The question was moot, of course. If he cares any more whether we understand him or not, we'll never find out, not until we follow him. If that's what happens. What bothered me most about those gripe sessions was that understanding was assumed -- "Well, he was an alcoholic..." "He just gave up!" These glib phrases explained nothing, they merely tagged with a name something that he did or said or failed to do, so that it could be put away and we could move on. But we didn't move on -- the same stale stories, over and over, the same refrains, like kids spinning and spinning in the yard until they fall down, like a drunk who drinks because he drinks. Finally, the night before the service, someone said something -- I don't remember what -- that nudged my mother out of the groove, and she started on a story I'd never heard before, her voice rising, musical, almost girlish. And there among the women at the table, my father -- charming, willing, fun-loving Bill Bly -- came to life again.
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