Something Happened (17 page)

She has a very pretty face but doesn’t believe it. (She has what I believe is called a
low
—or
poor—self-image
.) And nothing my wife or I can do will help. I realize now that I have not always given replies to her questions and comments that were appropriate. When she tells me she wishes she were dead, I tell her she will be, sooner or later. When she tells me life is empty and monotonous and that there does not seem to be any point to it, I tell her everybody feels that way now and then, particularly at her age, and that she’s probably right. When she told me, in tones of solemn importance, that she hoped to have a lover before she was eighteen and would want to live with him for several years even though she is never going to get married, I nodded approvingly and wisecracked I hoped she’d find one—and was astounded when her face went bloodless with shock and she seemed about to cry. When she asks me if I ever thought of killing myself when I was young, I answer yes. And when she came to me, even that first time, to say she wasn’t happy, I told her that I wasn’t either and that nobody ought to expect to be. By now, she is able to anticipate many of my sardonic retorts and can mimic my words before I say them. Sometimes this annoys me; other times it amuses me—I don’t know
why
there is a difference in my reaction. My error, I think, is that I always speak to her as I would to a grown-up; and all she wants, probably, is for me to talk to her as a child.

I am simply not able to stop myself from saying
things to her I know I shouldn’t; sometimes the words escape from me before I can consider them, before I am even aware they have sprung from my mind and are being shaped by my mouth and tongue to fly out between my lips. And I hear my blunt or cutting remarks with a start of astonishment, as though they came from somebody else and were directed harmfully at me as well as at her, as though they had their source in some dark and frightening area of my soul with which I am not in communication. It is that same weird, perverse, glowering part of me that shelters my recurring impulse to kick Kagle’s lame leg very hard, and to kick my daughter’s leg under the table or strike her (I am never really tempted to hit my wife or my boy, and I never have, I don’t think I have. I have never hit my daughter either. Or kicked her), and it nourishes refreshingly that thrilling desire of mine to say very cruel things to people I like who are in trouble and confide in me and request my sympathy or help. I do rejoice momentarily in the misfortunes of friends. I cannot condone their weakness; I cannot forgive them for being in need; I experience undeniable gladness that I enjoy suppressing. I like finding out I’m better off than somebody else. There are things going on inside me I cannot control and do not admire.

My daughter doesn’t laugh much anymore (she enjoys my boy a great deal, but picks on him often with bad intent) and has few interests or pleasures. (The same seems true of the boys and girls who remain her friends. They like music but not much, not as much as they seem to wish they could. None are cheerful. All are glum and creepy, usually. They cast a pall. I hope they outgrow it. I don’t know how to talk to them.) She sits alone in her room for long periods of time doing absolutely nothing but thinking (I sit alone in my study for long periods of time doing absolutely the same thing); and what she likes to think about most is herself; what interests her most is herself; what she broods about most is herself; what she likes to talk about most is herself. She is not much different from me, I suppose. I think, though, that I was happier than she is when I was young,
and that all the boys and girls I grew up with and went to elementary school with and high school with were also much happier than she and her friends. I like to think that. But I really didn’t know these other boys and girls as well as I know her. And perhaps they were not so happy as I think they were. And perhaps I was not. I didn’t have as much to do with them when we were out of school and not in the street; I did not know them in the home and did not know them when they were alone. And I’m not so confident anymore that my own recollections of my childhood are as infallible as I have always believed them to be. I also think I may have been
more
unhappy than my daughter when I was young, and felt even more entrapped than she does in my own sense of pathless isolation. There are long gaps in my past that remain obscure and give no clue. There are cryptic rumblings inside them but no flashes of recall. They are pitch black and remain that way, and all the things I was and all the changes and things that happened to me then will be lost to me forever unless I find them. No one else will. Where are they? Where are those scattered, ripped pieces of that fragmented little boy and bewildered young man who turned out to be me? There are times now when it seems to me that I may not have been any place at all for long periods of time. What ever happened to all those truly important parts of my past that no longer exist in my memory and have been ignored or forgotten by everyone else? No one will ever recall them. It is too late to gather me all up and put me together again. My life, therefore, is not entirely credible. I have trouble believing it. I can believe that it was me (
I
. I know) with Virginia in the storeroom of the automobile casualty insurance company and me with my wife making love on our honeymoon and me who is bored, melancholy, and reflective in my office at the company now, or in my study at home; but I can’t
really
believe it was
really
me (
I
. Even though I know it’s true) who sang those silly military songs exuberantly so long ago as we marched slovenly along in formation in uniform, sorted accident reports in an insurance office, filed folders, shot crap and
played cards for pennies, nickles, and dimes, had satisfactory erotic dreams and was thankful for them, masturbated, and was thankful that I could, read the comic strips and sports pages of the New York
Daily News
and the New York
Mirror
, which, alas, is now defunct—soon there won’t be anything left—said good-bye to my mother five mornings each week if I reminded myself to say anything at all to her when I left, carried a brown paper bag containing an apple and two baloney, egg, or canned salmon sandwiches with me into Manhattan for lunch, had tantrums as a child in frenzied and incoherent arguments at home with my mother or sister and wept inconsolably over matters I could not understand or explain, was a hardy and impetuous patrol leader in the beaver patrol of the Boy Scouts of America for many years and worked to earn merit badges, masturbated some more, even as a Boy Scout, and rode back and forth to my automobile casualty insurance company each working day on a very stuffy subway car crowded with tired, hostile, grimy adults who glared, sighed, snored, and sweated. That was somebody else, not me—I insist on that; it exists in my memory but that’s all; like a children’s story; it is way outside the concrete experience of the person I am now and was then; it never happened—I do insist on that—not to me; I
know
I did not spend so much of myself doing only
that
; so there must have been a second person who grew up alongside me (or
inside
me) and filled in for me on occasions to experience things of which I did not wish to become a part. And there was even a third person of whom I am aware only dimly and about whom I know almost nothing, only that he is there. And I am aware of still one more person whom I am not even aware of; and this one watches everything shrewdly, even me, from some secure hideout in my mind in which he remains invisible and anonymous, and makes stern, censorious judgments, about everything, even me. He hardly ever sleeps. I am lacking in sequence for everything but my succession of jobs, love affairs, and fornications; and these are not important; none matters more than any
of the others; except that they do give me some sense of a connected past.

