The Mighty Franks: A Memoir. Michael Frank

came in and made her own inventory. Then she looked out the window at the fold of canyon that enclosed our house in a green and brown ravine. The sky overhead was bright and nearly leached of all its color.

      “Boys,” she said to my brothers more than to me, “I’ve told you before, I know I have, that things aren’t always equal, with siblings. They can’t be.”

      She might not have always looked so carefully at the rest of our house, but in my room just then she was tracking sharply.

      “Sometimes it might feel like it’s more unequal than others, but …”

      The books, the bookends. The now-damaged pencil box. The pencils. The paper wrapping and bags left from the day’s loot in a hillock on the floor.

      “But it all evens out in the end,” she said without much conviction. Without, from what I could tell, much accuracy either.

      I found her later in the kitchen before dinner. She was pricking potatoes before putting them into the oven to bake—stabbing them was more accurate.

      At dusk, when the lights were on in our kitchen, the window over the sink turned into a mirror. Our eyes met there.

      “It’s not my fault if Auntie Hankie likes to buy me things,” I said.

      My mother did not turn around to face me. She spoke to the window instead. “I know that,” she said.

      She put the potatoes in the oven.

      “Or tells me things …”

      She closed the oven door. She turned to face me. “What kinds of things?”

      I felt my skin redden. But I had started, so I had to finish. Or try to finish. So I repeated to her, as best I could, as best I understood, what my aunt had told me about my grandparents and their marriage.

      I felt so … weighted down after that moment in the car. Telling my mother was like taking a huge rock out of my pocket.

      My mother’s eyebrows drew close together. “Your aunt is a screenwriter. A dramatist. She is always making up things, making them more—”

      “But is it true, what she said?”

      With some difficulty my mother regained control of her face. “Not everyone—not every marriage—is like every other,” she said cautiously.

      “So it is true, then.”

      Her intake of breath made a wheezing sound. “Yes,” she said. “Your grandparents were not—happy together. But there’s no reason for a child to know anything about all that. I don’t know what your aunt was thinking. Really it’s best put out of your mind, Mike. It’s a story for later on.”

      My father was a large man, and as different from my uncle as my mother was from my aunt. He had a version of his mother’s forceful, emphatic features, though he was darker and physically more powerful. A former high school football player, he skied and played tennis. He did everything hard. He worked hard at his own medical equipment business. He played sports hard. He chewed his food hard. He trod the stairs with a hard, loud step. When he became ill, which was rare, he became ill hard, spiking outrageous fevers or coming down with stomach bugs that would have landed other men in the hospital. He pruned trees and painted the house hard; he even washed cars hard.

      My uncle was softer in every sense. He was brainy, bookish, and gentle. Curious, endlessly curious, about us children. He spoke quietly and with dry humor. He never raised his voice, at least to us, which distinguished him dramatically from my father, who had a terrific, terrifying temper. The Bergman Temper, my mother called it. In our family my father’s temper was assumed to be as elemental, and as unpredictable, as a winter storm. And as natural: he inherited it from his mother; he shared it with his sister and older brother. His rages came on suddenly and were loud and fierce; when he got going there was no reaching him, not ever. “It’s in his genes,” my mother said, trying to explain away what she was powerless to change.

      Many different things could set my father off. A dropped egg in the kitchen while he was cooking. An unruly child and (later) an adolescent who gave lip. Traffic. A traffic ticket. Republicans. Criminals. A scratch on the car. A minor loss at gin.

      His wife, naturally. My mother. Who now and then, even in these early days, when she was still the good girl, would introduce a dissenting point of view, a request. That morning, a concern.

      “It’s breaking my heart, Marty, to see them treated so differently …”

      These weren’t the words that started their argument. They came along somewhere in the middle, after my brothers and I were already listening in.

      It started when my father returned from his Sunday tennis game. He was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Nothing unusual there. My mother joined him. Not so unusual either. She was always going back downstairs for more coffee. More and more coffee.

      What was unusual were the voices, raised so suddenly and to such a decibel that they came up through the floorboards. I was poring over Famous Paintings in my room, my hard-won room of my own, which about a year earlier I had convinced my parents to let me have, arguing that with my reading and drawing and my interest in the visual, and being after all the eldest, it only made sense.

      My brothers were in their shared room next door. We came to our respective doorways at the same moment. We looked at one another and then together, in silent agreement, we slipped down the stairs, which were open to the entry hall, which was open to the dining room, which led to the kitchen …

      “She’s your sister. You need to speak to her.”

      “He’s your brother. Why don’t you speak to him? Go ahead, damn it.”

      “She’s the one driving. You know that. She’s the one taking him out nearly every week now, buying him things, never thinking of the other boys. It’s as though they don’t exist. You should have seen their faces. It doesn’t matter what she buys him—the mere fact of it, week after week. It’s breaking my heart, Marty.”

      “There is no reaching Hank. You know that.”

      There was a pause.

      “She told him about your mother and her … exploits. He’s nine years old, for God’s sake. Nine!”

      My father was silent.

      “You have nothing to say to that?”

      “There’s no reaching Hank,” he repeated.

      “You don’t try hard enough!”

      “I do try! I have tried!”

      “Not forcefully enough.”

      “I can’t make her do anything. You know her as well as I do. You can’t make that woman—”

      “I think you’re afraid to stand up to her. I think you’re afraid, period, of your own sis—”

      Loud at his end. High-pitched at hers. I did not need to see my father to know that his nostrils were flaring, his head shaking, as from a tremor.

      Our parents had fought before, but not like this. Usually it was in their bedroom, with music on—and turned high. That was our mother’s trick. Crank up the Mamas and the Papas, the children won’t hear. Or they won’t understand if they do.

      The children heard. They understood. Their voices, the content. Next: objects. A spatula—a spoon? Had he thrown something? At her? We heard it clattering to the ground.

      “I cannot live with this kind of frustration—”

      Then we heard a fist, our father’s fist, coming down. Hard. On what? We could not see. Not our mother. Something solid. It sounded like wood.

      This sound was followed by another