" shouldn't have even raised it . . ." . . . because you're such an imbecile, Brian concluded to himself. He searched his neighbor's eyes for some hint of understanding, but Trevor's stare only reflected the cheap city fireworks in the night sky behind them.
"It's like this pointless fireworks show in the middle of September," Brian tried again. "The city council declares a city holiday, blows off some rockets, and all three-thousand citizens are supposed to churn up some warm community feelings for each other . . .
"But I don't know these people. They don't know me. Most of them have just invaded our corner of Arizona to escape city life, always whining about crime and traffic. Bunch of babies. And they don't . . ." A swill of rockets drowned out the rest of his sentence. But it didn't matter.
"Brian! Keep it down, will you? People are staring. You've just had a bad day." Trevor passed out more sparklers to his kid, promising that these were the red ones.
"Yeah, you're right," Brian lied. Why waste it on this guy? "It used to be different when we were younger. Now, we're all like . . . billiard balls, spinning, bouncing off one another . . . but never connecting. No history. I just don't get it. Why did it change?"
Trevor had had enough philosophy for one fireworks show. "I don't know. I got to go find my kid." Trevor scurried down the hill and watched the finale light up the entire valley.
People used to take care of each other, Brian explained to himself. We used to have real communities, real bonds . . . Geez, I am obsessing. He grabbed his kid's hand and headed off for the mall parking lot.
Weeks later, without consciously making the connection at first, he discovered in himself an interest in genealogy. This new interest had been stirred while he stared at a "report" on T.V.'s Unsolved Mysteries. It seems that some guy in Oklahoma was claiming to be a descendant of Jesse James. Perhaps Brian too had some such connection to someone famous. He remembered that several college friends had claimed to be related to Lincoln. Everybody seemed to claim that.
He decided to begin pursuing his newfound genealogical interest at the city library. He called in sick at the property management office and relieved his wife of driving their daughter to school that day. He didn't make the school drive often, but whenever he did, he noted how tiresome it could get, day after day. He was glad his wife usually had this chore. Soon the girl was off, running through the tall gates for another day of illumination. Brian would pick her up half a day later, after he had finished at the library. As it turned out,
he was forty-five minutes late picking her up as a result of discovering, at the last moment, several interesting geneological lines on his side of the family.
* * *
"You just don't get it, " Brian later explained to his wife.
"I get it. I just don't see why you think it's so important," she retorted, staring at the local news show.
"But I think I'm related to Theodore Roosevelt!"
"Yes, I've heard that several times now, but does that make us royalty of some sort? Do we get some undisclosed presidential pension? Why is it important?"
Brian had an answer, all about history and connectedness, but it sounded hollow as he rehearsed it in his mind. He decided to downplay his discovery. "It's just interesting," he said in a monotone -- and he suddenly noticed a story about the local volunteer fire department.
"What! I've been a part of that unit for ten years!" he objected to the baby-faced news reporter. The reporter was excitedly explaining the city council's plan to reorganize all city services, including the transformation of the fire department from voluntary to "permanent and professional" status.
"I didn't hear anything about this! We didn't get to vote or anything!"
His wife provided small comfort. "You always complained about serving. Why are you whining now? Just think, no more late-night calls."
Brian still turned the loss over in his mind all through the news, but soon forgot it when Murder, She Wrote began. He called in his daughter so she could watch it with them. As always, Brian insisted that this was one of the most educational programs on television. At the very least, he'd concede, it would exercise his daughter's mind more than her ridiculous music that seemed to always have her head trapped in that Walkman thing.
As the weeks passed, Brian didn't lose his passion for genealogy -- in fact he had completed the general outlines for two centuries. Previous genealogists had already completed much of the work, but some of his more recent links were still missing. Perhaps his dad would know.