Who cares if I get Kagle’s job or not? Or if I do get into young Jane in the Art Department’s pants before Christmas or that I was never able to graduate myself into laying older-girl Virginia on the desk in the storeroom of the automobile casualty insurance company or in a bed in a hotel, although I did squeeze her good tits many times and feel the smooth inside of her thighs?

I
care. I want the money. I want the prestige. I want the acclaim, and congratulations. And Kagle will care. And Green will care, and Johnny Brown will care so much he might punch me in the jaw as soon as he learns about it, and I know already I will have to begin making plans beforehand for coping with him tactfully or getting rid of him altogether, even though he’s good. But will it matter, will it make a difference? No. Do I want it? Yes. (
Should
I want it? Nah. But I do, I do, dammit. I do.)

And there’s no mistaking, either, the fact that my daughter does honestly covet the greater freedom enjoyed by girls and boys she knows who
have
lost a father or a mother through accident or illness, or whose parents are divorced or separated. (Even though they don’t really seem to be enjoying it; they just seem to have more freedom.)

“Who the hell would take care of you if we
were
divorced, or if we were killed in a plane or automobile accident?” I try to explain to her tolerantly one evening during one of those “frank” (and generally abusive) discussions she persists in inaugurating regularly, usually when she observes that I have settled myself alone in my study to do some work or read a magazine. “You couldn’t live alone. You know that. Who would feed you and clean up after you, help you pick your clothes out and remind you to brush your teeth and help you keep your weight down? You’d have to live with someone, you know. So it might as well be us. You know, you get some pretty God-damned
good
things from us, too.”

“I wish,” says my wife, “that you wouldn’t swear so much when you talk to the children. And that
you didn’t always have to yell. Can’t you see you’re only scaring her?”

“Can’t you make her keep out of it?” says my daughter to me, sullenly, about my wife.

“And
I
wish,” I reply to my wife—

“She’s always butting in.”

—in a growl that rises menacingly.

But I don’t know what I wish (except that I damn well wish I were somewhere else), so I grind my jaws shut without completing my sentence. (My voice does have a tendency to get loud whenever I am irritated, frustrated, or attacked. And I will stammer ferociously if I attempt to speak a long sentence with strong emotion.)

I wish I knew what to wish.

