Small Fry

by Lisa Brennan-Jobs

it was strange, watching my father’s face, because when he winced in pain or anger it looked similar to when he started to smile.

Near him was the safest place to be when he attacked someone else.

Laurene finally spoke. “We’re just cold people,” she said. She said it dryly, like a clarification.

You’re allowed to say that? I thought. How incredible; that’s what struck me later: that she had dared to say it. How good it would be to know one’s limitations and say them with unapologetic conviction. Her tone was deadpan. I had thought I could shame them for being cold and absent. Now I was the one who was ashamed, for ignoring the simple truth.

Maybe the meanness protected the part that created—so that acting mean to approximate genius is as foolish as trying to be successful by copying his lisp or his walk or the way he turned around and wagged his hands around his back and moaned to pretend he was making out.