Sorrow for Shame
The sound of running water and clanking dishes filled the kitchen. James stood at the sink. He scrubbed. He rinsed. He filled the dishwasher. One item at a time. Working on autopilot. His aging face was dark. Brooding. His tiring eyes burned. Looking through the objects of his task into a world of wearied frustration.
“Our son is crying behind a locked door.”
Maria’s question invaded the trance. She stood behind James. Same age. Less wear. The freezer door beside her was open. She removed a pint of ice cream from a paper grocery bag and placed it purposefully inside.
James answered without turning. He kept cleaning dishes, setting a plastic cup on the top rack of the dishwasher.
“Yep.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Maria placed shredded cheese into a drawer in the refrigerator.
“Yep.”
Three forks and a spoon went into the dishwasher.
“Are you going to tell me?”
Eggs beside the cheese. Mary closed the refrigerator door.
James stopped cleaning, resting his forearms on the sink’s edge. The glass he held hovered in midair above the remaining dishes.
“He did it again, Mary. He lied. Right to my face.”
James flinched as he spoke the last four words.
Mary’s eyes closed a moment. Her head dropped a little. The thin plastic bag of oranges in her hand spun open then closed then open again by her leg. Until it came to rest.
“What happened?”
James turned, looking at his wife. Eyes squinting. Mouth opened. Water dripping from the wet cup in his hands onto the floor.
“He lied straight to my face, Mary. He didn’t even blink.”
Mary looked down at her oranges. She placed them in a nearby bowl one at a time. Into a pyramid
“You said that. But why’s he crying?”
James watched Mary empty another grocery bag. Carrots. Potatoes. Apples.
James winced at the sight.
“Did you yell at him?”
James stared at the fruit.
“Did you raise your voice, James? Again?”
James looked up into Mary’s face. His jaw set. He put the dripping cup into the dishwasher. Then picked up a bowl.
“He needs to learn to stop lying. He needs to learn respect.”
Mary stepped closer. Just a little.
“What did you say to him?”
James shook his head as he put one bowl in the dishwasher and grabbed another.
“I don’t know. I told him he’s a disappointment. I called him ungrateful.”
Mary watched her husband clean. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice sharpened.
“That’s it?”
Another bowl into the dishwasher. James picks up a pan.
“No.”
Mary put the apples away. Then vegetables. Then pulled soup cans and saltines out of another grocery bag.
“I didn’t think so.”
Like jumping at a bees sting, James spun. His hands trailed his arms and shoulders. Soapy water from the scrubbed pan whipped at the counter and floor.
James’ eyes locked onto Mary’s. He stepped towards her. Chest heaving.
“What do you want me to do, Mary? Ignore it? Pretend it doesn’t happen? Pretend it’s okay?”
Mary’s face was blank. Her eyes unwavering. Her lips pursed.
“No, James. But let me ask you something. Is this how you yelled at him? Like you’re yelling at me now? Stepping forward? Making yourself bigger? Trying to make me feel smaller?
James blinked. His body shrunk.
“You kill flies with a sledgehammer, James. You make the consequence so much worse than the crime.”
James stammered a reply.
“Because it needs to stop. He needs to change! A little bit of guilt will do that.”
Mary stared at her husband. Crackers in hand. She chewed the inside of her lip. Then walked to the pantry.
“Maybe. Guilt can bring about change. When it comes from within. That’s not what you’re doing, though. Don’t you see that? What you do cuts much deeper. It’s crushing. And toxic. It doesn’t inspire change. It erodes hope.”
Silenced, James turned back to the sink. Rinsing the pan.
“Our son is crying because he’s wounded. A wound far greater than he can carry. A wound of your making.”
James placed the clean pan on the stove to dry. He then grabbed a mixing bowl. The last dirty dish. And began to scrub.
Mary folded one grocery bag. And then another.
“What did he do, anyway? What did he lie about?”
James didn’t answer.
“James.”
James breathed deep then let out a frustrating sigh.
“He ate my last apple.”
Mary laughed. A bitter, sad bark.
“An apple? Seriously?”
James slammed the bowl down into the middle of the now empty sink. Staring straight ahead.
“Yes Mary! An apple! My last apple. The one in my office fridge. But the apple isn’t the point. The point is the lying. Again. The point is the disrespect. Again The point is the . . .”
“Wait a second. Wait! A! Second!”
Mary shouted, overpowering her husband’s righteous indignation. Until both stood in silence. James staring through the black kitchen window. Mary watching the back of her husband’s head
“What?”
James question was a bitter bark.
“You said he ate your last apple?”
“Yeah.”
“The one in the refrigerator drawer?”
“Yes. I was saving it for myself.”
“I ate that apple, James. Before I left for the store.”
James had no response. Only silence. The running faucet roared in comparison.
James gripped the counter. Knuckles white. Forearms quivering. Shoulders shaking.
And the water ran. Filling the bowl that covered the drain. Overflowing. Spilling over the sides. Spreading along the bottom of the sink. Reaching the edge and rising. One inch. Two inches. Half-way.
Silence still.
James stared out the black window. Into the emptiness of night. His face a permanent scowl. His eyes distant and glassy.
When he moved, it was slow and deliberate. Heavy. Resigned.
James shut the water off. He turned and walked by his wife. Eyes down. Brow furrowed. Face stone.
James walked up the stairs. He walked down the hall. He stopped at his son’s closed door. He raised a loose fist.
Pausing, James breathed deep. It came out a tired sigh.
He knocked gently.
“David? Can we talk? I . . .”
His breath caught. His head dropped.
“I owe you an apology.”
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