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the house that guilt built

You never call me.

I’m talking to SlackDad on the phone.

I just called you, Dad.

But you never call me. I’ve called and left three messages, and you didn’t call back.

Until now.

Until now.

I don’t call anyone, Dad. I’m just not a caller.

But you email your mother.

I’d email you. You just don’t have email.

Well, I’d like you to call me more often.

I’ll try.

You’ll try?

I just hate the phone.

This guilt thing isn’t working, is it?

Nope.

You just don’t feel guilt. He laughs. That’s probably a good thing.

I love you, Dad. I’ll talk to you later.

...

I’m ten years old. The year is 1982, and as a member of the Girl Scouts, I’ve agreed to volunteer at the yearly Fun Fair at Ben Franklin School. This year has me in the Little Kids section, hunched under a table at a game called The Prize Pond. Each child gets a toy fishing pole with a clothespin lure at the end of the line. For two tickets they get a chance to fish over the table for prizes. All I have to do from my cramped position is tie prizes to their lures and give a gentle tug to the string when their booty is ready. My back hurts. It’s hot.

I hear Younger SlackBrother j. and SlackMom in line. He’s five. Their voices become clear among the throng as they reach the front of the line. His lure drops over the table. I scramble around for a really good prize, and then I see it! A Green Superball! Younger SlackBrother j. is obsessed with the color green. I’ve already written him three stories about his adventures with the Green People. And one of our favorite games is to bounce Superballs of the side of our stucco house, much to my father’s chagrin. The Green Superball is perfect.

I attach to Green Superball to the clothespin with some difficulty, and give a tug on the line. I hear his squeal, and mentally pat myself on the back for a job well done. Footsteps, then the next child’s turn. The lure comes over the side of the table. I grab the first thing available: a Ronald McDonald Puppet made out of plastic-bag material. I attach it to the clothespin and tug the line. I hear a sigh. The voice is familiar. I peek out under the table.

It’s my baby brother. He stood and watched as the kid before him got the Ultimate Booty of the Green Superball. Little j. stood with anticipation, awaiting his gift: a crappy Ronald McDonald Puppet.

I miscalculated.

My mother ushered him off. From under the table I could see his little face scrunched into a brave smile, but I knew he was heartbroken. As was I. All I needed to do was peek under the table to make sure that I got the right kid. I asked if I could take a break, but the next Girl Scout wasn’t to be there for another thirty minutes. Before I left, I scrambled around for a better prize to offer to my baby brother as penance.

But I knew in my ten-year-old heart that I had missed it. I would never be able to get back that moment of him dropping his clothespin lure over the side of the table, certain that he was going to fish that Green Superball out of The Prize Pond at the Ben Franklin Fun Fair.

I still feel guilty about it to this day.

...

My father was wrong: I do feel guilt. Guilt is a constant companion in my life. But all the guilt that resides in my cramped little brain is guilt that I’ve placed there. Like a vampire, Guilt can only enter my current house if invited in by me. I am not a person who is a good subject for the Guilt Trip. Chances are if I do feel guilty, I’ve already taken the First-Class All-Expenses Paid Vacation on my own.

Guilt walks hand in hand with responsibility. Those who Feel Responsible are often those who Feel Guilty: witness Peter Parker’s constant battle of conscience in Spider-Man and Spider-Man 2. But my own delicate web of guilt wasn’t caused by a spider’s bite; I think my Glass Menagerie was assembled over the years. My formative years weren’t peppered with squeals of aren’t you cuuuuuute! but mantras of You’re smarter than that. You’re better than that. I can trust you. We never had to worry about you. I know you’ll always be okay.

I don’t work hard enough. I don’t work long enough. I certainly don’t call my father enough. Am I paying enough attention to Daisy? Am I paying enough attention to A.? Am I paying enough attention to the world around me?

Guilt lines up like a series of devils on my shoulder, telling me that I’m Blowing It. I’m wasting whatever I have. Older SlackBrother J. and I have six projects looming on the horizon. But there could be more, I’m reminded. Do you work eight hours a day? my brain asks. I don’t think so.

A little bit of guilt is never a bad thing. It keeps me working. It keeps me sane. It keeps me in the gym and out of the bottomless pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But some days it overwhelms me. Like an over-repentant Schindler, I’m wondering what else could I have done? Certainly I could have done more!

And now I feel guilty for even making that comparison.

...

Younger SlackBrother j.’s birthday was months ago, and I promised him that I’d buy him a cell phone. Finally, last week we got around to shopping for it. We selected a phone, a calling plan, a headset and some accessories, and then I took him out for lunch. We talked about his acting, my writing, and things in-between. When I dropped him off at his apartment, he hugged and thanked me, calling me the best sister in the world. As he made his way up the apartment stairs, all I could think of was I wish I had gotten him his Green Superball.