Something Happened (37 page)

“Are you imitating me again? Don’t think you can get away with that forever.”

“We’re in public, aren’t we? I don’t want you to do anything that will make people stop and listen.”

“I’m not doing anything at all but listening to you.”

“You’re standing.”

“So are you.”

“With your hands on your hips, just like an actor on television. Let’s walk. Let’s walk, I said.”

“Now
you’re
like an actor on television, shaking your finger at me.”

“You’re embarrassing me,” he charges.

“No, I’m not.”

“But you’re going to,” he predicts, “aren’t you?”

“Why should I embarrass you?”

“Are you going to yell at me?”

“Am I yelling at you?”

“Are you going to be mad?”

“Am I mad?”

“You
are
embarrassing me,” he accuses triumphantly. “You’re being sarcastic.”

“Big shot!” I tell him sarcastically. “You don’t even know what embarrass means.”

“Yes, I do. And I know what sarcastic means. It means when you’re doing something I don’t want you to do.”

“I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to do. I’m not doing anything at all but standing here, so how can I be embarrassing you?”

“You’re asking me questions, aren’t you? Why do you keep asking me questions?”

“Why don’t you answer them?”

“I’m going to tell Mommy,” he threatens. “I’m going to tell Mommy you drank whiskey.”

“She won’t believe you. She’ll know it’s a lie.”

“How come?”

“Your nose will grow.”

“How come?”

“A person’s nose grows when he tells a lie.”

“Then
your
nose is growing,” he counters. “Because
that’s
a lie.”

“Then why would my nose be growing if it’s a lie?”

“I’m going to sock you one, Daddy,” he squeals in frustration, as he feels himself outsmarted.

“Why are you twisting around so much? Stand still.”

“I think I’m nervous,” he guesses.

“Do you have to pee? Then why are you picking at your pecker?”

“I don’t like that.”

(He stops picking at his pecker. I’m sorry I said it.)

“She’ll smell my breath,” I resume, to change
that
subject. “She won’t smell whiskey, and that’s how she’ll know you’re lying.”

“I’m going to kick you,” he says. “I think I’m going to kick you in the shins.”

“Why?” I ask in surprise.

“Because,” he says. “Because whenever I kick you in the shins or sock you one you begin wrestling with me and we laugh a lot, so I think I’ll do it to make you laugh a lot.”

“I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’m going to tell Mommy you said a dirty word to me.”

“So what? I say dirty words to her.”

“She doesn’t like it. She’ll fight with you.”

“We don’t fight.”

“You fight a lot. She’ll smack you.”

“She doesn’t smack me.”

“She cries.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Sometimes she does.”

“You talk too much. And notice too much. Sometimes you get them all mixed up.”

“I wish I knew somebody who could beat you up,” he tells me, kidding.

“Why?”

“I’m going to call a cop.”

“Why?”

“To smack you.”

“He’s not allowed to.”

“You smack me.”

“I’m allowed to. And I don’t smack you.”

“You used to.”

“I did not. In your whole life I bet I never smacked you once.”

“Once you did. When I was little. I remember.”

“If I did, I’m sorry. But I don’t think I did. I don’t smack you now. Do I?”

“You’re going to. Aren’t you?”

“For what?”

“You know.”

“I’m not.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You promise you won’t smack me?”

“I promise.”

“You really promise you won’t smack me?”

“I promise. I won’t smack you. Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you,” he says.

And
wham
—he kicks me in the shin!

