English Original
On Sundays my father always wore that dull gray apron – the one with the race cars all over it. The ritual began after breakfast when Dad always announced: "Go ahead everyone. I'll take care of the dishes!" With that my mother disappeared into the folds of the Sunday paper. Off came the suit coat he had worn to church that morning. Up went the shirtsleeves. On went that apron. For the next hour Dad did the dishes, singing ballads like "I Had a Hat When I Came In" and "Who Put the Chow in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder?"
I suppose it was strange for a boy's father to wear an apron – even one with race cars – but I never thought much of it until the day that Dad broke with tradition. It was the last Sunday in August. My father seemed in an expansive mood as we walked home from church together.
"Tommy," he said letting my name roll off his tongue. My mind raced ahead of his words: The birds and the bees? A new bike? A part-time job?
"There comes a time in every boy's life when he must take on responsibilities." This was important. I might even get to back the car out of the driveway.
"Responsibilities?" I asked.
"Yes. It's time you took a greater role in the household." Power tools? Boss my baby brother?
"Starting today, I want you to do the dishes on Sunday morning so your mother and I can work the crossword puzzle together."
"The dishes!?"
"Anything wrong with taking over the dishes, son?"
I started to say something about a man's job or woman's work, but I knew immediately that my protests would fall on deaf ears.
I didn't taste a bit of breakfast that morning. Dad seemed in a jovial mood as he described an exceptional Yankee game seen through the eyes of Mel Allen on the radio last night.
"Mickey Mantle drove the ball right over the center field wall," he said. "Just a straight line climb right out of the stadium." He looked out the window as if trying to pick the ball out of the cloud formations. I tried to imagine Mickey Mantle wearing an apron.
Suddenly, everything grew quiet. My sister began to clear the table. My brother was scraping the last of the egg from his plate. And then that ancient family ritual that had filled so many Sunday mornings came to an end. My father announced: "Let's go read the paper, Hon."
"Aren't you doing the dishes?" my mother asked fretfully.
"Your oldest son has generously offered to fill the position."
My brother and sister stopped cold. So this was what my life had come to. A dark angel sat on my left shoulder and reminded me that I could hit a baseball farther than anyone in my class. I could bench-press my weight. I knew three declensions in Latin, the language of Caesar. Ask me to run through a rainstorm. Command me to ride the roller coaster – backward. These things I would do. But I could never do those dishes. There was nothing left but to refuse.
People often say there is a special chemistry between a father and a son. He came back into the kitchen just as I was about to storm out. He had loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt – ready to relax. In his right hand was the old apron.
"I want you to have this, Tommy. It'll keep your clothes from getting wet." And before I could mount a protest, he had put the thing on me. "Thanks, Son. Your mother and I appreciate this."
With that he disappeared into the Sunday paper. I looked down at the plastic. It had seen better days. I could see my dad reaching for the dishes. The dark angel flew off. Soon I was singing about Mrs. Murphy's chowder. The words came out of nowhere. And out of nowhere I knew the kind of man I wanted to be.
中文翻译
每个周日，我父亲总会穿上那条呆板的灰色围裙——那条印满赛车的围裙。仪式在早餐后开始，爸爸总会宣布：“大家忙去吧，碗碟交给我！” 话音刚落，妈妈便消失在周日报纸的层层版面里。他早上做礼拜穿的西装外套脱了下来。衬衫袖子卷了上去。那条围裙系了上去。接下来的一个小时，爸爸一边洗碗，一边哼唱着诸如《我进来时戴着帽子》和《谁把杂烩放进了墨菲太太的杂烩汤里？》这样的民谣。
我想，一个男孩的父亲系着围裙——即使是印着赛车的围裙——可能有点奇怪，但我从未多想，直到有一天爸爸打破了传统。那是八月的最后一个周日。我们一起从教堂走回家时，父亲似乎心情格外豪爽。
“汤米，”他缓缓地叫出我的名字。我的思绪已经飞到了他的话前面：要跟我谈生理知识？一辆新自行车？一份兼职工作？
“每个男孩的生命中都会有这样一个时刻，他必须承担起责任。”这很重要。我甚至可能被允许把车倒出车道。
“责任？”我问。
“是的。是时候让你在家里承担更重要的角色了。”电动工具？管教我弟弟？
“从今天开始，我希望你负责周日早上的洗碗工作，这样你妈妈和我就可以一起玩填字游戏了。”
“洗碗！？”
“接手洗碗有什么问题吗，儿子？”
我本想争辩说这是男人的工作还是女人的工作，但我立刻知道我的抗议不会被理睬。
那天早上我一点早餐都没尝出味道。爸爸似乎心情愉快，描述着昨晚通过收音机里梅尔·艾伦的解说听到的一场精彩的扬基队比赛。
“米奇·曼特尔把球直接打过了中外场的围墙，”他说，“球几乎是直线飞出了体育场。”他望向窗外，仿佛想从云层中找出那颗球。我试着想象米奇·曼特尔系着围裙的样子。
突然，一切都安静下来。姐姐开始收拾桌子。弟弟正在刮盘子里最后一点鸡蛋。然后，那个充满了无数个周日早晨的古老家庭仪式结束了。父亲宣布：“亲爱的，我们去看报纸吧。”
“你不洗碗了吗？”妈妈焦虑地问。
“你的大儿子慷慨地提出要接替这个职位。”
弟弟和妹妹一下子愣住了。原来我的生活已经沦落至此。一个黑暗天使坐在我的左肩上，提醒我：我的棒球能打得比班上任何人都远；我能卧推起自己的体重；我懂凯撒的语言——拉丁语中的三种词尾变化。让我冲进暴雨。命令我倒着坐过山车。这些事我都愿意做。但我永远不可能去洗那些碗。除了拒绝，别无他法。
人们常说父子之间有一种特殊的化学反应。就在我准备冲出去的时候，他回到了厨房。他松开了领带，卷起了衬衫袖子——准备放松一下。他的右手拿着那条旧围裙。
“我想把这个给你，汤米。它能防止你的衣服弄湿。”还没等我提出抗议，他已经把围裙系在了我身上。“谢谢，儿子。你妈妈和我都很感激。”
说完，他就消失在周日报纸里了。我低头看着这条塑料围裙。它已经有些年头了。我能看见爸爸伸手拿碗碟的样子。黑暗天使飞走了。很快，我也哼唱起墨菲太太的杂烩汤。歌词不知从何而来。也不知从何而来，我明白了我想成为什么样的男人。