Ask Me No Questions I Tell You No Lies
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My mother once told me about my dad, and how he loved to dance. She said she had no idea why, it wasn’t like his family was particularly well-to-do, but that when she would go with him, he would be smiling and dancing on the floor in a way that made her think of a kid at Christmas.
I’ve never been much for dancing myself, though my wife tells me I move better than most people can ever imagine, even before I took up fencing. But when I see someone else dancing well—and especially when they look happy doing it—it always makes me feel good.
And there are few things more joyous than watching a young couple on their wedding night who can hardly wait to get off the floor and into bed together, just as my mother used to say about my dad.
And so when I heard that there was going to be an auction of all these wedding gowns, I knew I wanted to buy one. There were several reasons, not least because I couldn’t resist a bargain, but also because I thought if we ever needed it again someday, the gown could help us through some hard times.
The dress itself wouldn’t save our lives or anything like that, but maybe just seeing the woman inside would remind me what it felt like to be a man in love.
It was a long time ago now, but I still remember it clearly. My bride wore a red silk dress from Saks Fifth Avenue—one of those high-dollar places with a million choices and a million prices. We’d gone in together to buy it; we didn’t have much money back then, just this small inheritance from his grandmother and whatever he earned working nights in an auto salvage yard in Cleveland.
He was twenty-seven, I was thirty-two, and he was handsome enough, tall with a great smile and big eyes and curly brown hair, all of which helped me to convince myself that I loved him. It had only happened that day. That morning. At eight-thirty sharp.
When we walked out of the chapel, I remember thinking that if he was really mine, then I might die. If we survived the first week of marriage, it would mean that everything was different, and maybe even right.
He held my hand tightly all afternoon. As we drove away from the courthouse, he smiled broadly at me in the mirror above the steering wheel.
“Don’t you dare let go,” I warned him? “Not until we’re home.”
We lived in a small house outside a little town called Elyria, Ohio, in a neighborhood of brick-fronted homes on tree-lined streets where we were surrounded by old oak trees, maples and oaks, sycamores, and elms.
Our place was a two-bedroom with a small living room and kitchen attached to a porch with a rusted swing under a maple. It wasn’t much, but it was ours, and when we got married, we moved right in.
That night, we danced. Not the way that my parents did, holding hands and shuffling around the dance floor like everyone else. This was a new kind of dance for us, an intimate dance for two. And it started out slow, with slow dances.
But as we learned about each other’s bodies, we began to spin around faster and faster until it became a whirl of energy, the wind whipping at my veil as he spun me in circles. All through dinner, he kept telling me how beautiful I looked.
And as we sat together after eating, talking and listening to music—the radio or maybe some records he had bought, I don’t remember exactly, but mostly country songs from the late ’70s—we found ourselves sitting closer and closer together.
Then we stood up and kissed, just for a moment, just long enough to make it clear that we both wanted something. Later that evening, after we’d eaten, we lay down in bed and talked until we fell asleep.
After a while, there was an awkwardness between us.
“What?” I asked him.
“Nothing.”
When he smiled at me, I saw his teeth were crooked. They weren’t very pretty, with one slightly larger than the rest, like they were growing sideways. But it didn’t seem like it bothered him. Maybe I should have mentioned it to my husband-to-be before he left me lying awake that night, waiting for sleep to come, wondering how I could ever trust anyone with my life. But I didn’t.
I thought if he cared enough to ask, we’d talk about it later. I figured he knew better than I did what my needs were. Or maybe just the opposite: he was worried that asking would make me uncomfortable like I couldn’t stand being different. Like I couldn’t handle being the odd man out.
“I love you,” he said.
His words brought tears to my eyes. It was true. His love was real. I had always believed it was true. Even if I hadn’t known it, I would’ve guessed that it was. I trusted that he loved me, too. So I didn’t tell him about his teeth. It wasn’t worth mentioning.
But maybe it made me question whether everything was really right.
***
The dress was in perfect condition, although the zipper was broken and the straps were fraying at the edges. The dress was white with blue stripes.
“Is this mine?” she asks again.
“Yes,” says my wife.
She’s wearing black underwear that has a pattern of green leaves and pink flowers. Her legs are smooth, but her arms aren’t; they’re covered with freckles. Her feet have never been painted. She can’t wear shoes without getting blisters, so my wife doesn’t like to buy them.
