Letting the words out...

Words fail me. Well, not exactly fail obviously, or I wouldn’t be writing this, but sometimes I’m not sure that the words inside me should be allowed out. Words are such dependable things if you know how to use them. The problem is that we often don’t.

My wife’s father died at the weekend. She mentioned it, almost in passing, as we were driving along. For a moment I was a little rocked and began to say something sympathetic which of course was wholly inappropriate; the man was a philandering bully who’d walked out on my wife and her mother after years of rages, physical violence, and controlling behaviour. My wife was thirteen at the time. There followed a few years of enforced and quite degrading arranged meetings where, if he was in a good mood, keep-money would exchange hands. I guess we’d call it maintenance these days.

He was an awful man and after a while the money stopped, he didn’t ask to see her, and they didn’t see each other for 35 years despite him living in the same town. Then a few years ago he began to make noises about wanting to see my wife. Of course, as ever, it was all on his terms and she was to contact him. She didn’t and rightly so. It was for him to make the first move, seek forgiveness, admit to his shame, but of course he didn’t. Controlling bullies are like that.

When she heard from her mother that this man was dead my wife was given a number to ring. It belonged to the son of the woman he ran off with. She didn’t want to call. She told me that it felt like her father was controlling her from beyond the grave. In all honesty I could see her point, but eventually she did ring. I listened to the conversation, the words she used, the dignified way she told this stranger that she wouldn’t be going to the funeral and thanking him for letting her know. Afterwards she told me that this man, who may well be her father’s natural son, sounded shocked that she wouldn’t be going to see her father buried. What a fool he must be.

My wife’s father has been dead to her for years; a memory and a very bad one at that. Even now she still worries over those terrible times. I personally hope that he burns in hell. As many things do, his death made me think about my own trashy parental circumstance. It seems that her father and my father are out of the same dirty barrel; expecting respect where none is deserved, bullying because it makes them feel like the men they aren’t, controlling because they have no self control. As I said: I hope that he burns in hell.

Words are such dependable things if you know how to use them. The problem is that I often don’t. I hope that when it’s my turn to make the call I can do it with the same control, restraint, and dignity my wife showed. I don’t think I will, but I was really proud of her and the way she handled that conversation.

There, they’re out. Looks like words didn’t fail me after all.