Father's Day with multiple fathers

Father’s Day has always made me a little uncomfortable although I should say from the git that I like fathers, I think fathers should be honored, and I’ve got nothing against Father’s Day. And if it’s your custom to gift a new tie, or little bags of golf tees (the Pride Golf Tee Co. sells a 70 count bag for $6.99 on line), or barbecue or gardening tools to the man you call Dad, Pop, Pa, or Papa, certainly don’t let anything I’m about to say here stand in your way. It’s only that my relationship to fathers in general is highly idiosyncratic, which means that come Father’s Day I’m always left feeling confused and a little bit anxious.

The trouble began when I was 7. My dad, or my “real dad,” as I later came to call him, died 3 months before of a sudden heart attack. I remember the awkwardness of my second grade teacher when it was time for the class to make cards. That was the year the second grade curriculum dictated we make paper doily portraits and glue them to construction paper. Even after I bluntly told the teacher my father was dead and there was no one for me to give the card to, Mrs. Englehart insisted I participate. “Don’t you have a grandfather or something you can give the card to?” she said, unhelpfully, as my mother and her own father were not on speaking terms. When it came time to select what color construction paper I was supposed to glue the doily on, I insisted on black, which already was my favorite color, but just happened, unbeknownst to me (after all, I was only 7) to be the international shade of mourning. The teacher was so flustered at my choice, she sent me to the principal’s office where I sat alone in a corner, reading “Mrs. Piggle Wiggle’s Magic,” so as not to upset the other children.

My mother acquired a boyfriend shortly after, and for the next few years I dutifully, even happily, gave Father’s Day gifts to the man I called Uncle Charlie. Charlie, better known in South Jersey as “Camp Cotton,” was an attorney who had an illustrious, if brief career after World War II in Nuremberg, where he was part of a judicial commission investigating war crimes. By the mid 1960’s his law practice was handling minor criminal cases and the occasional divorce; he spent much of his time as an outspoken civil rights proponent. I adored him since he was funny and irreverent and introduced me to clams on the half shell and horses at the Atlantic City Racetrack. He was a source of endless frustration to my mother who wanted to marry him; already married 3 times, he eluded her grasp. Finally she broke up with him and moved far away; for a few more years I continued to live with him and his untidy brood of children from all his previous marriages. For Father’s Day every year I gave him a fishing lure, some of which were quite beautiful, and something he always appreciated. Charlie had a grand collection of rods and reels, which he stored by leaning them up against the walls of the dining room in the rented ramshackle mansion on Atlantic Avenue where we lived. Besides TB racing, fishing was his passion. He had a boat, a cabin cruiser called the Merry Chip, which he kept in a slip at the Atlantic City Marina (now Harrahs). I spent many summer mornings on that boat, studying handicapping tip sheets for his afternoons at the track.

My mother married a man named Maurice one summer while I was at sleep away camp. She met him and dated him and married him in just under six weeks. That was the summer I was 13. Imagine our mutual surprise when we met. They didn’t stay married long enough for me to celebrate with him a Father’s Day. My mother blamed me for the failure of their union. In hindsight, she probably was correct.

A couple of years later she met a man named Martin and before they married, they dated a whole year. During the 3 years I lived with them in an apartment in Woodbury, N.J. over a dental office, the only thing Martin wanted for Father’s Day was a bottle of Four Roses, or, in a pinch, Mateus. He had terrible taste in booze. He was an alcoholic and would basically drink anything that contained alcohol and was wet; once, on a Sunday night when the liquor stores were closed, in desperation, he sucked down mouthwash. I was pretty mean to Martin although he was unfailingly nice to me. My mother at the time was in one of her suicidal, dish throwing, obscenity-laced phases. Just about anything could set her off, including Martin’s most mundane habits. He was a cigarette smoker and she loathed cigarettes; plus he didn’t much care for food, or going out, and she loved restaurants and a night of glamour. Even though I didn’t like him, I defended him to her. One of the best things he ever did was drive around with me when I got my learner's permit. The moment we got in the car, he strapped a sleep mask around his head. Eyes fully covered, he dozed for 40 minutes as I steered his Impala around town, never commenting, never criticizing. That was great.

This year for Father’s Day I will give the father of my son the gift of lunch out in Greenwich, possibly, or maybe New Canaan, at his favorite Indian restaurant. If he's in the mood, we may tarry awhile in the men's department at Ralph Lauren’s. I haven’t asked my son what he is giving his dad for Father's Day, only that it won’t be a lace paper doily on construction paper. Bless his heart; he’s way too old for that.