Dad lived two counties over, in one of those luxury retirement homes with putting greens, trips to the symphony, and plenty of open bar "happy hours." A few months ago, Dad had so romanced another octogenarian that she agreed to let him move into her apartment. Brian was shocked at first, but then learned that this was a common practice in these places. Dad sure seemed happier, and now with his civil-service pension, plus two Social Security checks, he fit in well with the "independent lifestyle" advertised so prominently in the home's ads. But still Brian had to be careful around his father.
Several years prior, Brian had had a severe run-in with his father over an unused house. Dad had promised it to Brian as part of his inheritance, but then decided to sell it. Brian initially refused outright to give his authorization for the sale, but later, after many heated discussions, he agreed to give his authorization for the change in exchange for the immediate ownership of some of his dad's undeveloped property. They had finally struck a bargain.
* * *
Dad agreed to meet late on a Saturday afternoon, though he wasn't sure he could supply all the missing genealogical links that Brian was searching for. When he arrived at the home, Brian, as always, was struck by the elegant English decor. It didn't really fit well in the middle of the arid southwest, but all the bitter retirees from Manhattan and Ft. Lauderdale didn't seem to mind. Brian was reintroduced to dad's lady friend, who sat quietly on the veranda, thumbing through an autoclub travel guide. A bull-necked man, Dad lighted a well-aged cigar and sat beside his glass-topped patio table.
"So, how did you get this genealogy fetish?" growled Dad. "I had it once, for a few weeks, but I grew out of it once I found all the crooks and religious fanatics in our past." He laughed like a drill sergeant. Intimidated, Brian gave one of his watered-down reasons again, and mentioned Teddy Roosevelt. But he was particularly interested in several great uncles.
Dad rubbed his eyes, quickly losing interest, but dutifully tried to fill in as much as possible. He noted that most of grandfather's brothers, eight in all, were killed in World War I -- "Yeah, Old Wilson shipped their butts to France, and shot 'em off," his dad chuckled deeply, making the end of his cigar glow brightly. In all, the interview lasted about twenty minutes, and then Brian started the two-hour trek back home. He had hoped that Dad would invite him to the residential home's well-stocked buffet. No such luck.
* * *
Over the winter, the property management business picked up considerably, so Brian could only pursue his genealogical research in the evenings and on weekends. Sometimes his wife complained weakly, but when he made time to stay home, she always seemed to take off for some perennial school event. Whatever the situation, he always assured her that he was only days away from discovering some important new link.
Brian tried to gain his neighbor Trevor's interest, but Trevor failed to manifest any need for historical ties. It was enough, he noted, "just to be able to cover my bills, let alone worry about my ancestors." But Brian persisted in his evangelism.
Finally, exasperated, Trevor reached his limit and cut Brian with an observation that was more like a dagger. "So your genes match the genes of some dead people. That doesn't make for much of a community. What else do you share?"
The question created a dull pain in the bottom of Brian's stomach that wouldn't go away -- though he didn't let on to Trevor. The truth was that there was nothing else to these links, and Brian knew it. He didn't know anything more about these lists of dead people than he did about all the people at the fireworks display last fall, and he probably wouldn't want to know much else. They were strangers. After that, Brian unconsciously kept his distance from Trevor.
* * *
Early in the summer, Brian finally and now reluctantly finished filling in all the remaining gaps in his genealogy, going back four centuries to the area surrounding Dover, England. But he finished it much like he finished his regular employment, without much interest. The passion had long since been deflated, so he finished more to avoid embarrassment than anything else. He had anticipated gaining a sense of genuine identity and some historical grounding, but none of that came. And the more he learned about Teddy Roosevelt, he wasn't even so excited anymore about his thin and tenuous link to him. Biology wasn't all that romantic.
Still he knew that as a boy he had once known a richer sense of community. Where did that go? Maybe it was just a childhood dream. Maybe as a kid he had just projected what he wanted on just another disconnected set of circumstances. But he didn't really believe that. And at least he had the satisfaction of realizing the importance of something that everyone else clearly missed.
And after more reflection, he decided that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to volunteer some of his free time to the city park renovation drive. Maybe, he nodded to himself, he might even, someday, run for city council.
