By Herbert Hadad

Like most parents of small children, I was a happy fool bestowing love and attention. Though my sons and daughter are grown now and away from home, every e-mail or phone call still begins with “my darling” or “my dearest lamb,” every meeting with a kiss and an embrace. I live with a treasury of tender memories. But I also live with the moments when I became somebody else.

When I was a boy, there were fathers we whispered about. They came home after dark in a fury. Through closed windows and drawn shades flew anger and insanity. Pots crashed. Furniture shattered. Children cried. The fathers would throw a window open—“Did you hear enough?” they’d scream. Their families lived in shame then, or moved. Once I heard a woman say, “No, Joe, no!”

I was afraid whenever I ran into these men on the street. I was afraid they would grab me by the neck and throw me into a fence or a hedge. But they only walked by, carrying their evening newspaper rolled under an arm. Their faces looked tired, gentle. Sometimes they stopped and asked after my mother and father. I’d say, “Fine, thank you,” and turn crimson from the feelings I was trying to conceal.

Every now and then, one of them went to the corner for a pack of Camels or a loaf of Wonder Bread, and didn’t come back. Only later did I learn that “trip to the store” often stood for something else. Maybe for a man’s flight, maybe a sentence handed down by a wife’s family or neighbors.

When I became a family man, a role I adored, I was troubled to learn that a Joe lurked in me. One particular week, I felt a storm coming on. For days, I tried to turn my back on it, as I had before, but it seemed to close in on me.

By Saturday afternoon, I’d hollered at my sons for directing me to the wrong field for their Little League practice. I had forgotten I’d said, “No problem, we’ll swing by both fields,” when they weren’t sure where practice was being held. “Dad,” said Edward Salim, who was twelve years old, “I don’t understand you anymore.” On the way home, I fretted and bought them soft ice cream cones.

Back at the house, I railed against one of Charles Aram’s classmates, an eleven-year-old who disguised his sly disrespect behind careful manners. A few days earlier, he’d opened the door to my home office while I was conducting a telephone interview and typing at the computer. “Hello, Mr. Hadad,” he said smarmily.

“I’ve got his number, and he’s a jerk, and you’re a jerk if you don’t see it,” I said to Charles, whose face turned dark.

“He is not!” he yelped, ready to cry.

The exchange attracted the attention of my wife, Evelyn, who was preparing supper. She defended Charles and his friend. “This community is so small, who else would you ask over? Why don’t you give us a list of who is acceptable?” she said.

I remember waiting impatiently until the day was only a shadow to pour a large glass of gin. It felt good and warm. As a lightness rose in my head, I pictured a great flurry of activity in my brain—like an immense miniature-railroad system, with the tracks and trains and switches and schedules, all being rearranged on the order of the alcohol.

Reaching for my wallet, I sought out my third child, Sara Jameel, who was eight. I knocked at her bedroom door and went in. She was playing with the plush zoo she kept in her room. “Here’s your allowance,” I said.

She took the money and thanked me, then counted it and looked up shyly. “You’re one short,” she said. I had given her four singles, hiding the fifth in my waistband. It was part of my “respect money” training.

But her wariness annoyed me. I wanted her to be her usual sassy self. To say, “Nice try, Daddy, but you know better than I do, the official figure is five big ones.” I handed over the one and returned to the kitchen.

I poured a second gin. I read a lengthy magazine article about the Mafia. Newspaper friends had told me the Mafia enjoys reading about itself. Would criminals threaten this writer, or send him flowers and a thank-you note? I read a column about the link between parsimony and paranoia, and thought I’d send it to some relatives. I pictured them waving the article in extreme agitation while they paced around their kitchen and cursed me. That pleased me, and I enjoyed a sardonic laugh. Suddenly, I decided I was starving. “Where’s dinner?” I shouted at the empty living room.

In several minutes, the table had been set. Bread and salad were waiting. At each place was a steaming dish of lasagna. Evelyn had spent the afternoon making it. I sat and stared at the food. I decided I hated lasagna. The children had begun to eat. I picked up my plate, balanced it in my palm, and aimed it at the wall. “Here’s what I think of the food and the service and the kindness that exists in this poor excuse for a home!” I said. No neighbor lived close enough to hear. I didn’t care if they did.

The children gasped. “No, Dad, no,” one said. My wife stood her ground, seeking no explanation. She stared me in the eyes and waited for the splatter. I put the plate down and left the dining room.

The downstairs soon emptied. I swaggered around, enjoying the solitude. I went to the cellar for one of the two or three fine red wines we possessed, opened it, found the good crystal. I plunked bottle and glass down on the limestone hearth, making all the noise I could, and began to drink. It was beautiful wine, lush and dry, and for a moment I wanted to pour a glass for Evelyn, but that was out of the question.

I put old-fashioned music on the tape machine. There would be no infernal television or video games this night. I felt the insinuating rhythms and seductive clarinet, almost on my skin. “Memories of You,” and “Body and Soul,” and “Don’t Be That Way.” That’s what I figured they were saying upstairs: Don’t be that way. These were the same kinds of tunes that had floated out of windows in the old neighborhood on warm nights when trouble took a holiday. Though I hadn’t slugged anyone or broken anything, I was a tyrant just the same. I suddenly understood Joe.

An hour later, my daughter appeared in the living room. She hugged me around the waist, like she was reaching her arms around a tree. I cradled her head against my ribs. My instinct was to say something to soothe her and explain away her confusion, but I had nothing to say. I felt mean as I released her and went to bed.

The next morning, with very little conversation, we all drove to a running track. Evelyn and I intended to jog while the children played on the infield. I ran a few laps by myself, too slow for my wife, and spied on the children. They had made up a game. They were using a chainlink batting cage as a diving platform, leaping onto a pile of exercise cushions. It looked dangerous but exhilarating.

I did not try to approach them. Were they worried I might pick them up and heave them against a fence? I only wanted to ask how they were, how their mother was. I felt I was watching a home movie of my family in happier times.

In a little bit, Sara slipped away and joined me on the track. “Sometimes a person blows his stack,” I said after a while. “I don’t know exactly why. It could be an insult by a store clerk or a rude motorist. It could be finding out a friend is untrue, or an unpaid bill, an unsold story. It could be a strong drink. It could be all those things added up.”

She looked up to show she was paying attention. “Some men snap in an office, or at a party, or in a barroom. I did it last night at home,” I told her.

We kept moving. Her silence was unnerving. “Take me back,” I said.

She slipped away and rejoined her brothers. I knew they were talking it over, weighing how I’d treated them and their mother, holding court, passing judgment. They picked up their jackets.

They took me back. That was almost fifteen years ago. I’ve wondered many times since: Do they remember the weekend that Dad behaved so badly? I’ve asked them. Sometimes they say they have a vague recollection, sometimes none at all.

Joe hasn’t visited for a long time. But I’ve come to realize there is a natural, immutable law forbidding the denial of love, especially to a child, and I broke it. Everyone may have forgiven me, but I can never really forgive myself.

Herbert Hadad, a Northeastern graduate and award-winning writer, lives outside New York City.