I’m sure if we had a bigger budget, my wife would find ways to treat my daughter’s skin, but there just hasn’t been room in our budget for such things. My daughter is five years old now, almost six, and every week, she asks the same question, over and over again, until my wife grows weary of saying yes and finally tells her to stop bothering me.
My daughter holds the dress up against her body and looks at it critically.
“Where’s the train?” she demands.
“There’s no train,” I say.
The dress makes a soft rustle when she moves.
“It looks like the dress your mother wore for her wedding,” I say.
“I want a train.”
“You’ll get the train on your wedding day, sweetie. You’ll see.”
“Can I try the dress on today? Please?”
My daughter looks up at me, her lips pursed, her eyes pleading, and suddenly, I know why my wife doesn’t want her to bother me. She wants her alone for just a few more minutes in this house without the worry of someone else’s voice interrupted us.
“Of course,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.”
We walk through the living room and into my office where the dress hangs behind the door. My daughter sits down in front of the mirror, turning back and forth in all directions. I sit next to her. We look at ourselves in silence for a while. Finally, my daughter turns toward me and points at my nose, which is red and swollen from the heat.
“… and then your grandpa gave me a ride in his big black car to the hospital,” she continues. “He said you had an accident and that he was going to take me to meet you there, so I could hold your hand.”
“No…” I hesitate, unsure of the best way to respond to the story.
“Daddy, tell me,” she pleads.
Why won’t my wife stop telling this stupid story? It happened over fifty years ago. I don’t want to relive it. Why can’t she leave it be?
“You were in the hospital in another city,” I say. “That was over thirty years ago.”
My daughter shakes her head impatiently. “Just tell me the end.”
“Okay,” I say. “When my grandfather drove me to the hospital, they said you were gone already.”
“Gone?”
“Dead… dead…” I pause.
She smiles, but I can see her face is starting to hurt. I think she must still feel the effects of her illness and the surgery that followed, even though she isn’t sick anymore.
But as long as I’m sitting here with her, looking at her reflection in the mirror, my daughter seems like my little girl again, the one who used to climb into bed with me each night, who loved to kiss my neck and stroke my face. Then my daughter touches the back of my hand. “Daddy?” she says. “Did you cry when my mommy died?”
I hesitate before answering, thinking about how to answer a child so young. If only she knew what I went through, if only she understood that losing my wife was nothing compared to the pain of watching someone you love die slowly, or worse yet, knowing that you caused their death because you didn’t have enough time to save them. I know that she will remember my answer, especially in her older years when memories come easily. So I choose carefully.
“It was terrible,” I begin. “And you cried too.”
My daughter nods. I can see the tears welling up in her eyes, and her shoulders shake slightly under my hand.
“You should have been asleep in your bed, sweetie,” I say. “But you came into my office after we got home, asking where your mama had gone. They asked you questions, and when I saw how sad you looked, I told you that your mother had died in a car accident. Your dad was driving and lost control of the car.”
“What did it look like?” my daughter asks, wiping away her tears.
“Like something out of a movie,” I tell her. “They said your seat belt saved your life, but you must not have worn it very well.” I touch the spot above my shoulder where I always felt her hands squeeze hard enough to make my muscles burn as if trying to break free from the restraints of my broken body.
My daughter puts her arms around my neck and hugs me, and I hug her back, letting myself enjoy the warmth of her body next to mine. For a moment, it feels good to have my daughter beside me again. Then my daughter pulls herself free and runs off to the dressing room, where she begins pulling on the dress and holding it up to her body.
A few days later, I take my daughter to visit her grandparents. The whole family has gathered together, and there are presents and laughter everywhere. There’s even cake. My daughter is surrounded by friends who all want to hear the latest news about her trip to New York and to learn more about her first day of school, even though she’s still three years old.
And my wife looks beautiful in her new blouse and pantsuit. After everyone takes their seats for dinner, I take a chair next to my father-in-law, who is leaning over me, talking to me across the table. My daughter stands between us, clutching her grandmother’s hand.
“Are you sure about your daughter being in school?” he asks. He’s not referring to the age, which is two years younger than my daughter.
“Yes,” I reply. “I talked to the principal, and she seemed confident. And she told me she could teach her letters and numbers just like any other kid.”
“I hope your wife agrees with you,” he says, glancing over his shoulder toward my daughter.