I wish my daughter would stop complaining and feeling so sorry for herself all the time and start trying to make the best of things. She doesn’t think much of us. She is nervous, spiteful, embittered, and vindictive. She is approaching sweet sixteen, smokes, and hates us both intensely—at least part of the time (if not nearly all of the time). I don’t know what we have done, or failed to do, to account for it all: I don’t know what she blames us for; but she blames us for something. (I grow pretty damned spiteful and embittered myself at my inability to please her, at our failure to make her happy. And I often strike back at her in clever, malign ways. I enjoy striking back at her. Revenge is sweet, even against her. And she is not yet sixteen. I sometimes find myself wishing that she would run away from home, just to make things easier for me.) I know my daughter hates us because she makes a point of telling us so. She may hate us singly or she may hate us both together: she is versatile, my darling little girl, at least in this one respect, extremely gifted; without straining herself unduly, she can hate all three of us simultaneously, my son included, or she can begin hating him separately without apparent reason and be oblivious to us; or she can hate Derek, his nurse, our house, our community. She can, of course, hate herself. With uncommon resourcefulness, she can even
stop
hating us for a little while, just to throw us off stride and lure us
into an unguarded state of well-being that leaves us wide open for her next piercing assault. She is perverse, and proud of it. My daughter can’t (or won’t) learn chemistry, grammar, or plane geometry easily; but she did learn how to smoke cigarettes at an early age (even inhale, she boasts. Marijuana, too, she intimates, without being asked) and to say
motherfucker
so effortlessly as to appear to have been saying it unselfconsciously to us at home all her life; and she did learn how to hate us and say cruel things that hurt my feelings and reduce my wife to plaintive tears. It took my wife and me ten or fifteen years of full-time marriage and hard and constant practice to learn how to hate each other with good, wholesome vigor and elation (when we do hate each other. We do not hate each other all the time), but my precocious daughter has learned how to do it already. It may be a talent she has, a genuine aptitude (if it is, it’s the only talent she has. I am often quite furious with her, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of showing it. I am often cruelly sarcastic with her in return). She hates my wife much more, and much more often, than she hates me, which is ironic and unfair, because my wife loves and cares for her without limit or restraint and would lay down her life for her. (And I would not.) But I get my share too. (She has enough hatred to go around.)

It doesn’t really bother me so much anymore that my daughter hates me (I won’t let it); by now, I expect it, I am inured to it, and I am willing to bow to her assertion that there is good reason for her hatred, although I don’t know what that good reason is (except that I have grown inured to it, which is reason enough, I suppose).

Usually, she will come uninvited to my study to interrupt me when I’m working or reading a newsmagazine (or pretending to work or read) to tell me (in a tense, thin, childlike voice that she endeavors valorously to hold steady and self-assured) that she has arrived at the conclusion (never
come to
, but always
arrived
) that she doesn’t have any real feelings for my wife or me any longer, thinks very little of her mother and of me too and finds
it impossible to respect us, in fact, by now really dislikes us both very much; and that, terrible as she knows it must sound, and even though she will admit that she probably ought to be ashamed of herself—but isn’t—for feeling the way she does, she is certain that she really wouldn’t be sorry if Mommy (my wife) were killed in an automobile accident, like Alice Harmon’s mother—Alice Harmon, in fact, can’t make herself feel sorry about her mother at all—or if I were to get sick and die of a brain tumor, like Betsy Anderson’s father; that she wouldn’t actually take any pleasure in it, she wants me to know, and isn’t actually wishing for that to happen, she wants me to understand, and might even regret it a little if it did, as she would regret it if it happened to anyone she knew, but she just doesn’t think it would be the biggest tragedy in
her
life if I did get a stroke or a brain tumor, provided I died quickly and didn’t need someone to take care of me for a long time, like some of those people who have brain tumors or strokes and go on living like vegetables, and is not saying all this just to start an argument with me or make me feel bad, but is only saying so because that just happens to be the way she feels, and she knows I want to know the way she really feels—don’t I?—because I am her father and she is my daughter. And then, if I have let her progress that far (sometimes I cut her off gruffly as soon as she begins and kick her out right then), she might volunteer the information (again), with that same affected air of casual, unmotivated reflection (still struggling to keep her small voice from wavering and her trembling fingers from picking at things) that if my wife and I ever do get divorced, as she knows we have considered doing, and feels we
should
consider doing, since we are not so happy together anyway and are not very much alike, she doesn’t think she would want to have to live with either one of us but would prefer to be sent away to boarding school, like Christine Murray, who is very happy now that she doesn’t have to live with either one of her parents anymore, or even maybe to school in Switzerland, where she knows she will be content. In fact, she has arrived at the conclusion
by now that she would be much better off living away from us, anyway, even if we don’t get a divorce, and that we would probably be much happier without her too, since she can tell we don’t really want her there. Wouldn’t we?