Mantel

by Kedar Berntson

When Mom left Dad, Dad had to go at it alone on Thanksgiving. We tried to cheer him up by going around and saying things like we’re thankful family is always family, but when it was his turn, he excused himself and poured another drink.

The next day, he made us go out to the garage to look at his brand-new bike. He told us he took up long-distance cycling and plans to start training for a big race from Seattle to San Francisco. And beaming he hopped on his bike and was gone for four hours.

Dad built a mantel above the fireplace; Jake was the first to notice. We asked Dad about it, and he said the fireplace was looking a bit sparse, so he was going to start decorating it. The first thing to go up was an old picture of Mom sunbathing.

On Christmas Eve, Dad got a little crazy and swapped the tree out for a menorah. He said we needed find our roots again, but he’s not Jewish to begin with—Mom is. He put the menorah on the mantel above the fireplace.

For New Year’s, Dad spent all day building a miniature replica of the ball that drops in Times Square, and we all gathered around it and counted down from ten while he lowered the ball with a string he slung over a tree. The ball went up on the mantel, too.

Dad had never been the creative type, but he said the mantel was the one way he felt he could express himself. Whenever we were kids and bored on a Sunday afternoon, he would tell us to go outside and document the flora and fauna, or else pick up dog turds in the backyard. Mom would tell us to get out the colored construction paper and make some collages.

When Mom died in the car accident at the end of February, Dad stopped using the fireplace so he would have more room for his stuff. The lion’s share of Dad’s new beginnings sat on and below the mantel, or else falling off the sides or leaned up against the fireplace. In between the menorah and New Year’s ball was Dad’s crushed bike helmet, hanging off the corner of a large portrait of Mom he drew in an art class at the local community college. There were lights that suggested a heart-shape above one of Mom’s old combs, incense, a three-hundred-page draft of his memoir, and letters addressed to Mom pleading redemption and admitting guilt—which were tucked behind the portrait out of view.

On Mom’s birthday, Dad made a cake, gathered us around the fireplace, and we all sang her Happy Birthday.

On the one year anniversary of the crash, Dad took everything down, cleaned the portrait and the crushed helmet and the menorah and everything else, then put the whole mess into carefully labeled boxes and sold the house to a young couple who thought the mantel would be a cute place to hang Christmas stockings.