Running from Home
I would travel a lot photographing Roma, or Gypsies. This is a true story.
c 2007 Gennaro Brooks-Church
The main difference between Ireland and England is the choice of beer. The Irish prefer Guinness and for some reason this makes them nicer people. Or so I reasoned as I held on to my bar stool in a smoky Irish pub, full of running children and soft old drunks with black teeth. I was there to photograph Gypsies for a book I was working on, but I was really there to get away from New York, my girlfriend Jennifer, my apartment, and my life. After I left home I had inherited my father’s restlessness, and I was successful on this count, across the ocean, on the move away from anything familiar. But I was not having luck finding Gypsies. The only lead I had was that they lived on the outskirts of town, in fields full of mud and barking dogs, beaten upon by relentless rain. But after several days of trudging I had only come across a small handful of people who might have been traveler types, but were definitely not descendants of the people who had left India ten centuries ago and entered Europe as “Egyptians,” soon to be called Gypsies. To boost morale and numb my already-numb-with-cold body, I began visiting bars, and as time went fruitlessly by, my time in bars increased.
It was on one of these visits that an old man leaned towards me and slurred, “Go to Wales.” he paused to light a cigarette and place it between his teeth, blackened from seventy years of Guinness and tobacco. “Go to Wales, there’s the true Gypsies.”
So, I went to Wales, more to get away from the depression of not finding Gypsies than for any wish to visit Britain. Unlike the Irish, the British seem to have let the wet and drab weather enter their veins, seeping them with humid hospitality and a waterlogged spirit. I took the midnight boat across the channel, rain and wind churning the dark sea, splashing and rolling the boat from all sides, and by the time I arrived in Wales I was sickly tired. It was gray dawn when we disembarked. In the cloudy horizon it was getting light, but I knew the coming day could not shake the grayness, as if the night would not completely let go and the sun had simply quit trying to rise completely.
It was January 7th, Jennifer’s birthday. I didn’t feel like calling her. I was sick of being responsible. I let the great expanse of ocean protect me. I would defy logic and claim there was no phone where I was.
I fell asleep in a cheap bed and breakfast, waking a few hours later to the sickening smell of old frying oil. I dressed and left. On the outskirts of this small fishing town, I found a downtrodden caravan with some chickens and an old lady who did not want to be photographed. She sent me somewhere else where I found more derelict sites with people who were unsure whether they had a gypsy heritage, but were sure that they did not want to be photographed. My morale fading, I thought of ending the trip. This would mean reconnecting with everything I had left, but my feet were cold and I was tired. From the train station, I called Lillian in London. She was a childhood friend.
“Gennaro!” Her voice sounded worried. “Have you spoken to your mother?”
“No, why?” I was apprehensive. My mother would call only if it was an emergency and I did not want to reconnect with my life in such an abrupt way.
“So you don’t know?”
“What?”
She paused, unsure how to speak. “You have to call her…it’s really important.”
“Why?”
“Your dad…he’s …sick.”
I heard the words. My dad is sick. I did not let them in.
The day got heavier, the train station sounds slowing down in the thickening air.
“Listen, I’m close to you, maybe a few hours.”
“Really, are you coming by? Will I see you?”
“I have more work to do, but yes…” Seeing her meant re-attaching my umbilical cord to New York, my family, Jennifer. It also meant respite from the mud and dogs and rain. “Yes, I’d like to come by,” I said.
“This thing with your dad-“
“Drop it.”
The phone began to make clicking sounds. “Listen, I’m gonna be cut off, I’ll call you when I’m coming.”
I took a train to another part of England, where Gypsies were meant to be. I found more fields, hit hard with rain, and some bars with stout beer. I did not see a phone, although I avoided places where they might be. Two days went by and my wet feet, heavy with mud, began heading towards London. I called Lillian at the train station.
“Have you called?” she asked.
“I’ll be in London in two hours. I’m not ready yet.”
She did not answer, and somehow that confirmed what I knew already. This was serious. I would postpone it as long as possible.
Her apartment was painted a muted red and orange, the entrance bordered by bushy plants. Her canvases were piled against one wall. Lillian’s house was like a safe haven, a stopover on my way to or from places. She never really asked me questions I could not answer.
