Corin Cummings

n kitchen brightness Grandma sips a cup of tea. "Joe read all the time," she says, "and oh, he read faster than anyone. He'd finish a book in one night. I used to say to him, 'You read those books so fast, I wonder if you remember anything of them.' I told him, 'If somebody asked you question, you wouldn't have anything to say.' Well, he'd laugh and say 'What do you want to ask me?' I'd ask him a few questions and he did, he remembered everything he read.
        "Oh, he should have been a writer. He was a smart man, but you know, we were poor, and we had kids. He worked his whole life at a job he hated for those kids. After he got out of the service–you know, he was an MP–he went into police work, but he wasn't cut out for it. He didn't like it at all, but he stuck with it for years until he found a job for public works."
        I sit in my chair likewise sipping tea, and Grandma, in her Pittsburgh accent, speaks with purposeful candidness–as if there were a camera behind me. "We started off in the projects, you know. Then we bought this house. It was small for all of us, but it was so wonderful to move out of them projects. The three girls were in the bedroom on the second floor and the four boys were on the third floor."

"Oh," shouts black-haired aunt Karen wrinkling up her nose and choking on a laugh. "That third floor was a pig pen."
        "Oh, it was not," counters Grandma. We are in Karen's living room.
        "Mom," shouts Karen, who often shouts, "you wouldn't even go up there. She used to make Corrine and me go up and pick up their dirty underwear. Oh, it was so foul. We used to dread that job. They'd have food rotting under their beds."
        "Oh, that's not true," scolds Grandma.
        "The hell it's not, Mum," Karen laughs.
        "Remember the fudgcicles?" says Gary, Karen's husband.
        "Now that story's not true," says Karen.
        Gary laughs. "When we were dating, we'd come in late and find all her brothers asleep on the floor in front of the TV. There'd be a big empty box of fudgcicles in the middle of the floor, and they all have great big chocolate smears around their mouths."
        "That story's not true," laughs Karen.
        "And they'd have fudgecicle sticks stuck all over their clothes and on the rug and the couch," says Gary and his wife laughs harder. "All I had to do to get in with the family was bring a box of fudgcicles every time I came over."
        "Those brothers of mine," says Karen shaking her head, "all they ever did was watch TV and eat."
        "No," says Grandma, "they worked hard."
        "What?" says Gary, "over at the golf course? All they did was play cards in the caddie shack."
        "I remember one time when you and Dad went out and Pat was sick with a fever," begins Karen. "He was awful sick, and the older boys were supposed to take care of him. They didn't pay any attention to him. Corrine and I kept cool towels on him, but all the Lard Brothers did was watch TV and stuff themselves. They used to put Pat and Jerry in the playpen and just leave them there all day. Those poor kids; they looked like those babies from Romania."
        We all laugh.
        "But they did work hard, too" Karen says, "they gave money to the younger ones. Mom and Dad never gave us any money."
        "Oh we did," says Grandma.
        "Mom, don't you remember how Corrine bought Pat's football gear for him? Pap wouldn't give him a penny. He'd say 'if you want to play, you'll have to come up with the money yourself.’ "
        "He was teaching you kids a lesson."
        "He was cheap. Do you remember how one Christmas you bought one bike for all of us kids? We fought over it for a week then one of the boys rode it over a broken bottle and popped the tire. Dad wouldn't buy a new tire. 'I already spent enough money on that damn bike,’ " she mimics. "The bike went down into the basement. It's probably still there.
        "He was such an old grump," says Karen. "He never knew which one of the kids he was talking to. He'd say, 'you, Glenn, Rege, Vince, Karen.’ " She laughs.
        "I remember relatives would come over to visit and he would just go upstairs. Not even say 'hello.' He'd just scowl at them and go to his room to read."
        "That's when he was ill," says Grandma.
        
"After we finished high school, Mum just wanted us to get jobs," says Pat, steering the car around a corner. The sun streams through the windows and reflects off of his sunglasses. He speaks up over the sound of the engine and the road. "She used to say, 'just go down to the mill.' When I got out of high school, most of the guys in my class would go down to the mill. They made good money. After a year, most of them would be driving cars; then they'd get married and buy a house.
        "I went to my twentieth reunion a couple years ago, and all those guys have lost their jobs. Some of them have moved away, but most have stayed and gone on public assistance. You know, they all have families and kids in school.
        "Back then, though, the mills were all still booming, most of them were working at full capacity. The cars used to be lined up all the way up and down both sides of the street for all three shifts. When they ‘d come out after their shifts their cars would be covered with orange soot. I drove down to Braddock yesterday, and there were only about a dozen cars.
        "There was so much pollution back then, it's hard to believe that we all didn't die of cancer. Mum would sweep the porch some mornings and get a whole dustpan full of grainy soot.
        "Pap wasn't a risk taker himself, but he always encouraged us to go to college. He'd say, they can't take that away from you, an education. If you get a job in the mill, no matter how much money you make, they can always take that job away from you." Pat laughs. "That was just the kind of thing he always said. He had it in his mind that he was blacklisted by the world."
        