The food smells delicious, and my stomach rumbles, but I’m suddenly unsure whether to eat. It seems strange to celebrate a birthday party without my wife.
“You’re going to miss her a lot,” my father-in-law tells me.
“Yeah. I mean…” I hesitate. “I’ll be busy at work, and my daughter wants to go to school so bad. She’s already excited about kindergarten.”
For once, Dad has agreed with me instead of arguing with me about why I’m going to be such a bad parent by putting my daughter in school at such an early age. We’ve had this same conversation many times before.
His wife, Mom, would always tell him not to worry—that the only thing I need to do is raise his daughter right, and that school doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. When I was a boy, I don’t think my parents ever imagined that the future would hold so many challenges for their children.
After dinner, I carry my daughter’s cake onto the lawn outside and cut slices from the bottom layer, which is pink and decorated with blue flowers and stars. My daughter watches intently as I cut, and then she holds her piece out for Dad to slice.
When we sit down on the grass, I give my daughter a candle and help her blow it out, and we sing happy birthday with her friends. My daughter eats her cake in one bite, and when she runs back inside, I watch as her friend, Lizzie, tries to copy her, but falls short.
“That’s okay,” my daughter says. “It’s fun playing with you, Lizzie.”
Then my daughter goes running into the house, and my father-in-law reaches out and gives me his hand.
“Happy birthday, son,” he says.
My mind flashes back to another party: Christmas Eve, five years ago. We celebrated with family and friends—the only people who knew what the next year held for our little family. The gifts were stacked high under the tree, waiting for Santa to arrive.
There was no way to hide the fact that we were struggling. I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud, but it didn’t seem like a proper celebration without my wife there.
We’d been married for less than two years. It wasn’t long after we got engaged that we found out we were expecting a baby girl. Our families were ecstatic. They had never expected to have a second generation, let alone a granddaughter, and now here it was
But we weren’t ready to start planning for the future yet. It hadn’t even been a full month since our wedding when they sent us home from the hospital with our bundle of joy.
But Christmas came around, and we went ahead with the festivities as best we could, knowing it might be the last time we were able to celebrate the holiday together. My dad and I spent hours hanging stockings on the mantel and placing presents beneath them. I even wore a pair of antlers while I helped my daughter hang garland around the windows.
Christmas Eve night comes, and we gather everyone together to exchange gifts. It feels a bit like a funeral. The only ones missing are my mother and grandmother, who died earlier in the year. Dad has put up a brave face throughout the day, making light conversation with his sister-in-law, but he looks sad and lost.
At some point, he gets up and goes into the kitchen, and I hear him talking to his brother. I can see Dad’s shoulders shaking as he cries. A few minutes later he returns carrying his guitar case—his old Fender—and he hands the instrument to me.
“Your mom gave me this guitar before she left us. I asked her why she wanted me to have it. She said she thought it would be a good reminder of everything we’re losing with you.”
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I open the case and pull out the Gibson ES-335. It’s a beautiful instrument with an unusual rosewood finish, but my fingers feel nothing as I pick up the strings. I don’t know how to play guitar.
I’m a terrible singer too, but Dad tells me he thinks music is a natural talent most men possess. He told me that when he was young, my grandfather sang to him every night before bed, and Dad loved the way Grandpa made his voice sound so strong.
Dad used to try to imitate the old man, but no matter what he did, he still sounded like a frog croaking in water. Dad said that my grandmother could also sing, but she didn’t do it enough to be any good. She mostly sang songs that reminded her of happier times with her mother and sister.
Dad’s parents were killed in an auto accident when he was nine, so my grandparents raised him and my father-in-law as best they could until he was old enough to take over the job. After that, my grandparents raised their grandchildren.
Dad hands me his own guitar and shows me the chords he’s written on the strings. I press the keys gently and listen carefully, trying to figure out what notes I need to play to make it work. I strum the strings and close my eyes. The sound doesn’t come easily, but I manage it in about a dozen takes. My father-in-law smiles and claps, and then the guests begin to sing the song my father wrote for us.
The words are soft and gentle and flow from their lips with ease—a stark contrast to how I felt when I struggled to learn the tune.
As the music winds down, my father-in-law stands up, walks across the room, and picks up the microphone, which I’d placed next to the keyboard. He looks at me and smiles.
“I think your wife would’ve loved this one,” he says. Then he begins to play.
The End