Nobody's Family is Going to Change (11 page)

His father came over and scooped him up as though he were so many throw pillows. Mrs. Sheridan opened the door to the den and his father went down the hall carrying him in his arms. He carried him into his room and put him down on the bed. Mrs. Sheridan stood in the doorway.

“I want you to know, son, that I am doing the best for you.” His father stood by the bed heavily, awkwardly.

Willie looked up at him with bleary eyes. This guy has to be kidding, he thought. He can't be talking about me. The best for me is what Dipsey can give me.

“This is just a passing thing. As you get older, you'll go through many things like this. It would be unfair to you if I were to take this seriously. When you get older and you have more judgment, I'm sure that you will make wiser decisions about your life.”

“I'm not going to be any different,” said Willie.

“I'm sure you will see, later, that I was right,” said his father, unperturbed. He smiled. “I think, probably, when you're eighteen, you'll even look back on this and thank me.” With that, his father turned and left the room.

Thank him! Willie lay there, stunned. Thank him for messing up everything!

His mother said, “Get your clothes off, dear, and get into your pajamas. It's bedtime.” She smiled and closed the door.

Willie lay there like a caught fish. They talk like crazy people, he thought. He wants me to thank him and she says it's bedtime, when here I am with nothing left in my life. I could jump right out the window—that's how much I care about anything. He tried to envision a life without dancing a step. He saw himself plodding to school. He saw himself plodding home from school, plodding back to school the next morning and home again the next afternoon.

No. Life like that would be one long hell. He thought of never seeing Dipsey. He thought of having no dreams. What would there be to look forward to? What was all this, anyway? His father couldn't possibly be saying that he, Willie, wasn't ever to dance again. Could he?

He thought of his father's face as he'd talked to Dipsey on the phone. That's just what his father was saying.

His father was saying that he, Willie, wasn't to dance any more, wasn't to think about it any more, wasn't to want anything to do with it, was not to dream.

Fat chance.

Mrs. Sheridan opened the door. “Come on, darling, get your
PJ
's on.”

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“What's the matter with Daddy?”

Mrs. Sheridan came into the room and hurriedly shut the door after herself. “Why, darling, what do you mean?” She looked nervous.

“What's got him so angry?”

“He's not angry, dear. He's concerned about you.”

“Well, tell him not to be concerned about me.”

“He wants the best for you. He loves you.”

“He don't love
me.
If he loved
me,
then he'd want me to do what I want to do.”

“That's not always so. What about children who want to do something that's bad for them? Their fathers have to watch out for them and see that—”

“What's bad about dancing?”

“Well, nothing at the moment, but if you have a life that's like the life dancers have to live, then—”

“Mama, that's all I want. I just want to do what Dipsey does.”

“Honey, Dipsey is a man. He can take care of himself.”

“Mama, didn't you tell me all about Granddaddy and how he was in vaudeville and how your mama was and what it was like?”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. That was a different world. And it wasn't always pleasant. There were times
we didn't have enough to eat, or any place to stay, and no money at all.”

Willie, who didn't give a hoot about eating or money, pushed on. “But nothing bad happened, did it, Mama? I mean, nobody was killed and everybody was okay?”

“It's a long, hard life, Willie. There's a lot of heartbreak in it.

Willie was sitting there with his heart broken, so this didn't make any sense to him.

“You're too young, darling. You don't know enough about life yet.”

Willie was thinking hard. If only they wouldn't cut it all off completely. “Mama, couldn't I just go back to having my one dancing lesson a week? I wouldn't go to Dipsey's again. He would come here. I know he would.”

“Your father was mad tonight, but I'll try to talk to him when he's not so upset. It scared him, your going all the way across town like that.”

“Nothing happened to me.”

“But it could have.” Mrs. Sheridan stood up. “Get undressed now. I'll talk to your father.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“When, Mama?”

“Soon, dear.” She opened the door and went out.

Willie got up and started for his closet. On the way he began to dance. He decided he was Fred Astaire and the number involved changing into pajamas. He danced
his way out of his clothes and he danced his way into his pajamas.

For once, Emma didn't knock on the wall and say she'd cut his feet off. He was so tired he didn't notice. He danced his way to bed, fell into it and into sleep.

