A Family of Sighs and Adorations

A Family of Sighs and Adorations

By the time we were living in Haiti, I had long given up the hope of a normal life.

As a child, I had wanted nothing more than an angora twin set cardigan, and to drink cherry cokes at the lunch counter of Woolworths with my friends. Instead, Poppy was developing wells in Haiti and we children were being driven around by Papa Doc’s henchmen. It was far from a conventional upbringing but we had unconventional parents.

Poppy, as a hydrogeologist, had the most stamps of all of us in his very British passport. He settled in Canada where people had difficulty understanding his English accent and after fifteen years there, the Brits had a hard time understanding his diluted British speech. Becoming a world citizen isn’t comfortable. Sometimes you don’t know where you belong. His gentle accent, and the way he says ‘wata’ for water reminds me of a country gentleman. I always vision him, dressed for the field, in khaki shorts with many pockets containing maps and measuring devises.

Haley insisted we call her that and not Mom which gives a false impression that she was not maternal. Nothing could be farther from the truth. She was dedicated to raising us and while not overtly affectionate, she was loving. She was a no nonsense mother who home schooled us in an exotic fashion. When we went to university, the professors were either startled at our knowledge or astounded at our ignorance. Talking about Plato’s four divine madnesses was common fare but we were disappointingly shaky on π r². Haley had an abstruse belief that the humanities were all that was necessary for an education. Haley also believed a family should stick together and she pitched our destinations with the fervor of a southern Baptist preacher.

“Clean water for thousands of people. Think of it. What an opportunity to see a wretchedly poor country get potable water,” said Haley enthusiastically. “It’s history happening before our very eyes. What an experience to be living in Haiti,” she said.

Tristan looked at our mother with undeniable contempt, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and chucked his rice and beans into the garbage. At eighteen, he was waiting to go to college in the U.S.

“God, what I’d give for a hamburger,” he said. “Let me understand this. Poppy has a job in Botswana and we aren’t even going back home first?” he asked.

“Travel is an education in itself,” said Haley. “We have never lived in Africa so it will be exciting.” Haley could make taking out the garbage sound like an adventure.

“Haley, these kids could do with some stability. They don’t even know where home is,” Tristan barked. “The other day, Hepzibah’s teacher asked her where she was from and she thought it was a trick question.”

“You are being overly dramatic Tristan. We are going and that is all there is to it.” Haley had the final word.

                                                                    ***

We left Haiti for Lobatse, a small African village with little more than dusty roads, skinny dogs, and primitive huts. Poppy was working at the Botswana Geological Survey in a mousy colored building next to the mental hospital. We were living out of suitcases in the only hotel in town.

“Let’s go for a walk and see what we can find,” said Haley.

We located the local soccer club, set up by the Survey employees, Europeans on loan to help Africans develop water systems.

“Look,” said Yehudi, “they have a dress code.” There was a large white board with demonstrative black printing and lots of exclamation points after the rules.

“It has to be a hundred humid degrees out and these people want tucked in shirts and socks rolled three times,” laughed Tristan, “Unbelievable!”

Haley was boundlessly tolerant of cultural differences in a way that she was never tolerant with the variations of her own children. If I had to fault her it would be for that. She wanted all of us to love books; to read; to be open minded; to value experiences more than material things. Yet she was completely closed to the idea of Tristan joining the navy.

“Tristan, the navy doesn’t want individualists. They will crush your creativity and make you a robot. You will never be able to speak your mind,” she warned.

“Haley, I’m going to go to a university with an N.R.O.C.T. program and then I’m joining the Navy.” Tristan’s mind was made up.

Those were trying times for our older brother because it was time for him to leave the nest. Yehudi and I were four years younger and Botswana was just another place on the map ripe for discovery. We loved the freedom of rural Africa and we spent hours with our friends being teenagers. Yehudi and I never noticed the cultural differences; we had bopped around all our lives. Besides, we had each other. We were close, not only because we were twins, but because we were oddities in foreign lands.

“Poppy’s home!” I yelled.

