"Seasons Clear, and Awe" - Chapter 6
by Matthew Gasda
We continue this week in serializing our inaugural contest winner’s novel, Seasons Clear, and Awe, by Matthew Gasda. New subscribers can catch up with the previous chapters below:
Submissions are open for our next quarterly contest, whose deadline is January 21st, 2026. Finalists are awarded $500, and the Winner $1,000. Spread the word (and maybe throw your hat in the ring!).
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“Seasons Clear, and Awe” chronicles three decades in the life of the Gazda family, whose children inherit not wealth but something more dangerous: their parents’ unlived ambitions and their mother’s gift for psychological dissection. As Stephen and Elizabeth grow from precocious children into neurotic artists in their thirties, Matthew Gasda reveals how post-industrial, late 20th century America created a generation too intelligent for ordinary happiness, too self-aware for decisive action: suspended between the working-class pragmatism of their fathers and the creative and spiritual aspirations of their mothers, capable of everything except building lives.
Matthew Gasda is the founder of the Brooklyn Center for Theater Research and the author of many books, including the recent novel The Sleepers and Writer’s Diary.
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Michael’s alarm went off at 5:30. It was Monday, the last week of school. He had students for two days and then three days of in-service, where only the teachers would have to go in and finish grading and closing up their classrooms. Michael had a 40-minute commute to East Stroudsburg South High School, which used to be just East Stroudsburg until Route 80 caused the population of the Poconos to triple in the 90s, mainly out-of-towners and Hispanics. So his classrooms tended to be this strange but workable mixture of backwards whites, Latinos, and Black kids, all of whom had a begrudging respect for each other because they were, at the end of the day, all working-class. A mix of different inflections and backgrounds. He had been teaching in some form or another since 1976. This was the end of his 27th year, and he was tired.
It was raining when he woke up, and he liked moving about the house in the quiet. These hours were entirely his. They’d always been entirely his. Adele woke up at 7, and the kids woke up at 8 for school. Stephen had to be in school by 8:45, which he hated. Elizabeth still needed to be at elementary school by 9:05. Stephen, his father could tell, was not destined to be a morning person. Though he’d read somewhere, somewhat gratefully (maybe it was Newsweek) that a 1999 study had shown that night owls had slightly higher IQs than early risers. Michael was getting to the point where he had to hope that Stephen was really that smart, smart enough to overcome the willingness to work any harder than he needed to. Stephen, to the great frustration of his father, with the possible exception of baseball, tended towards doing the bare minimum. Even in baseball, he didn’t do enough. Michael, who rightfully believed himself to be respectably intelligent, had taken pleasure in becoming self-reliant. Even in the limited domain of a married high school history teacher, he never encouraged any kind of grandiose dream of omnipotence.
Even when he was at Lehigh playing wide receiver, he was uncomfortable with the adulation of the crowd if he made a big catch, as he had on occasion (or in high school, when he was more of a star, at Bethlehem Catholic).
The rain seemed to mark the end of the 2000–2001 school year. The extreme fragmentation and destruction of time was a torment to Michael, a nightmare which he suppressed. The hard work of raising a son and a daughter, teaching two blocks of AP history, one block of Gov, and one non-honors U.S. history, of coaching Little League, of driving Elizabeth to lessons, of pleasing his subtly demanding wife, meant that his days didn’t cohere.
Michael taught history, after all, and he knew how hard history was on the individual, so it seemed like a small sacrifice in the end to be tired all the time, at least during the school year, and to be a little bit bored. The drives each morning and each afternoon to and from East Stroudsburg were difficult to distinguish; there were days when he felt that he was losing an integral experience of time and beginning to live in a world of isolated impressions. He felt this in the mornings in particular, when he was waiting for the Mr. Coffee, before he had his first cup of coffee with sugar and creamer. These were the moments when he could not even make a minimal sense of his own experience, when his neural circuitry could not construct a sense of I am here, this is happening, today is a unique day.
