Reunion
We pulled into my brother’s driveway. Because of the downpour, Julia and I rushed out of the car and up to the door. Margie, my sister-in-law, let us in. Her usual sing-song manner was muted. I spotted David sitting in his recliner, staring into space, resembling a family member who has to greet relatives at a funeral. At least their two boys were happy to see their uncle and soon-to-be Aunt Julia.
Before I could greet him, my brother looked up at me. “Do you remember Dick and Jane?”
“Huh? Dick and Jane? Like the books we read in first grade?”
“No, pets.”
I shook my head. “We had pets?”
“Yeah, we had rabbits. I suppose I did name them after the book characters. I had forgotten about them. We played with them a lot. And one day, they were gone. They’re in the film.”
“David, are you telling me that, in this long-lost movie, a pair of rabbits is the highlight? Hell, if I knew that, perhaps I would’ve waited.”
My brother forced a smile. “Maybe I should have mentioned that.” He glanced at the floor as if I weren’t there.
“Earth to Dave—now that we’re here, can we see the film?”
He rose. Margie stayed with the kids as Julia and I followed David into the long den. My parents’ old projector was set on the dining table. Beyond, at the other end, in front of a window with the drapes closed, stood a pull-up screen.
“You know how to work this,” he mumbled. “I’ll wait outside.”
Surprised that he wouldn’t watch with me, I refrained from speaking until he shut the door.
Less than an hour before, I was at my apartment getting ready to leave for my brother’s. As I checked myself in the mirror, I saw Julia enter the room.
“I hate canceling dinner with my folks,” she said. “It’s important to me.”
“I know. We’ll pass near their house. I can drop you off.”
“No, Benny, don’t. David’s concerned for you. He wanted me to convince you not to go, but I refused, so he insisted I accompany you.”
“Julia, please, no more ‘Benny.’ It’s Ben. I’m not a kid anymore.”
She laughed. “Okay, Ben—Benny.”
We had driven in the rain from Westchester down to Queens, anxious to view a home movie that had surfaced after thirty years of not knowing if it even existed. The film, about a barbecue at my parents’ house in 1958, turned up when the family of a deceased former neighbor found it in his belongings and contacted David. They arranged for the old, 8-millimeter film to be sent.
“Benny boy,” David had said, over the phone, “the film’s a dud.”
“Your kids can call me Benny, but not you, not anymore. Everyone at my new job calls me Ben, OK? So stories about people getting drunk and carrying on aren’t true?”
“Nope. It’s just people hanging out and mugging at the camera. It’s the blandness that I associate with the Fifties.”
“You’re too young to remember the Fifties.”
“I have a few memories.”
I did too, but mine were specks. He was born in ’53, I in ’56, and our parents split up in ’61. Despite having to move out of our home and shuttle between two apartments, I was told it was an amicable parting. In 1961, families splitting apart were the exception. However, as mores changed, if a couple feared ending their relationship because of the possible adverse effect on their children, they could say, “Look at David and Benny; they turned out fine.”
Our parents, now gone, avoided discussing the past. Any pre-breakup stories we heard came from relatives with contradictory recollections and thus were not helpful. But rumors persisted about footage from a supposedly eventful party. Now, we had confirmation.
“David, you’re keeping something from me.”
“Ben,” he had said. “I didn’t think you’d be so passionate and impatient about the movie.”
He had a point. Why now? “I guess, whenever I get together with Julia’s folks, there’s always great family stories. Seeing this film, I might get a few tales of my own to tell.”
After the door to the den closed, I said, “What can this film possibly show that seems to possess him? Could my parents appear so foolish?” A few feet ahead, on a table, was the family projector.
“Maybe they did something to be ashamed of,” Julia suggested. “Perhaps something…illegal?”
“No. Whatever they were, they weren’t crooked.” A thought ran through my mind. “Gosh, could it be that a nasty fight breaks out? Like early signs of cracks in the marriage?”
“Oh man, I hope it’s not that,” she said, turning the lights off and coming by me. “If I witnessed my folks coming apart, I think I’d be haunted for the rest of my life.”
Taking a seat next to the projector, I felt for the ‘on’ switch and stopped, my hand in mid-air. In the pitch-black darkness, we heard the rain smack the roof. I reached for Julia. She clasped my hand.
“I can handle it.”
“Of course you can.” She poked my side. “You are Ben, strong and mature.”
“Stop it. Let’s see what this is all about.” I started the machine.
The celluloid sprockets made a soft popping sound as they whizzed through the projector. Numbers flashed on the screen and counted backward from ten. Silent images of a once-green yard, now a pale yellow, appeared. Our home until ’61. The camera panned right to left, revealing a fenced-in garden. It must have been August; I could see a pair of nearly grown tomato plants, ready to be harvested. Beyond them, I made out the cage with the rabbits. Plastic dishes and drinking cups, once colorful, now lusterless, were set on tables.
