Literary »

by John Seed

Illustrations: David Long

READ PART ONE HERE

Marcus was an only son, born after three miscarriages. He had been a handsome, appealing boy, and he was the subject of his father’s poems for several years. Still, Marcus couldn’t help noticing that after the age of ten, his father’s approval became more muted, his affection more distracted. In time, it all curdled into mild disapproval. Teenage Marcus chose – in the professor’s opinion – the wrong school activities, the wrong friends, and especially the wrong girls. Margo played the intermediary, but his father’s opinions lingered in the air. Even when Marcus finally excelled in something – soccer – Lorenzo rarely attended his games, and had trouble covering up the fact that he would really rather be at home writing.

Marcus’ first wife had married him, he quickly discovered, to gain access to Lorenzo. That was a disaster. In his second marriage, Lorenzo’s name often came up in arguments. “Your father patronizes you,” Nora would tell him. “That’s true,” Marcus would respond. “But please, let’s not bring my Dad into this.”

In essence, Lorenzo was in every aspect of Marcus’ life whether he was wanted or not. It was the “great man” effect. Growing up, there had been literally dozens of moments when a well-meaning adult at a book-signing or cocktail party had leaned down to ask him, “Young man, are you a poet too?” Lorenzo, when he overhead these things would gently intervene. “Well, he is quite a poet with a soccer ball…”

Although he did try, Lorenzo was not a good father to Marcus. He wasn’t a bad one either; mainly the father and son were mismatched. Friends of the family who observed the situation noted that fathering was really the only thing Lorenzo didn’t effortlessly do well. Paradoxically, Lorenzo could be fatherly towards students, but Marcus somehow grew up in the chilly shadow side of Lorenzo’s otherwise nurturing spirit.

With his father now dependent on him, Marcus rose to the occasion. Visitors commented on how well the house was running, and Lorenzo and Marcus got along better than they had in years. They were united by grief, and it helped that there were so many good restaurants in the neighborhood. Marcus enjoyed driving his father’s silver BMW, and he learned to sit back and enjoy the public moments when he overheard whispers at the next table. “Isn’t that Lorenzo Sifuentes?” The whisperers were often women his age, and over time Marcus began to relax and simply extend an invitation, “Won’t you join us?”

Spending more time with his father, Marcus began to realize that although Lorenzo would always effortlessly surpass him in nearly everything, maybe the old man’s style could be mimicked. When he was in public with his father, Marcus listened more carefully than before. He also began to re-read his father’s poetry, something he hadn’t done in years. He could see that it was great, but he was also struck by how disconnected it was from life’s realities.

By the summer after his wife’s death, the professor had become productive at the computer, and a new anthology of poems was slated for publication. Marcus made sure at the end of each work session that his father’s working files were saved and sorted, and that his publisher received the latest poems via email.

When the new book was almost complete, the professor’s health took a turn for the worse, and he became depressed. Marcus would coax his father through each day, drive him to the doctor’s office and turn most visitors away. In the evenings fights broke out between the father and son. Lorenzo, ill and morbidly obsessed, reminded Marcus of his shortcomings. But Marcus held his own. One evening, after a few beers, Marcus told his father the truth, in simple unvarnished language: “You were a good husband to Mom, but you never knew how to be a father to me.” Lorenzo cried and admitted that it was true.

“I have been very self-absorbed … and I had no father myself,” Lorenzo offered.

“I didn’t realize how much you needed my approval.”

These things needed to be said for years.

After that night, something changed. For the first time since his early childhood, Marcus began to feel genuinely appreciated and approved of by his father. Marcus, who had been knocking himself out to care for the ailing professor, realized that the approval was well deserved. From the day of his mother’s death, Marcus had made smart decisions, seen to his father’s needs, and shown competence in dealing with the people and situations that needed attention. Visitors had been noticing this too, and Lorenzo’s friends complimented Marcus on what he had accomplished.

“Because of you,” a visiting editor told him, “your father has been able to write again.”

While his father watched TV one evening, Marcus logged in to the computer to review the day’s writing and to organize the files that were accumulating. His father’s most recent poem “Columbine: The Virgin’s Sorrows” was nearly three pages long, and Marcus read it dispassionately. Almost unconsciously, Marcus went to the end of the poem and added a few lines. He had read enough of his father’s work to mimic the style.