I leap a mile into the air, howling with surprise, and I know I must look funny as hell to him as I go hopping around in outrage, stroking and fanning my stinging leg. He does not laugh immediately: he frowns instead, wondering, I guess, if he has perhaps gone too far and is now in trouble, until he sees and hears me guffaw and understands that I am neither hurt nor displeased. Then his own face opens radiantly in a sunburst of relief and he begins laughing in exultation. I exaggerate all my own comic motions in order to keep him laughing and then to trap him with a sneak attack. He is doubled over in quaking merriment, clutching his belly and gulping and sighing helplessly,
and all at once I am upon him: I huri myself at him while he is bent over laughing, and we fall to the ground wrestling. It is not much of a match. At the beginning, I tickle his ribs to keep him giggling and gasping for air and render him defenseless. We grapple awhile until I grow winded, and then I turn limp to allow him to pin me. I am out of breath, and the match is his if he wants it. But he isn’t satisfied. He grows cocky and careless: he wishes to savor his victory; and instead of pinning me, he elects to experiment in torturing me with some useless armlocks and toeholds. My breath is back, I decide to teach him a lesson (another lesson. The subject of this lesson, I suppose, is that one should strike while the iron is hot. The truly disgusting thing about all these platitudinous lessons for getting ahead is that sooner or later they all turn out to be true). So, while my boy is fiddling tranquilly with my fingers, my toes, and my foot, not certain really what to do with any of them, I bunch my muscles treacherously, fill my lungs for the effort, and, in one brief and explosive heave, flip him up and over and around down into the sand. He whoops in fearful, thrilled excitement at my new determination, and he kicks and twists and elbows wildly with joy, a lithe, laughing, healthy little animal trying energetically to fight and wiggle free as I swarm down upon him. (Now I cannot let him win; if I do, he’ll know it’s only because I did let him, and then he’ll know that he has lost.) It is no contest at all now that I have my wind back and am going about it in earnest. I employ my greater bulk (much of it solid flab, ha, ha) to force him down into place. It is relatively easy for me to grasp both his wrists in one of my hands, to immobilize his legs beneath the pressing weight of my own and end his kicking. In just a few more seconds it is over; and he gives up. I have him nailed to the ground in a regulation pin. We stare at each other smiling, our faces inches apart.

“I win,” he jokes.

“Then let me up,” I joke back.

“Only if you surrender,” he says.

“I surrender,” I reply.

“Then I’ll let you up,” he says.

I let him go and we rise slowly, breathing hard and feeling close to each other.

“You know, Daddy,” he starts right in with pious gravity, trying to divert me, assuming an owlish and censorious expression as austerely as a judge, “I really did win, because you threw sand in my eyes and tickled me and that’s not allowed.”

“I did not,” I retort fliply.

“Did you tickle me? You liar.”

“That’s allowed. You can tickle.”

“You don’t laugh.”

“You don’t know how to tickle.”

“That’s why it’s not fair.”

“It is fair. And furthermore,” I continue, “I didn’t throw sand.”

“I can say you did.”

“And did you know, by the way, that it’s a lovely day today because the sun is shining and the bay is calm and blue, and there are nine or seven planets—”

“Nine.”

“—of which Mercury is the closest to the sun and …”

“Pluto.”

“… Pluto is the farthest?”

“Did you hear about the homosexual astronauts?” he asks.

“Yes. They went to Uranus. And if, as they say, there are seven days in each week and fifty-two weeks in each year, how come there are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year instead of three hundred and sixty-four?”

He pauses to calculate. “How come?” he queries. “I never thought about that.”

“I don’t know. I never thought about it either.”

“Is that what you want to talk about now?” he asks disconsolately.

“No. But if you want to stall, I’ll stall along with you. You’re not fooling me.”

“I’m going to tell Mommy,” he threatens again. “I’m going to tell Mommy you threw sand in my eyes.”

“
I’m
going to tell her,” I rejoin.

“Are you?” His manner turns solemn.

“What?”

“Going to tell her?”

“What?”

“You know.”

“What?”

“What I did.”

“Did you do something?” I inquire with airy candor.

“You know.”

“I can’t remember.”

“What I gave away.”

“Did you give something away?”

“Daddy, you know I gave a nickel away.”

“When? You give a lot of nickels away.”

“Just before. When you were right here.”

“Why?”

“You won’t know.”

“Tell me why. How do you know?”

“You’ll get angry and start yelling or begin to tease me or make fun of me.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I wanted to,” he states simply.

“That’s no answer.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“I said you wouldn’t understand.”

“He didn’t ask you for it,” I argue. “He couldn’t believe his eyes when you gave it to him. I don’t think you even know him that long. I’ll bet you don’t even like him that much. Do you?”

