“I’m getting married!” Gunther shouts excitedly, and silence falls over our family—and Henry—gathered in the living room. 

Then a smile breaks across my father’s face, and he jumps to his feet, taking a couple steps forward and embracing his son. My mother too lets her excitement show. She grins widely and straightens herself in her seat, unable to jump up like Pa due to the fact Alice is sitting in her lap, but it’s obvious she is just as—possibly even more—enthusiastic about Gunther’s engagement. 

I think my father is so happy he could cry. He looks like he’s about to cry, holding onto Gunther like he’s the only son he has. And I don’t think that my mother even cares to whom he’s getting married as long as it’s a woman. Alice seems unaffected by this all, but that’s probably because she’s too young to understand the things that go on in this family. Henry is about the same, happy because others are happy, but it’s not personal. As for me, I’m happy for him, of course, but I...  

John has two sons. And I’m jealous.  

“This is fantastic,” Ma gleefully rejoices. “Now, I must ask when the wedding is.” 

Gunther finally pries my father off his body and brushes his blond hair back. “I-I don’t know when. I haven’t asked her father yet, but I’m going to. Tomorrow. I will ask her father tomorrow.” 

“Well,” my father gestures, “who is ‘her’?” 

“I know it’s not traditional, but,” he starts hesitantly, “it’s the oldest daughter of the Kleinfeld’s from just down the road.” 

My father’s elation doesn’t fail, but I was wrong when I supposed that my mother wouldn’t care. She tries to hide the way she cringes. I notice anyway.  

“The Jews?” she comments distastefully, and Gunther narrows his eyes. 

“Is that a problem?” he asks, and my mother stares at him for a second before shaking her head.  

“No, no, it’s okay,” she reassures him with a forced smile. “I’m happy for you.” 

I can almost hear her add, “At least she’s female.” 

It’s awkward and tense now, and it makes my father particularly uncomfortable. So, he attempts to bring life back into the room by putting on a smile and congratulating his son some more, telling him how proud and happy he is to hear the news. It works somewhat, loosening the air enough so that Gunther is able to effortlessly excuse himself in order to prepare his proposal for tomorrow. Our parents watch him leave, my father genuinely ecstatic and my mother trying hard to appear so.  

And I hate to take advantage of my parents like this, but I decide that it's best to ask for favors when they’re happy. They’re more lenient with me when they’re at ease, and I think this might be the one thing my father would put up a fight for, mostly because I believe it will remind him of his past mistakes. 

“Pa,” I say to get my father’s attention, and he turns around to face me. It’s only then that I get nervous. Being under his gaze makes my request suddenly feel like a rather stupid question that I should already know the answer to.  

“Hm?” 

I gather all of the confidence I can and ask, “Can Henry stay the night?” 

Henry himself freezes up and immediately realizes how idiotic of a question that is, especially after Pa just caught us making out with each other. I feel sort of bad for him. I keep embarrassing him like this.  

My mother starts to respond first, “Oh, of course, de—” 

Then, my father cuts her off sternly, “No.” 

The good feelings that lingered drop like dead birds out of the air.  

“Oh, but I don’t see why not,” my mother sympathizes with me, which is completely useless because my father does not care about her opinion.  

“James, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I know how—” 

My mother interrupts him, “Why wouldn’t it be a good—” 

“Shut up, Martha!” he yells, and she turns her head down in shame. He continues, “Now, as I was saying, I know how boys are at your age. Don’t even try to argue against that because it was when I was your age when Tom and I...” 

A look of realization passes over my mother’s features, and her horror is clear. She understands now, and she wishes she didn’t. She rises from the sofa carefully and hikes Alice onto her hip, hesitating for a moment before heading into the kitchen with her only daughter, away from the disgraces of her son and husband. I think Henry envies her. She can leave, but he’s stuck to my side, facing the mortal humiliation I keep putting him through.  

“Pa,” I argue, readying myself to win this debate. I don’t play fair, and I always swing for the gut. “I’m not a slut like you. I actually have morals. I don’t get drunk and have sex with random men on the same day I meet them, unlike you.” 

That shuts my father up real quick, and he doesn’t try to defend himself either. He just stares at me in alarm, obviously regretful of ever sharing his secrets with me. Then his face melts from surprise into his usual soullessness, and he turns away from me and goes to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and uncorking it quickly before taking a swig. Henry tries to grab my wrist and pull me off, but I swat his hands away, determined to get a finite answer from the miserable man.  

“So?” I prompt him, and the corner of my father’s mouth pulls up in a sad smile.  

He stares wistfully into the contents of his glass bottle and chuckles softly, “Well, you aren’t wrong.” 

“Does that mean he can stay?” 

“Yeah, whatever. Get out of here, James,” he whispers, taking another drink and wandering over to sit on the settee again.  

He mumbles something else into the rim of his glass, but I don’t catch it, and I don’t try to decipher it either. I waste no time after his affirmation and finally give in to Henry’s pleads to leave the awkward experience of talking to John Mark, the world’s worst and most despondent father. When we get up to my room again, the first thing Henry does is berate me. 

“How could you say that?” 

And I shrug it off. “He deserved it.” 

“He’s your father!” 

“You call that a father?” 

Henry abandons that argument. “Well, that’s still pretty cruel of you.” 

“Then maybe he should try caring for once in his life,” I scowl, but Henry sees through it and pulls me into a hug.  

“James,” he says, “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

“Then I pity you.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“I have to. Because if not me, who else will?” 

And what makes me cry is the fact he’s right.  

I shouldn’t be this emotional, and he shouldn’t be able to know.