Then, he went back through the poem and changed a few words. Just making these small changes felt liberating. It was like winning an argument that had gone on for years. Working on his father’s poem felt both wrong and wonderful. When the TV went off in the next room, Marcus deleted his changes and re-saved the file. At least, years later, when he went over and over what had happened, that is what he told himself he had done.

Two weeks later, Lorenzo died, peacefully, in his sleep. He and Marcus had both been in great spirits the night before. Lorenzo felt his illness was receding. They had eaten at Lorenzo’s favorite restaurant, shared a fine bottle of wine and laughed together. Anyone who saw them that evening would have assumed the father and son were each other’s best friends, and would have envied their close relationship.

The memorial service, which Marcus organized precisely as his father requested, had some off moments, but none of them were Marcus’ fault. The turnout was large, but not as large as expected. Many of the other writers, professors, poets and critics in Lorenzo’s circle had passed away, and a few that had been expected didn’t show up. Doris Larkin, Lorenzo’s literary agent for over 30 years, later phoned to offer personal condolences and then mentioned that she “just couldn’t handle the traffic.”

Jim Reiser, a literary critic and a lifelong friend of Lorezno’s, muttered his eulogy into the microphone and those in the back of the university chapel missed half of what he said. After the service, a bulb in the LCD projector burned out halfway through the Powerpoint of snapshots culled from Lorenzo and Margo’s photo albums.

It took the LA Times a few days to run Lorenzo’s obituary, and the New York Times ran only a short piece, written by a travel writer who had never met Lorenzo. All of the obituaries seemed to be largely based on Lorenzo’s Wikipedia entry, and there were a few small factual errors. Marcus made sure to write letters to the editor the next day to offer corrections.

Marcus decided not to sell his father’s house. There would be more than enough money to pay the property taxes and upkeep and hang on to it. He had practically been living there anyway, so he gave up the apartment. His sons came to stay for two weeks, the longest time they had spent together since his divorce from Nora. Marcus felt genuine grief over the loss of his father. He was also grateful that they had been able to resolve so much before the old man’s death. Marcus felt fortunate. He met a woman, and something about the new relationship felt right.

When his father’s book was released, Lorenzo Sifuentes: Final Poems, 2010, Marcus checked the papers every morning expecting so see a review, but nothing appeared. Eventually, Doris Larkin e-mailed him a link to a review that appeared in a new literary blog. It was a very short piece titled, “A Once Great Poet’s Surprising Last Verses.”

“Thirty years ago Lorenzo Sifuentes was considered one of America’s leading poets, but his reputation has been in decline. The publication of a small anthology of his final poems will likely reverse this trend. A poet once known for his obscure references and esoteric metaphors, just weeks before his own death of heart failure, Sifuentes apparently found himself confounded and challenged by the death of his wife Margo. Grief wrought a change in the poet’s approach.

“In Sifuentes’ final poem, ‘Columbine: The Virgin’s Sorrows,’ there is a surprising, unexpected and revelatory shift in tone. Sifuentes’ language, normally elusive, becomes lapidary and precise. Shifting from metaphorical speech to direct reference Sifuentes momentarily becomes another writer entirely. The result feels like a complete rebirth for a poet whose best years had seemed to be far behind him. ‘Columbine’ will be remembered as Sifuentes’ greatest poem, and is likely to cause a re-examination of interest in the poet’s prior works.”

Marcus sat at the monitor, absolutely silent for minutes, maybe even an hour.

“Oh fucking mother of Jesus!” he finally muttered out loud.

Then, Marcus screamed, to an empty house: “Papa! Papa, where are you? I need you!”

About the Author

John Seed is a professor of art and art history at Mt. San Jacinto College in Southern California. Winner of a 2002 Society of Professional Journalist’s award in art and entertainment writing, he has written about art and artists for Harvard Magazine, Maui No Ka Oi, Honolulu, Christie’s Hong Kong, Yerevan, and Stanford. Email him at: johnseed (at) gmail.com