Between Them

Parker, Richard, and Edna, New Orleans, V-J Day 1945

Dedication

Kristina

Contents

  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  5. Author’s Note
  6. Gone: Remembering My Father
  7. My Mother, In Memory
  8. Afterword
  9. Acknowledgments
  10. About the Author
  11. Also by Richard Ford
  12. Credits
  13. Copyright
  14. About the Publisher

Guide

  1. Cover
  2. Contents
  3. Chapter 1

  1. iii
  2. iv
  3. ix
  4. v
  5. vi
  6. vii
  7. viii
  8. x
  9. 1
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. 59
  67. 60
  68. 61
  69. 62
  70. 63
  71. 64
  72. 65
  73. 66
  74. 67
  75. 68
  76. 69
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. 80
  88. 81
  89. 82
  90. 83
  91. 84
  92. 85
  93. 86
  94. 87
  95. 88
  96. 89
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. 116
  123. 117
  124. 118
  125. 119
  126. 120
  127. 121
  128. 122
  129. 123
  130. 124
  131. 125
  132. 126
  133. 127
  134. 128
  135. 129
  136. 130
  137. 131
  138. 132
  139. 133
  140. 134
  141. 135
  142. 136
  143. 137
  144. 138
  145. 139
  146. 140
  147. 141
  148. 142
  149. 143
  150. 144
  151. 145
  152. 146
  153. 148
  154. 149
  155. 150
  156. 151
  157. 152
  158. 153
  159. 154
  160. 155
  161. 156
  162. 157
  163. 158
  164. 159
  165. 160
  166. 161
  167. 162
  168. 163
  169. 164
  170. 165
  171. 166
  172. 167
  173. 168
  174. 169
  175. 170
  176. 171
  177. 172
  178. 173
  179. 174
  180. 175
  181. 177
  182. 178
  183. 179

Author’s Note

In writing these two memoirs—thirty years apart—I have permitted some inconsistencies to persist between the two, and I have allowed myself the lenience to retell certain events. Both of these choices, I hope, will remind the reader that I was one person raised by two very different people, each with a separate perspective to impress upon me, each trying to act in concert with the other, and each of whose eyes I tried to see the world through. Bringing up a son who can survive to adulthood must sometimes seem to parents little more than a dogged exercise in repetition, and an often futile but loving effort at consistency. In all cases, however, entering the past is a precarious business, since the past strives but always half-fails to make us who we are. RF

Gone

Remembering My Father

Parker Ford (date unknown)

Somewhere deep in my childhood, my father is coming home off the road on a Friday night. He is a traveling salesman. It is 1951 or ’52. He’s carrying with him lumpy, white butcher-paper packages full of boiled shrimp or tamales or oysters-by-the-pint he’s brought up from Louisiana. The shrimp and tamales steam up hot and damp off the slick papers when he opens them out. Lights in our small duplex on Congress Street in Jackson are switched on bright. My father, Parker Ford, is a large man—soft, heavy-seeming, smiling widely as if he knew a funny joke. He is excited to be home. He sniffs with pleasure. His blue eyes sparkle. My mother is standing beside him, relieved he’s back. She is buoyant, happy. He spreads the packages out onto the metal kitchen table top for us to see before we eat. It is as festive as life can possibly be. My father is home again.

Our—my and my mother’s—week has anticipated this arrival. “Edna, will you . . . ?” “Edna, did you . . . ?” “Son, son, son. . . .” I am in the middle of everything. Normal life—between his Monday leavings and the Friday nights when he comes back—normal life is the interstitial time. A time he doesn’t need to know about and that my mother saves him from. If something bad has happened, if she and I have had a row (always possible), if I have had trouble in school (also possible), this news will be covered over, manicured for his peace of mind. I don’t remember my mother ever saying “I’ll have to tell your father about this.” Or “Wait ’til your father comes home. . . .” Or “Your father will not like that. . . .” He confers—they confer—the administration of the week’s events, including my supervision, onto her. If he doesn’t have to hear it when he’s home—ebullient and smiling with packages—it can be assumed nothing so bad has gone on. Which is true and, to that extent, is fine with me.

HIS LARGE MALLEABLE, FLESHY FACE was given to smiling. His first face was always the smiling one. The long Irish lip.