"Vince was the first one to go to college," says Grandma in her kitchen. "After high school he worked for a while, and he got a good job at a plumbing company. He was an assistant of some kind. And you know, Vince don't complain so I always thought he liked his job. Then one day he comes in and throws his coat down and says, 'I'm going to quit.' I asked him if something had happened, but he says no, he just hates it. 'I'm going to quit that job and go to college.' He said, 'I'm going to get a job at Kmart, work at night and go to school during the day.' That's what he did, and he worked hard. He got all A's in school. Then he went down to Georgia to get his masters degree. And then got his doctorate at Pitt.
        "All the kids worked hard," she says. "Even when they was still real young, they had jobs. Rege worked on the bread truck and then washed dishes down to Johnny Garnues. He and Glenn worked as caddies out at the golf course in the summers. They both worked for the railroad for a while, too."
        She smiles, "I remember once when Rege and Glenn were kids, they got a job handing out fliers. They were supposed to go door to door, you know. Well, Dad, working for Public Works, he finds a storm drain stuffed full of these flyers. He packs them up in a box and drops them all soggy on the porch. Those boys, instead of passing them out, had ditched them in the drain. They were in such trouble. It had been Glenn's idea, of course." she chuckles, but then closes her eyes and slowly shakes her head back and forth.
        "Poor Glenn, God bless him. I pray for him. I don't know how so much can happen to one person. I don't think he ever got over Corrine dying, then he lost his wife." She shakes her head as if in disbelief. "He's a Saint, Glenn," she says. "He hasn't given up. He tries."
        
Leaning back in his living room easy chair, Gary says, "This family has the strangest habits about food. Your brothers were always hiding food," he says to his wife.
        "I know, under their beds," she says. "Rege was the worst," she says.
        "Oh, he was not," says Grandma.
        "When Corrine and I would make cookies, we'd freeze half of them to keep the boys from eating them all at once, but Rege would go an eat them out of the freezer.
        "Seeing her big brother break his teeth on frozen cookies was probably what drove Gerry to become a dentist," laughs Karen.
        "Joe was the oddest," says Gary. "He would buy a case of apples or oranges and eat nothing else for three days. He wouldn't let the kids touch them. He'd eat every one. On Thanksgiving he would eat nothing but stuffing. I remember the first time I spent Thanksgiving over there and watching him fill up plate after plate of stuffing. No one else was allowed to touch it because it was all he would eat."
        Grandma laughs.
        "Remember that applesauce cake he'd make," says Gary.
        "Watch out, Gary. That applesauce cake is sacred in this family," laughs Karen.
        "Gary don't like that cake," says Grandma.
        "When we were dating," says Gary, "he'd have me come sit in the living room with him while he'd be drinking beer. He'd pour me a big glass of ginger ale and cut a huge slice of that cake. When he'd go to get another beer, I'd slip the cake to Aggie. She'd nearly kill herself trying to chomp it down. He'd come back and the dog would still be choking. He'd say, 'oh, you finished your cake' and go cut me another slab."
        Everyone laughs.
        "Gary remembers so much about those days," says Grandma. "He was over so much when he and Karen were going out. He was an observer. Sometimes he tells stories about the things Pap used to do that I would never have remembered."
        
In Gary's kitchen, Pat cuts himself a piece of chocolate cake to have with tea.
        "Tell him about when Joe took you to the baseball game, Pat," says Gary. Pat hesitates.
        "The one and only father-son outing we ever went on," he begins. "We went to a Pirates game with a neighbor and his son. I was probably eleven or twelve. They started drinking in the car on the way over to the game and had a pretty good buzz going by the time we got there. I don't think you were allowed to have booze in the park then, but they snuck in a bottle.
        "Somehow we had seats in separate sections, so the other kid and I were about a dozen rows back from them. By the second inning they were blind. At some point, Pap got up to got to the bathroom, and after while, I noticed that he still hadn't come back. So I went looking for him.
        "He was so blind that he couldn't find his way back, and he was way over to the other side of the stadium staggering around looking for his seat. One of the ushers saw him, you know, and said 'he's outta here.' So here I was, leading the old man out to the car after only two innings. He slept it off in the backseat while I waited in the front for the other guy and his son."
        "That was our first and last father-son outing," Pat says again.
        "He was never mean when he was drunk," said Gary. "He never shouted or got mad at anybody."
        "It was a release for him," said Pat. "Most of the time he only drank on weekends. Just to escape from the shit he had to deal with the other five days a week. He hated his job. He hated it."
        
The car is on a long flat road. "When Corrine got sick," says Pat–he shakes his head–"it was just so hard for all of us. All of us crammed into that little house and one of us dying, and all the rest of us trying to pretend that it wasn't happening, not really believing it."
        "Dad and Glenn never got over it. It ruined them in some ways. Vince was furious at everyone. He never knew how sick she was. He was away at school in Georgia.
        "It's crazy to think that she's gone, even now. She died so long ago, but I don't have to try to bring tears to my eyes just thinking about it. None of us could believe that it was really happening, that it could happen to us, you know. I always thought, how could my sister be dying, she's only a few years older than me." He drives looking straight ahead, glancing into the rearview mirror.
        "With Pap, he was never the same after Corrine died. There had always been a lively spirit in him. You know, you always felt like he was holding it back, but somehow it might escape. He read because he wanted to know things. He was interested in the world, and he wanted to be a part of it. But after Corrine, I think he wasn't as much. He read more to pass the time. And, you know, he was ill. After he had the heart attack and the surgery, he was on painkillers all the time. And we knew he was taking too many of them."
        