The next morning was Saturday. Willie stayed in his room all day. His mother kept coming to the door trying to get him to go out into the park, but he wouldn't budge.

Emma went to the library. She took down four enormous books from the legal section and sat with her head buried in them until it was closing time.

On Sunday, Willie went out for the Sunday paper as usual. He eame back and, without a word, handed it to his father. His mother watched him as he went slowly back into his room and closed the door.

Emma was coming down the hall and saw Willie go into his room. “William, I'm worried about Willie,” she heard her mother say. “Don't be,” said her father. “He'll get over it. You'll see.” Emma continued on her way to the fridge.

On Monday morning, Emma, who was consuming two fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and three pieces of toast, looked over at Willie, who sat, his plate full and untouched in front of him, chewing slowly on a corner of a piece of toast, looking out the window at the river.

They were alone in the dining room. Mr. Sheridan had left for work very early, and Mrs. Sheridan wasn't awake yet.

Emma looked carefully at her brother. She noticed for the first time that his eyes were sad eyes, that his neck was thin, and that his hands, holding the toast, were small. Seven isn't really very old, she thought to herself. Maybe he doesn't know what he's doing. On the other hand, he seems to know. She could see that he must have cried during the night. His eyes were swollen. He was chewing, but the toast didn't seem to get any smaller.

“Uh, are you going to see Dipsey any more?”

Willie looked at his sister. What he didn't need this morning was any fat lip from her. “What's it to you?” he asked, then jammed the toast back into his mouth and looked at the river again.

“I don't think it's fair.” Emma said this while eating a sausage.

Willie turned his head to take in his sister's curious eyes. He remembered then that she had said something similar to their father. Could he trust her?

Emma saw that her brother's eyes were deep with sadness, great brown wells ready to spill over. He seemed to be examining her as though he'd never seen her before.

“I think something should be done about it,” said Emma softly, so Martha in the kitchen couldn't hear.

Willie's eyes hardened. The moment was past. “What?” he said scornfully.

“He's got to see he's wrong.”

“Who?”

“Dad.” Emma couldn't say
Daddy.
It made her feel like a pickaninny in a bad movie running across a cotton field yelling “Daddy, Daddy.”

“Ha.” Willie couldn't be roused from his pit. “How you expect to do that?”

“I don't know yet, but I think there's a way,” said Emma mysteriously.

Willie shrugged. “He not going to change his mind. Not him.”

Martha came in. “Out, out. You're going to be late. Both of you.”

Willie dragged himself off the chair, picked up his briefcase, and slouched toward the door.

Definitely, thought Emma, definitely a possibility for a committee. She determined to push something through as quickly as possible, even if she was a new member, and even if her father would throw them all out the window.

Saunders and Goldin were waiting for her outside of school after her last class.

“Can you go to the park?” asked Goldin.

“Yes,” said Emma.

“We'll wait for Ketchum,” said Saunders.

Ketchum appeared then, all frightened and loaded down with books.

“Let's go,” said Saunders.

They marched four abreast down the hill to East End, then up the avenue to the park. Nobody said a word. They walked into the park and sat down on a bench.

“I have some literature here,” said Saunders, pulling a sheaf of papers out of her bag. “That girl Cathy gave it to me over the weekend. I contacted her.”

Get you, thought Emma,
contacted,
like a spy movie.

“She says we ought to look this over.” It turned out to be only one piece of paper, because Saunders had gotten it mixed up with her history assignment. She passed it around.

When it was Emma's turn, she saw that it had only one line written on it. It said:
INNER PROGRESS BEFORE OUTER PROGRESS
.

“Is that all?” asked Emma. She had thought there would be instructions, like go to the Eighty-sixth Street station of the IRT and follow a man in a gray coat.

Saunders nodded. She waited for Ketchum to finish reading the paper. Ketchum handed it back, no expression on her face.

“What does it mean?” asked Emma.

“What does it appear to mean?” asked Saunders, who seemed to be under the impression that she had turned into her own English teacher, who was well known for saying exactly that, in exactly that way.

“Oh, come off it,” said Emma.

Saunders looked affronted, and Goldin leapt into the breach. “I think what Saunders means is that it's saying just what it seems to be saying. I mean, this country is always talking about progress, like new buildings, new roads, new machines, and look at the people. Nobody grows up.”