What he was learning or had learned about middle age was that you stopped acquiring new perspectives, making new connections, and that there was a sense of bleed and blend that happened once your life became stable and predictable that did not happen when you were young. He could say September 17, 1972, Lehigh had beaten Bucknell 17 to 13 on a last-second 20-yard field goal after he had secured a key 12-yard catch on a slant (and held on to the ball even after getting hit by the safety). He could say that he remembered seeing his father in the crowd, drunk, clapping, whistling.
What Michael couldn’t really say is what he had done the previous Monday. In a specific sense, he could only assume or simulate what he had done, which is wake up at 5:17, make coffee, shower, maybe shave, drive. For years, he’d carpooled with Mary Pollak, Adele’s friend from middle school who coincidentally also taught in the Poconos. But Mary had gotten a new job in Nazareth, so this year he’d had to make the trek by himself (and consequently had to spend more money on gas than he would have liked).
Aside from the drive, however, which he dreaded, he liked these early mornings (going down to the kitchen first and then later the basement bathroom): the absence of the sense of both seeing and being seen by the rest of his family; the time to be just this half-awake brain trying to wake itself up without any concern about what anyone else thought or needed, especially his wife.
Above the basin was an oval mirror with a fogged rim. The upright shower stall was next to the bathroom. On the far wall, two feet away, was the toilet. There was a window which looked up to the sidewalk along the side of the house. If it rained too much, water would start to come in from the floor, the basement floor, which did have one drain (Michael did have a pump if necessary, which he would run back out through the window).
The window was open at the moment just enough that he could smell the spring rain coming in, which made his nerve endings feel good.
Much of the best course of his life had been locked inside of this routine, and the routine itself was the magic spell which held the family unit together, which supported and protected his kids, his wife, his house, from the elemental crush of history. Almost everywhere, all the time, there had been wars, long marches, revolutions, tribal skirmishes, plagues: so much grand sacrifice had been made so that people like himself could make a comparatively smaller sacrifice now, and so that his son, in turn, could maybe suffer a little less than forefathers.
That was the idea, anyway, that was built into or implied in everything, wasn’t it? Stephen and Elizabeth would live the creative lives, perhaps, that he and his wife had fantasized about, maybe, but had never seriously pursued. Michael had tinkered with the idea of writing a novel, or a popular history book, but... really, where was he supposed to find the time? Even during summers, there was still so much work to be done, especially with the house; and Adele wanted to take a cross-country road trip this summer, was planning on it (taking the kids to the Great Lakes and the Grand Teutons, and the Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone; Stephen was already complaining about having to leave his friends).
Michael put on his pants, his T-shirt, deciding that he wanted to shave. He ran the faucet to HOT, and took his pack of razors from under the sink, attaching it to the empty blade which was on the windowsill.
Stephen, who woke up to pee, didn’t want to use the upstairs bathroom because his sister was so sensitive to noise, and would inevitably wake up and yell at him, so he traveled two flights of stairs in his bare feet, to the basement bathroom, and, pushing open the door to the bathroom, discovered his father, mid-lather, his face covered in white shaving cream.
—Son-child, his father stated factually.
—Sorry I needed to pee. Need to pee.
—I’ll be out of here in a second.
—Okay.
—Turn on SportsCenter or something; I’ll be right out.
—Is it on at this time?
—Something’s on.
Closing the door, Stephen left the laundry room through the saloon doors that separated the fully finished part of the basement with a carpet, wallpaper, and entertainment center from the half-finished area containing the bathroom. The look on his father’s face had shocked him, in a way, and he felt deeply sad, for reasons he didn’t fully understand, but which he also felt, intuitively, would bind the experience to his memory indefinitely; his father looked so tired, and so worried about finishing shaving in time to make it to work; he looked upset to be interrupted in his magic ritual. He looked old.
Maybe his father did; but Stephen got the feeling that his father preferred to keep the movie-inside-the skull off. And that was what made the moment he had just witnessed so confusing: because he had experienced his father in a way that his father did not want to experience himself: as special.
