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He was a head taller than I, but he had arrived, midlife, at a way of scheming himself downward as he walked, of wreaking onto his considerable body a succession of indentations, curtailments, so that whatever memory of him the townspeople might, if pressed, recuperate later on in the light of their houses would be that of an incompletely statured, sideswept man of unfixable purpose. He was not my father my father had remained unheard of ; but because I never addressed him by name I instead tutoyered him left and right , observers understandably conformed the two of us to their familiar, cleanly notion of father and son.
He would tolerate no footwear under his roof. It was an issue, a policy, of hygiene. He held to a conviction about the unmanageable filthiness of shoes β that once you suffered contact with the bottom of one, you sank to the level of everything the shoe had ever been brought down upon.
The piss slopped onto lavatory floors and then tracked everywhere by dint of the retentive sole of a publicly worn slipper was his standard weary example. And then the house would have the entire clientele of the lavatory circulating throughout it: the house would be thrown wide open again. I adolesced diplomatically by his side. I put in long days in the wide, thorough rooms.
My heart performed. I fetched whatever the man pointed to. He had a rapid, nominating hand. I was his head of hair. He would lay claim to the tacky mass of it β redisperse it, superintend it differently, complicate it with ribbons and barrettes, adjust the lights in it, provoke it to fresh successes. I would allow him to have his full say where I was just nerveless, slippery lengths. In turn, he sought control of the cooking. He plotted our meals with a dismal rigor, mobilizing faded cuts of ham, even paler partings, sectionings, of fruit, jeopardizations of it, along the narrow extent of countertop.
An article of food should present itself as something else, he demanded, arranging lesioned vegetables on a tray for the headboard. For I had already flung myself into the books that were expected to cause me the most trouble: our sickliest histories.