People, in their twenties, most of them strangers to me, wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts. Two women tossed a beach ball. Some, realizing they were being recorded, came close to the camera and waved. Vaguely familiar faces crossed their eyes or stuck their tongues out, like kids do at the zoo.
The camera focused on the rear of our house. A woman exited the door, and the neighbor filmed her as she descended the stairs carrying a tray of sandwiches. A man poured drinks for the guests. Another woman, in a two-piece bathing suit, spun a hula hoop around her body and received intense attention from two men.
My late Uncle Jack appeared from the left and beckoned the neighbor to follow him. He did so, and the picture bounced terribly. Uncle Jack tapped the shoulder of a man by a grill. He turned, and it was my father! He stood straight, slim, and athletic in his shorts and shirt. He resembled David in the way my brother is now. I couldn’t get over his youth. Although I had a few photos of him young, it was startling to see him in action.
Dad laughed and motioned his older brother to turn around. Taking a long fork, he pretended to stick it into my uncle’s rear end and pull something out. He put the fork, already with a frankfurter on it, by his nose and shook his head, grimacing.
“Gross,” commented Julia.
“Not the man I remember.”
My mother came into the frame. Her face was smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. Her jet-black hair bounced across her shoulders and shone in the sunlight. Playfully, she slapped Dad’s posterior to “punish” him for being offensive. As they both laughed, Dad suddenly grabbed Mom, and the two embraced in a passionate kiss. He lowered her in a tango-like dance move, the two giggling and kissing. He held her, almost touching the grass; he gazed into her eyes, and she massaged his hair. I felt like a typical little kid, embarrassed as his parents displayed affection for each other. Others at the party encircled them and waved, cheering them on. A couple came over and pulled them apart. The woman winked at the camera and wagged her finger at my mother as if saying, “Now, now, not in public.”
I saw us! David, five at the time, wearing a cowboy hat, came running. I was stunned by the resemblance his two boys have to him at that age. I followed in, wobbling like a duck, wearing nothing but diapers. I tripped and fell. I must have hurt myself because I began to whimper. As David tried to stand me up, Mom quickly knelt, and using her hands, she gently swept the dirt out of my hair. With her finger, she tapped my chin, tilted my head up, and kissed my forehead. We smiled at each other.
Dad lifted me onto his shoulder and carried me over to the rabbit cage. He opened the door to allow me to pet them. The bunnies bolted out, leaping onto the grass.
“See what you’ve done!” my mother mouthed to my father.
A guest chased after the rabbits as they raced into the garden. Others fell to their knees and crawled through the tomato plants to try to catch them. Holding bottles of beer, my parents waved the rabbit police on. The woman with the hula hoop kept it spinning. The beach ball bounced across the yard. The hares divided, bounding in opposite directions under tables and chairs. People jumped out of the way, spilling their drinks. My brother and I raised our arms high, spinning in circles, celebrating the bunny breakout. David got on his knees and tackled Daddy’s ankles. Mom and Dad dropped down to the ground and proceeded to wrestle the two of us, tickling our bellies until we tumbled into a wild, festive scramble. We were a tangle of fun, giggling, and trying to stay together as we rolled and came apart in the grass.
The film ended; the sound of the sprockets running through the projector faded.
Julia turned on the lights. She saw a glaze in my eyes. “Ben, are you okay?”
I raised my hand and stared at my splayed fingers. “I have no memory of anything like this,” I whispered. “We were once a family. I never knew that happy, joyous moments once existed. Why did they split up?”
“Who knows? Things happen.”
“You don’t understand!” I made a fist and slammed the table. “You have dinner with your family every week, and it’s all great. I never had that. And you know what? I no longer care that they had reasons, good or bad, for breaking up. Thanks to them, much of my childhood was denied. David felt it too, the void, the black hole, upon seeing the film. He wanted to protect me from this.”
“He could not.”
“Of course, he could not. I hate my parents.”
“Ben, don’t be so hard on them. Suck it up. I’m here for you.”
I rose, almost knocking the chair over. We stood face-to-face. “And what can you do?” I wiped my eyes. “Bring back a life that never occurred?”
“No.” Her voice softened. “But maybe I can help.”
She reached out and drew my head into her shoulder.
“So,” she said, stroking my hair. “Is it going to be Ben or Benny?”
© Joe Del Castillo
Joe Del Castillo lives on Long Island, New York, and is a member of the Long Island Writers Guild. He has been published in New Pop Lit, Home Planet News, October Hill, Macrame Literary Journal and Luminaura.
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