Stephen could extrapolate from his own position as a sixth grader, who disliked school, and understand that his father had been going to school his entire life, had been doing something he didn’t like, probably, so that he, his father, could support, him, Stephen, his son; but Stephen had never really thought of this before, never really conceptualized what it meant; but here it was: his father’s exhausted, but somehow peaceful (because of the ritual of showering and shaving) face.
It reminded him of one of the statues or portraits in church: the face of suffering, but a suffering that was more than suffering, that shined in a way.
Did his father understand that his face looked like that (at least at 5 in the morning)?
What moved Stephen was the feeling, or awareness, that no, his father didn’t know that his face looked like that (like a saint); he didn’t understand that his face, the face of Michael Gazda, was anything other than ordinary.
But Stephen had no way of sharing this feeling with his father; he would have rather died; and he had no way, not really, to articulate it; it felt incredibly private.
These kinds of experiences, these shattering flashes or moments of awareness, were not unusual for Stephen, but he had not found a way to integrate them into his normal-self, his kid-self, his middle-school self; they were like radio transmissions from an alien planet: something that penetrated his skull and altered his brainwaves.
He could see his father in a way that his father couldn’t see himself; that was so strange. He experienced life like a movie. Did other people experience life like that?
Stephen didn’t really think so.
It was possible his mother did; his sister did; maybe his Pop-pop Arturo.
Maybe his father did; but Stephen got the feeling that his father preferred to keep the movie-inside-the skull off.
And that was what made the moment he had just witnessed so confusing: because he had experienced his father in a way that his father did not want to experience himself: as special.
SportsCenter was on, but a replay of the previous night’s SportsCenter; Stephen was starting to feel drowsy and he still had to pee. The TV was just a means of staying awake, and not focusing on his body; suddenly he just wanted to go back to bed; if his dad took any longer he would have to go back upstairs and use the upstairs bathroom.
Michael emerged from the bathroom, straightening his tie, his face red from the steam in the bathroom, just as Kobe was hitting a long two-pointer in Eric Snow’s face in Game 3 of the NBA finals.
—All yours.
—Thanks.
Stephen closed the bathroom door, then opened the toilet lid with his foot, and began to relieve himself.
In the other room, he heard the phone ring, and he heard his father pick up, surprise in his voice.
—Hello? Stephen heard his father ask.
Stephen flushed, briefly ran his hands under warm water with a glance of soap, and returned to the TV room.
—Your grandfather’s in the hospital.
Elizabeth woke up to her brother sitting on the edge of the bed, in a T-shirt and pajamas, biting his nails.
—We don’t have to go to school today, Stephen said, not making eye-contact.
—Why not?
—Pop-pop is in the hospital.
Elizabeth felt something split and tear within her, almost immediately; a sensation she had no words or thoughts for: a quake: full body uncontrollability: entire world uncontrollability. She screamed and began to cry, tearing at her pillow.
Stephen put her arms around her; he was very calm.
—He’s alive, Goober.
Elizabeth kept crying.
After a minute, maybe two, she stopped crying, her chest heaving; she had expected her parents to arrive at the sound of her tears, but there was no one.
—Where’s Mom and Dad? she whimpered.
—Mom’s at the hospital; Dad had to drive her because she was too upset to drive; he’ll be back soon. I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up before he got back, Stephen confessed.
—Did he have a heart attack?
—Yeah.
Elizabeth felt the same unnameable thing tear open inside of her; she began to beat and tear at the pillows.
Downstairs, they heard their father enter and immediately trot up the stairs.
Michael, still in his suit, having removed the tie at some point, knelt beside the bed, ignoring Stephen.
—Hey little girl, little girl...
—What dad!?
—How are you doing?
—Is pop-pop going to die?
—Right now, he’s okay, Michael said.
Stephen couldn’t tell if his father was just pretending for Elizbaeth’s sake.
—I don’t believe you! Elizabeth wailed.
—Lizzie, I’m telling you what the doctors told your mother.