"It was terrible with Vince," says Grandma "You still can't talk about her around him. I don't know if he's forgiven us. He never knew how sick she was. He knew she was sick, but he didn't know she was going to die. He was at school in Georgia, and she knew he would drop out if he knew how sick she was, and she was so proud of him. She made us promise not to tell him. Oh, he was so mad. He blew up when he found out. He was so hurt. He went on and on. How could we not tell him, he said. But what could we have done? She didn't want us to tell him. He would have dropped out. He said so himself. Oh, it was terrible. He was so mad," she says. On her face is a far-away look as if she sees the tears on the young man's face, his blaming glare. "What else could we have done?
        "He came home to see her, and she died two days later," she says. "But he was with her almost every minute for those two days. I don't know if she knew how little time she had, but they stayed up all night talking. And she was laughing and telling stories. She must have been in pain that whole time, but she kept it from him. He had no idea. I could hear them talking. They were so lively and happy carrying on. If you could just have heard her voice, you would never have known there was anything wrong at all."
        
"Goddamn IRS, raided my account," says. Glenn, smoking a little cigar, which he holds between arthritis-gnarled fingers. On the wall are two clocks, both stopped. "My accountant says they're not supposed to do that. They're supposed to send you notice. IRS can do anything they want. I'll go down there tomorrow and see if I can get it back." He seems bemused by his own tax travails. He leans back in his chair and blows smoke.
        "This has been the most exciting five years of my life. My partner and I have borrowed more than a million dollars. For what? To make pizzas. Isn't that amazing? We grew too fast, though. Next time we'll move more slowly.
        "My partner is the front man. He talks to the investors and tries to convince them to give us money. Most of them are rich people who don't know what to do with their money. They figure they might as well make more money and think they can rip you off, that you're just some dumb fucker with a pizza shop. It works out as long as we satisfy their greed.
        "I've got nothing but time to work, now that all the kids have grown up and moved out. They've all got their own lives. Sean is down in Texas. He works as a mechanic. His wife is pregnant. Michelle is down in the southern part of the state with her kids. Colleen is out in Oklahoma. She's been in the hospital going through chemo. Her husband has filed for divorce. He says he can't take it. That son of a bitch. Can you imagine walking out on your wife and kid when she's sick like that? " Glen blows out a cloud of smoke and a curse, "Goddamn him!"
        He takes a breath. "Corrine still lives here in town. Her husband works at one of my shops. Once her two little ones are old enough to go to school, she says she's going to go to college and study literature.
        "Go ahead, I told her. As long as she doesn't waste her time on theology or some such bullshit." He pauses. "I guess you could say I have a little problem with God. My Sister dying, then my wife, how could there be any reason for that? The rest of the family is religious, but I have no place in churches. What I feel is no love of God. I don't hold it against anybody else, you know. They can pray all they want."

"On the morning Corrine died," says Grandma, "she asked for orange juice, and Pap went out to get some. It took him a long time for some reason, and all of a sudden, it struck us that she was going to die. We had all expected her to live for a while longer. The doctors had sent her home because there was nothing more they could do, but no one expected her to go so fast. When I think back on it, on how she was, you know, I think she knew.
        "Pap still hadn't come back, and I was real afraid that he wouldn't get back in time, that she would die before seeing him again. She was his favorite, I knew. They fought all the time, but he loved her because she was the only one that dared to stand up to him.
        "We were all gathered around her, and when we heard him come in the door, she shouted out for him before any of the rest of us could. He came running up the stairs and took her into his arms. He held her for a while and cried. Then ... she just passed on. That was it. We all stood around, not knowing what to do.
        "Pap was more or less sick for the rest of his life," says Grandma. "I think he may have had a nervous breakdown, you know. He was never the same. Towards the end, he was taking so many medications that he was just out of it."
        Grandma sits up and takes a deep breath and blows it out resolutely. "While you're looking for stories," she says brightly. "Did you ever hear the story of how my parents came to this country? Oh, it's a wonderful story–not like what we've been talking about all morning," she laughs.
        
"Do you remember some of the expressions he had?" Says Karen loudly, thinking of the ones she remembers and holding back a laugh.
        "Doesn't know shit from shinola," says Gary.
        "Doesn't know shit from fat meat," says Glenn.
        Grandma and Karen laugh.
        "People in hell want ice water," says Karen. "He used to say that all the time. Us kids would always be asking for something, and he'd say 'people in hell want ice water.' "
        "Doesn't know if Christ was crucified or hit by a bicycle," says Glenn, and all laugh.
        "Couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel," says Glenn, deadpan.
        Gary and Karen laugh. Grandma says, "Oh, I hated that one."