...of evasion

Your father didn’t smoke, Joey, he was a good man in his habits, he didn’t overdrink either, or pinch bottoms.
He gambled.
Oh, that was a shock, when they told me, because he never bet even on a fight among roosters.
Well, he bet on the ponies one time, Mother - and won - it must have felt as though he’d been touched by the gods.
He never said a word, he never showed me a happy face, all that time while he must have been waiting for his forgers to forge a passport for him, steal a vehicle permit, make a birth avowal - whatever it was, his money, his winnings - what do they say? - burning as hole in his socks, he never let on to anybody that he’d bet or, having bet, that he’d won, or having won that he was going to leave us like we were not people but a place, like Graz, an embarrassment to him - old ways, old folks, old days - those of us he’d said he loved and held tight in a dark Tube - a cellar that shook as if it were solid but not solid enough - a piece of us broke off like shaken brick - he wasn’t solid enough - he divided himself from his family and sailed away as if we were the shore and he a so-long ship.
We can’t be sure of that, though, Mother.
I should have known, I should have known, because Rudi changed; he, who was soft like a patch of moss, grew hard and harsh as bark; he’d glare at me full of rage all up in his face; not that he ever hit me, but where a smile once went the boils of a pot were; and there was anger also in his throat, his eyes; his eyes never brimmed anymore or went wide to take things in; his silence scared me into silence, too; I couldn’t say a clear word.

[Middle C, Gass, W. H.]