—I want to go to the hospital.
—You can, but not this second.
—When?
—When it’s time.
—When will it be time?
—Maybe this afternoon, okay? Your grandfather isn’t awake right now.
—I don’t care!
Stephen watched all this impassively; the more out of control his sister grew, the more he felt calm, emotionless, like he was fishing on a lake (something he had done the previous summer with his father in the Poconos).
—Come here, Michael said, scooping up his daughter in his arms, as if she were a toddler, and hugging her close to his body. —It’s gonna be okay.
—Put me down!!
—In a second.
—Put me down!! Elizabeth screamed, writhing so that Michael had no choice but to plop her back down in her twin bed.
—Dad, I’m gonna go downstairs and have some cereal, or somethin’, Stephen said.
—That’s a good idea.
Adele paced around her parents small kitchen, which smelled, permanently, like cigarette smoke. Her brother Don, a big man, who had grown stout and white haired in middle age, sat in the wooden chair at the small, circular kitchen table where Adele had so often had lunch with her mother or father. They were here to get clothes and supplies for both their parents, assuming Arturo woke up again, as the doctors had promised he might; their brother Dave, a doctor himself, had refused to leave the hospital.
—I mean, I just can’t fucking believe it, Adele said. —I’m so angry.
—Yeah well it’s classic Mom, refusing to trust doctors.
—The poor man was...
—Yeah...
—For 36 hours.
—She wanted to kill him I guess.
—No she’s terrified of being alone; but she’s so obstinate and needs to control everything.
—Don, I think on some level she wants to see him dead.
—Maybe Delly. That’s...
—Yeah it’s a dark thought.
—God it’s sad in here, Don said in his bass voice. —There’s soup on the stove.
—Do you want some?
—I can’t eat that soup; I have no appetite.
—You always have an appetite.
—But I can’t eat that soup.
—I know, I’ll throw it out, Adele said, grabbing the handles of the ceramic pot.
—On the other hand, there’s something really touching about the soup, you know? Don, a sentimental man with jowls and thick arms (he still did 50 pushups a night, as he always had going back to his days as a wrestler), said. —The soup is them.
—She thought she could cure him with chicken soup, Adele said, in disbelief. —And I wish I was joking.
—Chicken soup can cure most things, but not...
—No it’s so fucking crazy.
—Mom to a T.
Adele took two spoons from the drawer and two bowls down from the cabinets, turning the stove on high.
—Don I think we have to eat this soup.
—Adele I really can’t. I’ll be nauseous.
—Don, we’re going to eat the soup.
And they did.
Thanks to vasoactive drugs, oxygen, and a stent, three days later, Arturo was awake.
—I’m just tired honey, he told his daughter, as she stroked his hand.
—Dad...I brought Lizzy.
—Hi Lizzy... Arturo mumbled, blinking, very weak.
Don and Dave had just left; Arturo had been in and out of lucidity over the course of the afternoon. Maria had returned to the house on Ulster Street in Allentown to sleep, having stayed at the hospital for three days continuously, with little sleep. Adele was relieved that her mother had finally left, or rather, surrendered.
—Mom is at home; Dave drove her.
—That’s good; she’s tired.
—She should have let you go to the emergency room Dad.
—You know how she is.
Adele was conscious that there was no place for litigating what happened, especially with her daughter there, but she couldn’t help herself.
—Dad you could have died.
—I’m old.
—That’s not... you’re in good shape... I mean... you’re so active...
—I’m old Delly.
Elizabeth, sitting stiffly in a plastic, hardbacked hospital chair, watched the scene between her mother and grandfather play out; she felt blocked, physically and emotionally, from her grandfather by her mother, even as her mother took her hand.
—Hi Pop-pop, Elizabeth said, waving, interrupting. —I missed you.
—I missed you too Lizzy.
Adele now reached for her daughter’s hand, wanting her daughter’s experience of illness and loss to fold into her own, to share a consciousness of what was almost unbearable to experience alone.
Flarn