I was a high school senior, sitting on the couch with my girlfriend Bambi, a name given to her because her mother was at the movies watching Bambi, when her water broke. Bambi hated her name, but admitted she liked it better than Gertrude, the name her parents had settled on before the theater incident. We were wearing matching madras shirts and jeans, which somehow, made us feel closer.   

Bambi’s mother, Donna, a woman who looked decidedly older than her 43 years, was admiring her pyramid of multi-colored hardboiled eggs. She’d just set them on the dining room table for Easter. That’s when Bambi’s father came into the house, in a jolly good mood, having spent the better part of Good Friday afternoon sitting on a barstool at Cappy’s Bar and Grill. He sported a full head of hair but parted it low as if he needed a comb over. 

I’d been dating Bambi for about nine months by then. She had a nice smile and seriously blue eyes. Her father never said much, but I was sure he didn’t like me. One night when I came to take his daughter to the movies, he said, “Listen, Guinea, get my daughter home before eleven. I got work in the morning and I can’t be up all night waiting for her.” In 1967, it wasn’t uncommon for people to say such things. The guy sent his daughter to a Catholic school run by Polish nuns. That she somehow hooked up with an Italian probably gave him one more reason to drink Four Roses. I was offended, but cowed nevertheless. He was a big man and I hadn’t filled out yet.

Still standing by the door, his feet unsteady, he glanced at me and blurted, “What the hell is he doing here in that stupid looking shirt?” He jerked his thumb in my direction.

Donna gave me a quick sympathetic, “Don’t mind him,” smile. She turned to her husband. “He’s having Good Friday dinner with us, Ted.”

He made a sound that might have been a word, or maybe a growl. It was hard to tell because even when he was sober his diction had a certain meat grinder quality to it. That’s when he spied the hardboiled eggs. “Pretty good lookin’ eggs. Think I’ll have some,” he said, adding, “Get me a beer, Hon.” He reached for the eggs. Trying to show off, he started piling them up on his forearm, which was bent as if he was planning to cradle a baby. He almost lost his balance. He caught himself, grabbing the back of a dining room chair, but he sent the eggs spilling onto the  hardwood floor, cracking some of the egg shells. Several of the eggs rolled onto the living room’s shag carpet. Had the carpet been a bit thicker, we might have had an impromptu Easter egg hunt.

“Ted! What are you doing?” Donna was exasperated, not sure whether to bend down and retrieve the eggs, or wait to see what her husband would do next. She was afraid of him when he was drunk. He could turn mean and, occasionally, violent.  

Ted straightened himself up, surveyed the eggs lying on the floor, and turned his attention to me. “The boy has got to go.” He said it in a matter-of-fact tone and pointed to the door. I got up to leave, happy to escape the scene.

I looked at Bambi for a second. She was looking straight ahead, seemingly staring at the unadorned living room wall. Her eyes had an odd, glazed look, as if a hypnotist had suddenly put her in a trance. Later, I realized she had been through scenes like this one before. I froze for a moment, eager to go, but not sure what to do.

But Bambi’s mother, sizing up the situation, and well aware of Bambi’s mortification, had a different idea. “No!” She was practically screaming and she actually gave Ted a slight push. “Bambi, you and Joey go downstairs right now.”

“I think it might be best if I leave,” I said.

“No, just take Bambi downstairs. It will be all right.”

I looked at Bambi. Her eyes told me it would mean a lot if I didn’t leave. We went downstairs to their finished rec room, which also had a tiny bedroom where Bambi slept. I was out of my depth. I wanted to jump in my car and head home, but I knew enough to try to comfort her. I had bought her a tiny faux gold, bracelet for Easter and gave it to her, naively hoping it would make her stop crying. She calmed down eventually, and we kissed a little. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He just acts weird when he’s been drinking.” She bowed her head and fondled the bracelet. “I think my mother hates him and he knows it.”

“Do you hate him?”

She looked at me for a moment, with the same hypnotic look I’d seen earlier. “No, I just zone out and try to think about something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’d rather not talk about it, okay?”

I put my arm around her. She was shaking a little bit, but I could tell she was determined to stop crying. We could hear her parents arguing. Her mother’s tone was hushed, but his was loud and vulgar. Bambi turned her black and white, portable TV on. “It will stop in a little while,” she said. “I can always tell.”  

An hour later, I kissed Bambi goodbye and ventured upstairs, ready to leave. I would not be having Good Friday dinner with them. A bonus for me, because her mother was a terrible cook and they were having fish sticks, a meal I’d been sent to bed for refusing to eat on many Fridays not so many years ago. Her mother’s eyes were red and she apologized profusely, for what, I wasn’t entirely sure. “I put him to bed. He’ll sleep it off and tomorrow he won’t even remember it,” she said.

The following afternoon, I went back to Bambi’s house. I liked being with her and I was more than a little bit curious about how her father might react to seeing me. He was in the kitchen. He offered me a sheepish grin. “Hi Joey. Here to take Bambi out for a while?”

“I am.”

“Good.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out some bills. “Ya need any money?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Take it, it’s okay.” I politely refused and he didn’t push it any further. That was his version of an apology, I guess.

Bambi and I weren’t destined to spend our lives together. We broke up when I went away to college. A friend of mine told me recently that he saw her working as a sommelier at one of Boston’s finest Italian restaurants. She married an airline pilot and had a couple of kids. I still have the madras shirt. It doesn’t fit, but I can’t part with it.