“You’re getting angry,” he sulks. “I knew you would.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re starting to yell, aren’t you?”

“I’m just raising my voice.”

“You see?”

“You’re faking,” I charge, and give him a tickling poke in the ribs. “And I know you’re faking, so stop faking and trying to pretend you can fool me. Answer.”

He grins sheepishly, exposed and pleased. “I don’t
know. I don’t know if I like him or not. I only met him yesterday.”

“See? I’m smart. Then why? You know what I mean. Why did you give your money to him?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. No. You want to. I can see you do. So you have to. Come on.”

“I wanted to give him something,” he explains very softly. “And that was all I had.”

“Why did you want to give him something?”

“I don’t know.”

He tells me this so plainly, truthfully, innocently as to make it seem the most plausible and obvious reason imaginable. And I do understand. His frankness is touching, and I feel like reaching out to embrace him right there on the spot and rewarding him with dollar bills. I want to kiss him (but I think he will be embarrassed if I do, because we are out in public). I want to tousle his hair lightly. (I do.) Tenderly, I say to him:

“That’s still no answer.”

“How come?” he inquires with interest.

“It doesn’t tell why.”

“It’s why.”

“It doesn’t tell why you wanted to give him something. Why did you want to give him something?”

“I think I know. You sure keep after me, don’t you?”

“Why did you want to give him something?”

“Do I have to tell?”

“No. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I was happy,” he states with a shrug, squinting uncomfortably in the sunlight, looking a little pained and self-conscious.

“Yeah?”

“And whenever I feel happy,” he continues, “I like to give something away. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” (I feel again that I want to kiss him.)

“It’s okay?” He can hardly trust his good fortune.

“And I’m glad you were happy. Why were you happy?”

“Now it gets a little crazy.”

“Go ahead. You’re not crazy.”

“Because I knew I was going to give it away.” He pauses a moment to giggle nervously. “To tease you,” he admits. “Then when I knew I was happy about that, I wanted to give the nickel away because I was happy about wanting to give the nickel away. Is it okay?”

“You’re making me laugh.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Can’t you see that you’re making me laugh? How can I be mad?”

“Then I’ll tell you something else,” he squeals with ebullient gaiety. “Sometimes I feel like laughing for no reason at all. Then I feel like laughing just because I know I feel like laughing. You’re smiling!” he cries suddenly, pointing a finger at my face, and begins shrieking with laughter. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re funny!” I shout back at him. “It’s funny, that’s why. You’re funny, that’s why.”

“Are you gonna tell Mommy I gave money away?”

“Are you? You can’t tell her either if I don’t. Otherwise I’ll get in trouble.”

“You can tell her,” he decides.

“Then you can tell her too.”

“Was it all right?”

“Sure,” I comfort him. “It was all right. In fact, it was better than all right. It was very nice. And I’m glad you talked to me. You don’t always talk to me.” I rest the palm of my hand lightly on the back of his head as we start walking again and head toward the boardwalk. My hand feels unnatural there, as though I am stretching a small elbow and arm muscle into an unaccustomed position. I move my hand to his shoulder; I feel a strain there too. (I am not used to holding my boy, I realize. I am not used to holding my daughter either.) “But suppose—” I want to prepare him and shield him against everything injurious in the world, and I cannot stop myself.

He pulls away from me with an impatient lurch
of his shoulders, frowning. “Daddy, I knew you were going to say that!”

“And I knew you were going to say that,” I laugh in reply, but my heartiness is false. “What else am I going to say?”

“I want it for myself later or tomorrow? Then I’ll get it back from him. But suppose—”

“Yeah?”

“—he doesn’t have it or won’t give it to you?”

“He won’t.”

“Then I’ll get another nickel. From who?”

“I won’t give it to you.”

“From you. I won’t give it to you.”

“I won’t. I warn you.”

“You will,” he replies to me directly, ending his imitation of us. “You always say that. You always say you won’t. And then you always do. So why do you say that? Won’t you?”