Pushing her straight blond hair behind her ear, she looked at my tired face. “Should I run the bath for you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
As I got into the bath, I saw the phone had been placed in the bathroom. I lay there and stared at it. My father was a wild man. He had spent most of my childhood in prison. But when he wasn’t in jail, between terrorism and drug trafficking, he was rarely home. He became more a myth than a father, a wild cowboy who never came home. I planned to write his biography as an attempt to get to know him and maybe forgive him for not being there but I had always been afraid he’d die before I got the chance; overdosed on drugs, starved on a deserted island, or maybe, simply murdered. My whole life I had been scared he would die. But in a way, he was already dead for me. Jennifer said I was cold. But I had lived in a home without a father and three younger brothers to look after. Being cold had kept me going.
I picked up the phone, and called my mother.
“Where are you?” She asked gently, but I could hear the tension in it.
“At Lillian’s.”
We spoke softly, slowly, like tiptoeing around a sleeping child.
“That’s a nice place to be,” she said.
“I’m taking a bath,” I added.
“We’ve been trying to get you.”
“I’ve been in the back country.”
“It happened seven days ago.” she paused. “He had just left his girlfriend’s in Southern Mexico and was on his way to Alaska for that fishing job. He checked into a hotel room on the Mexican border on Friday. They found him on Monday. He had a severe stroke.”
“Is he dead?”
“No…not really. His heart is the only thing working …I see a touch of poetry there.” Was she being sarcastic? Her relationship with him had been rocky, intense, full of hate and love. They had broken up years ago. The last time she saw him she wouldn’t even let him into her house. I was there. I remember it had given me a physical pain and I couldn’t breathe. No, she wasn’t being sarcastic now. I guessed that she had come to peace with him somehow.
“They rushed him over the border to a Texan hospital. He’s being kept alive by a respirator. Uncle John flew down there when we heard. Your brother is there too, just arrived.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, laying on the rug, staring at the ceiling, then I said, “I’ll call and see.”
“I’ve looked into planes. You can leave tomorrow morning from Heathrow for Texas. Get there in the afternoon.” she continued.
“I’ll call and see,” I repeated.
“I love you.”
I hung up very slowly, but I could not slow down what was happening.
I picked up the receiver and held it in my lap, listening to the faint dial done. I had never really noticed how it wavered in and out. Lillian lay on the couch watching me. I phoned the hospital.
“Could I please speak to Cisco. I’m his older brother. Yes, I’m Don Church’s son.” I said to the nurse. She transferred me to another line. The phone rang twice.
“Hello?” Cisco said.
“It’s me,” I replied. “So?”
His voice was grave and dark. “It’s pretty bad. Dad wouldn’t want it this way. He wouldn’t want to be alive like this.”
“You don’t know what he would want,” I was calm, matter of fact.
“Gennaro, it’s really hard to see him like this. He wouldn’t want this. You haven’t seen him. Uncle John really wants to turn off the respirator. He’s leaving tomorrow and he wants to do it before he goes. Dad really looks bad. I agree with John.”
Things were moving too fast. This little voice on the other end of the line clashed with the soft colors of the apartment.
“Hold on, you don’t know what Don would want,” I insisted.
“He might still survive. They said he might last from a day to seven days without the respirator.”
“Is John there?” I asked. “Can I speak to him?”
“Hello, Gennaro,” John said. I could hear panic and despair in his voice. “This is really terrible, it’s really terrible. We need to let him go.”
“I’m coming, I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon,” I replied. “I’d really rather you waited until I got there, I’d hate it if he died before I saw him.”
“You see, now it’s getting much too complicated. I said this would happen if everyone got involved. I just want to get it over with,” his voice was breaking.
The colors around me became vibrant. I could smell the plants. And I was not sad. I felt calm, almost happy. Why? There was something magical about what was happening. My father was dying. He would only die once, and this was it. Some things happen only once in a lifetime. The sound of the crackling phone line, the smell of tea, my uncle’s wavering voice, the soft rug beneath me, my wet hair; it was all so vivid. Experiencing that fleeting moment became more important than anything else.
My father was dying. It would only happen once.
“John,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I trust you. Do what you have to do. I’ll be here all night.”
He was silent. Then he said, “Thank you.”
We hung up and I looked around me. I had been in Lillian’s apartment many times, and I had also left it for something new many times. It was part of my life, the life that I was always leaving and coming back to. I saw the room I was in now, I truly saw it. It was nothing to run from. It was just a room. I picked up the phone then, and called Jennifer in New York.
“Gennaro! Where have you been? Did you speak to your mother?”
“I know.” I said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I wanted to call you, but-” I let the tears come.
“I understand.” she said.
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