Steve Braunias
Steve Braunias takes a voyage around his father’s shirt
He said he needed a shirt. We hadn’t seen him for a year, maybe longer; I don’t remember too much about childhood, an occasional fact, mainly just vague notions of absence, wanting to hide, and wanting to forget. Also sunshine and seashells. We lived on a glittering coast. He left for the cold, alpine middle of another island, shacked up with another woman, wanting another life. But he had to come back to the life he left behind to visit sometimes.
He walked into the bedroom where my older brother Trevor had slept. Trevor was a quiet and pale genius of the guitar. He played in blues bands as the lead guitarist. Everyone knew him as Fly. He would sit on the back lawn and practise for hours and hours; if you tried to talk to him, he’d just stare right through you, his mind lost in music. He left home to play guitar with a band on a cruise ship. There was talk that Fly had sailed all the way to Australia. He opened a drawer and rummaged through Trevor’s old clothes. It would have taken a two-day drive, as well as the ferry crossing. He might have packed a few spare clothes and put them in the back seat but I doubt it. He liked to travel light; he was a blithe spirit, a cheerful little Austrian who wore a feather sticking out of the band of his felt hat and his feet barely touched the ground.
He found a shirt he liked. It was a paisley shirt. More than that, it was a lilac paisley shirt, in outrageous patterns, with wide collars and loud buttons. It was made of unnatural materials – 100 per cent pure polyester – and it spoke of psychedelic visions, guitar solos from outer space, long hair and golden youth. But he would have been in his 50s, maybe closer to 60. He never lost his hair and always kept it short. He wore cardigans, moccasins, housepainter’s overalls.
He tried the shirt on. What was I doing in the room? Was I following him around? I was probably following him around. Shy, whitehaired, thin as paper, I didn’t know what else to do. I found it strange and a little exciting that he was back in the house. It was his house. He built it. Of course he painted and wallpapered it; the sign advertising his trade still hung above the garage door, with our phone number that no one rang anymore. But he didn’t belong in the house. He was like a ghost, haunting us in broad daylight.
He was a ghost in a paisley shirt. I was wandering around the mall the other day and saw some guy walk past wearing a paisley shirt and not all of it came flooding back, more like drops of it, small glimpses of the day, the moment, that my father buttoned himself up in my brother’s shirt. Maybe he couldn’t afford to buy a new shirt. He had to wear a shirt that one of his sons left in a drawer. He chose a shirt that had long gone out of fashion and no one of any age would be seen dead wearing. He was a clown in that shirt, laughable, except it wasn’t funny. I didn’t know exactly what
I felt and I still don’t except that it made a very big impression on me and I was filled with things such as anger and shame, also sorrow and pity and whatever other incoherent derangements of love.
He announced that he was happy with the shirt. It was a good fit, he said. Certainly it was a tight fit. I thought: what if someone sees you? And: when are you going to leave? Also: are you staying for dinner? I was too selfinvolved to think what my poor mother was feeling. He strode around the house where he failed his family, a silly old fool, in good humour, not a care in the world, light-hearted, at once a pauper and a prince. All parents are embarrassing, fathers especially so. He was too old for that shirt. He should have avoided having any involvement with that shirt. But I had to give him credit: he actually kind of carried it off. He looked pretty darned fine. He gave a merry wave when he backed his car down the driveway and out of our lives for another year, maybe two, my father in lilac.
NEXT WEEK: Diana Wichtel