“Hello Hepz, how is my favourite girl?” Poppy asked.

Poppy’s fair skin was mottled an angry red and he seemed especially tired. We were all vying for attention in the way families are just naturally competitive.

“I’m going to change my name,” I said. “What ever possessed you to call me Hephzibah?”

“Your mother loves the beautiful music that Yehudi and Hepzabah Menuhin made together and she thought as twins you would also have a special relationship,” explained Poppy in Haley’s defense.

“Haley failed to notice that you are neither Russian nor Jewish,” Tristan said. This seemed like a dangerous comment to me. “Hepz, haven’t you noticed we all have weird names?”

“They are not weird names,” said Haley, “they are unique.”

Tristan’s horsy face cracked a grin and then he clutched his gut as if the laughter hurt. Poppy was at the other end of the room petting the dog. He was obviously not interested in keeping up the conversation.

“You pay more attention to the dog than you do to your own children,” Haley grumbled.

“God damn it Haley. Can’t I have a bit of peace after a day in the field? Of course I pay more attention to the dog. The kids were free. I paid three hundred bucks for the dog!” He knew how to push her buttons.

Haley backed off, not saying anything more as Poppy continued to read an outdated newspaper from the States.

“The U.S. is a military advisor in Vietnam. War was coming,” Poppy said from behind the newspaper.

“That’s why I’m going to go to Marquette University,” said Tristan.

“Why would you go there? It’s a Catholic school,” said Haley.

“If I’m going to get drafted, I might as well go in as an officer,” said Tristan and my father lowered his newspaper to look at him.

                                                          ***

Tristan was platoon commander for his NROTC group the third year of university. We were back in the U.S then and Poppy was working on salt water intrusion problems in California.  Tristan was sent to Pensacola, Florida for six weeks. Part of the routine involved marching in formation back and forth from the barracks to the mess hall. It was miserably hot and the platoon was less than enthusiastic. There was an officer’s station at the base and a Lt. Commander happened to notice the lack of perfect formation. (I heard this story from another student who was in the same platoon.)

“You guys are supposed to be in step. Stop these motherfuckers!” yelled the officer to Tristan.

“Motherfuckers halt!” commanded Tristan.

It was his last day as platoon commander. Tristan found out the navy wasn’t as broadminded as Haley. Tristan went to war on a mine sweeper as an officer and came home after a year and a half to a respectable job as an engineer. Haley was overly attentive to Tristan. She realized how close to losing her child she had come. She doted on him until finally in exasperation he yelled at her.

“Haley, for Christ sake back off will you.”

Yehudi, my twin brother, came home from Vietnam too, never to leave the country again. He was buried at Arlington. Poppy was devastated. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.  He looked like a dog that has been beaten but doesn’t understand why.

“It should have been me instead of Yehudi,” said Tristan with both guilt and tears in his eyes.

“Don’t talk like that. War is senseless. We lost Yehudi in a stupid war but we are thankful to have you home,” said Poppy.

I gave the eulogy at my twin’s funeral because I did have a special relationship with him. He was the finest person I have ever known. I was strong until I said,

“I will never get to play beautiful music with Yehudi again.”

The reality of his death hit me, as I stood on the podium, with a force stronger than any tropical storm I had known. A part of me was gone, and I have gone through life with the feeling of missing something.

Poppy and Haley are in their eighties now and live in a remote area of Brazil. The last time I talked to Haley she was very introspective.

“Hepzabah, do you think I was too hard on you kids? Do you think living all over the place was a mistake?”

“No Haley, those were wonderful experiences. I wouldn’t have traded our life for the Partridge family.”

“Who is the Partridge family, Hepzabah?”

“The perfect American family. It’s a TV program.”

“Darling you should read more and watch less TV,” she said.

Tristan and I talk often. We have never married and wonder why. We think our upbringing schooled us in outsidership. We have never settled down or become part of a community for very long. We change jobs often and move every few years.

“I think I’ve turned into Haley,” I told Tristan the last time he called, “I’m moving to Belize.”

“That’s OK, Hepz," he said, “I like steely women.”
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