Flam Grub. Dan Dowhal
dear, since I was going to change my name, that you might want to take Mr. Strait’s surname too.”
They paused and waited for a reaction, but Flam stood silent, his mental gears slipping as they tried to mesh. Slowly his wits returned. He leaned over the counter to embrace his mother, then took Gerald’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.
“Well, congratulations . . . I mean, I’m really happy for you two. That’s great. Really fantastic.” He was working so hard to paint a smile on his face, he could feel his cheeks start to ache. But although outwardly he was managing to preserve a veneer of sincerity and buoyancy, in reality, Flam was awash in a whirlpool of confusion, and was not at all sure what he was really feeling.
True, he had harboured no love for his dead father. Steve, even at his absolute best, had been a callous, neglectful reprobate, and during his blackest moments had been an outright terror and tormentor to his family. Moreover, since the enmity between mother and son had thawed after Steve’s death, Flam had come to project most of the blame for the misery of his childhood onto his father, choosing to suppress the reality that Mary had often been equally guilty of verbal abuse, and had, in general, been cold to her son.
Mary had, nevertheless, performed the perfunctory requirements of nurturing Flam—had been the one who’d fed and bathed and clothed the child, and had provided some degree of cursory comfort. Steve, brutish and violent by nature, had been the more overt and painfully memorable in his physical and psychological assaults.
Flam was grateful to now have a mother to whom he could feel close, the first step perhaps in some sort of cosmic reparations he felt fate owed him for the misery and deprivation of his life. He knew in his heart he should feel pleased his mother had a second chance at happiness with someone else, and that she would know companionship and intimacy in her middle years instead of loneliness.
But other feelings also washed over Flam now, jostling for command of his emotional state. He felt resentful of the man threatening to spirit away the only affection Flam possessed. He was also experiencing jealousy of his mother, who was feeling the splendour of requited love and the soul-lifting joy of planning a new life with someone—a joy Flam had once longed to share with Lucy. He also felt instinctively threatened on some subliminal primate level by Gerald, this outsider who had appeared to challenge Flam for dominance of their tiny tribe.
All these conflicting emotions tugged at Flam as he congratulated his mother and stepfather-to-be, but the feelings that were hardest to reconcile and truly fathom for Flam were the ones conjured up by the suggestion he might change his name. So ingrained, so primal was the hatred of his name, that just evoking it as a topic of discussion had unleashed a torrent of latent memories and emotions, throwing him off his equilibrium.
A lifetime of self-preserving reflexes instantly kicked in, and made him want to close his ears, to run away—or at least to change the subject, as he had, in fact, instantly done by launching into his congratulatory performance. But, having been exposed to the light of day, the unexpected prospect of salvation from the lifelong curse of “Flam Grub” could not now be ignored. Even without fully admitting it to himself, inside his mind he was trying on the new name, turning it over, and feeling its nature.
Flam Strait . . . Flam Strait, he thought. Is that a better name? But no revelation, no great relief or gratitude overtook him. Why am I not overjoyed, he wondered, what am I really feeling? But he already knew the answer. It had not been the Grub surname alone that had haunted him. Despite his mother’s oft-voiced love for her legendary ancestors, “Flam” had always led the way in his suffering. That oddity of a first name had instantly centred him out, and because it was so easy to rhyme and pun with, had been an equal partner in the abuse conjured up by the world around him. Would merely changing surnames be enough? A long-suffering veteran like Flam knew better, and he automatically foresaw new fodder for his future tormentors. “Flam Damn Straight” and “Straitjacket” came instantly to mind. No, Flam was utterly unconvinced there would be any salvation for him in this name change.
Perhaps he would have been more open to the idea were it not for the underlying offence he intrinsically felt from the whole proposal. This had not been conceived purely to alleviate Flam’s personal pain. On the few occasions in boyhood when Flam had sought solace from Mary over the name calling by the other children, her reaction had been brusque and unsympathetic. She had instructed him to turn the other cheek, and to take pride in his name—specifically the Flam half. He had eventually given up trying to confide his pain and humiliation to his mother, and doubted whether she truly understood how much he’d suffered over the years.
In Flam’s mind, Mary and Gerald were simply treating him like a child, whose care represented another administrative detail in their relationship that needed to be resolved to fit the new scheme of things. In the process, the pair was refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was now an adult, entitled to manage his own affairs and make his own decisions. True, they had not demanded outright that Flam change his name, but the very fact they had taken it upon themselves to propose it showed how little they acknowledged his right to self-determination. It proved that Gerald believed he was entitled to some degree of control over Flam, simply by marrying his mother.
Flam soon exhausted his repertoire of contrived congratulations, and, striving hard to conceal his mounting annoyance at the affront the happy couple had committed with their offer, fell into an awkward silence as a blush bloomed on his pale face. The enthusiasm he had just feigned ended up working against him. Gerald seemed to sense some advantage in the pause, and having received no noticeable opposition to his proposal, pressed the matter further.
“There will be some legal details that would need to be tended to, of course. Petitions to the court for the name change, of course. Your mother tells me you’ve reached the age of majority so I’m not sure whether we can legally file for adoption. But I have an excellent lawyer. Anyway, she can handle all the details, so you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. And, of course, I would pay for everything.”
Even the habitually passive Flam could not suffer the perceived insult any longer.
“I don’t want to change my name . . . you can’t make me,” he blurted out with more of a whine than a shout. He turned to square off face to face with Gerald, but his eyes refused to cooperate fully and the eyeballs, traitors to the rebellion, skulked at the edges, studying the rows of books instead of bravely taking on the enemy, giving Flam a wild, animal look.
Gerald looked bewildered, then angry, and exchanged a what-did-I-tell-you look with Mary. “Well nobody’s making you,” the prospective stepfather offered, “your mother . . ..”
Mary quickly interceded, closing ranks and taking Gerald by the arm. “It was my idea, dear. I just wanted us to be a family, that’s all. You understand, I’m sure. But take all the time you need to decide. It would mean so much to me . . . to us.” This was clearly not the way she had wanted things to go, and now she evidently felt caught in the middle.
Flam sensed her discomfort and instantly regretted his outburst. “Well, I’ll think it over,” he offered, although inwardly he had made up his mind, and the matter was permanently closed as far as he was concerned. A change of subject was in order. “So . . . when’s the wedding?” Flam asked, trying his best not to betray the tumult playing out inside of him.
The couple exchanged a pair of goofy grins and pressed closer together. “We haven’t really set a date yet,” Gerald said. “I mean, yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough for me, but your mother, calm head that she always is, has a much better sense of things, and feels a proper engagement is in order.” He took Mary’s hand and showed it to Flam, flipping the palm over to reveal a modest-sized but tasteful engagement ring, proof that all proper protocols and steps were being followed.
“We have the rest of our lives together, Gerald, darling,” Mary giggled, suddenly looking years younger in Flam’s eyes. “There’s no need to rush into anything. Besides, no need to give the rumourmongers in the parish any extra fuel for their fire . . . they’ll have plenty to say as it is.”
She retrieved her hand and stood up on tiptoes to offer Gerald a kiss on the lips as a reward for his consideration.