulled out of the parking lot my dad would honk his horn triumphantly and wave to the church goers still getting in their cars. He was a relentlessly jolly guy and liked to show support and solidarity to his fellow Catholics who had just successfully completed their duty of going to church. Confused families would return the wave to the smiling Irishman who could practically taste the martini waiting for him. We were off to The Fairview. My dad drove slowly for the one mile along the ocean that separated obligation from joy, and he sang on the top of his lungs the whole way. If he drove slowly he could sing along to more songs on the new Lionel Richie tape so that’s what he did. He would belt out every lyric to Penny Lover before Lionel did, play heavy percussion on the steering wheel, and point at the ocean over his left shoulder like it was full of his adoring fans. Shannon and I would sway side to side in unison and yell the chorus from the backseat trying to be heard over the obscene volume. My adoring mom, living a life beyond her wildest dreams with her funny husband and two healthy kids, would smile at us while the cigarette lighter heated up. When it was hot, she’d flip open the ashtray, and put a long cigarette between her lips and light it: Benson & Hedges Menthol 100’s soft pack was her choice. I don’t know if I ever saw her smoke an entire cigarette, but she never ran out of them because my dad gave her several cartons every year for Christmas. Wrapped and under the tree.
The Fairview Inn was, and still is, a landmark in Marshfield that sits not just on the edge of town, but on the edge of the earth in a neighborhood called Brant Rock. Towering storm waves are infamous for their destruction on that strip of road, and in classic Marshfield style The Fairview Inn sits so close to the power of the ocean she’s practically daring the Atlantic to swallow her whole.
As soon as we would pull into their parking lot - which was six parking spots on a cliff with a wooden guardrail and a $10M unobstructed view of the water- we’d sprint from the car trying to outrun the salty spray of the ocean as the wind and water slammed against the rocks feet from our car.
We tumbled breathless through the doors of our favorite place safely making it out of the cold and into the warm orange glow of The Fairview Inn in the 1980s. Womblike in comparison to the conditions just outside the door, the dulcet sounds of a busy restaurant full of happy families, raucous laughter, and double kitchen door banging open and shut all night still - to this day - make me feel like everything’s gonna be ok.
“Hi Kev!” Our hostess cheered making it obvious she sees him way more than she sees us.
“Mr Wonderful is here” He’d announce himself half-heartedly as he peaked around the corner to see who was at the bar while the three of us were being seated.
Shannon and I slid across the wide leather booth on our knees and immediately started coloring on our paper menus. We were giddy. My order was always the same: salisbury steak and a Shirley Temple, and though Suzanne, our favorite waitress, already knew his order, Shannon and I would order our dad’s drink in unison in Pledge of Allegiance tempo and pride:
“ AN - EXTRA - DRY - VODKA - MARTINI - ON - THE - ROCKS - WITH - A - TWIST!”
We’d squeal in laughter as my mom raised her eyebrows reminding us to finish strong.
“PLEEEEAAAASE!!!” We added against my dad’s applause.
He’d follow Suzanne back to the kitchen to deliver a punchline too vulgar to deliver in front of his children who just ordered him a glass of straight vodka. My mom’s cigarette practically smoked itself as it sat mostly in the ashtray while my dad reminded us that the way you tell a “class-act restaurant from a dump” is if they clear your ashtray with every ash. He was either unaware of the pile of half smoked butts piling up in her ashtray on the table, or much more likely, he was just making shit up.
When the bill finally arrived my dad would wave his arm in the air to call Suzanne back to the table. “Looks like we have a problem here, Suzanne.” Gesturing at the bill with a shit eating grin. “Looks like someone ordered tax, Suzanne?! Who ordered tax!?” He’d ask rhetorically and fall sideways from laughter into my mom whose eyes were already in the back of her scull.
On the way home we passed an empty and dark St Anne’s By The Sea, not a single car still in the parking lot. Our dad drove us slowly through our beautiful town and when we got to the final song on the tape we sang Hello by Lionel Richie in four part harmony until we pulled safely into our driveway on Whiffletree Lane.
For decades I have looked back on that time in my life and wondered what happened to that happy family. How did we go from a four part harmony to four people on separate islands under one roof preferring to spend time anywhere but home? Did my dad stop spending time with us so we started to resent him or was that the other way around? With the help of many therapists I’ve tried to untie that knot to help square an idyllic childhood with the unhappiness of a home I remember. I knew so much changed but couldn’t tell if it was my own perception as I moved from childhood to adolescence or if my dad’s drinking actually become worse around that time?
As far as going to church went, as soon as I was able to think critically I could never find enough faith to satisfy my questions and I never went back. And it seemed that my father, who was home less and less, had only two rules for us: Go to mass and keep the ice cube tray filled. Needless to say we did neither.
My dad died suddenly from a fall in his apartment in March of 2018. He was 80-years-old. From his bank statement we could see that he was out to dinner the night before and there’s no doubt he was sitting at the bar making someone laugh and enjoying drinks and dinner unaware it would be his last meal. Shannon and I threw his funeral on St Paddy’s day in the function room of a restaurant in Marshfield that used to be Papa Gino’s Pizza when we were kids. It was an incredible celebration of a guy who made everyone laugh, and Shannon and I felt like we threw a party our dad would be proud of. Among the throngs of people there that day was a man who introduced himself as the owner of The Fairview Inn in the 1980s. I instinctively hugged him and thanked him for so many great family memories at his restaurant.
“Your father and I spent a lot of time together at my restaurant when his marriage was falling apart in the mid 80s.” He told me. “He loved you kids so much he didn’t know what to do. It was a really difficult time for you dad.” I stood stunned in the middle of a crowded room and thanked him for helping my dad. His marriage falling apart? To my mom? And this was something he talked about with this guy I’ve never heard of?
It felt like someone had just adjusted the lens of a camera I had been trying to bring into focus my whole life. This 60-second awkwardly-timed confession answered a decades-long question of what the fuck was happening to us in those years. Of course it was obvious that my parents marriage fell apart because it no doubt did, but at 10-years-old I didn’t even consider their marriage and in true Irish fashion, not a word was said about it at home. But now it was obvious: when resentment and contempt took the place of love the ground beneath our family fractured and we broke.
I didn’t have a chance to tell Shannon at the funeral but I called her the next morning. “Dude.” I started. “Did you talk to the guy who used to own The Fairview in the 80s?” She hadn’t. When I was done telling her the story she sat silently on the other end of the phone digesting the news and I knew just what she was feeling. She finally answered slowly, “oh, my god.” was all she needed to say.