The Child (19 page)

She had been there when it happened; that made them close. The incident that never took place. The non-event. Somewhere inside of her Carole knew what the truth was. She knew he hadn’t done anything to Victor; she just had to pretend to get Mommy’s approval. But now it was only the two of them, so no more lying. She would have to fess up and stop all that pain.

Then, for no reason, Carole made the decision to start screaming. Accusations are always easier than telling the truth.

“What are you doing here? What’s wrong with you? Look at you. You’re a mess. Don’t come around here looking like an insane person.” She didn’t move from her chair.

Stew pretended to leave, but he did not leave. He turned like he was out of there but actually walked into the house through the garage. He knew she would think he’d gone home. But she didn’t realize there was no home. That now this had to be his home, because she lived there. She was his sister. He had to be with someone who knew him, so this was it.

Stew locked the doors to the yard, the garage, and the street. He didn’t want her yapping to interrupt this very important talk he had to have with Victor. Then he went into the living room, where Victor was on the couch playing with his computer.

“Hi, Victor.”

Why wouldn’t Victor say hi? He knew better than anyone that Stew hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Come on,” Stew said, and he picked Victor up roughly by the arm, but not as badly as his father had just done to him. So why was Victor complaining? Why did he complain if Stew wasn’t hurting him the way Daddy had? Daddy had done much worse, and yet Stew hadn’t complained about that; he didn’t complain about the pain, just the insults.

Yet, here was Victor, not having anyone yelling insults at him, so why was he screaming? Why was the kid screaming? Didn’t he know that nothing was happening?

Stew knew Victor was doing this just to get Carole to come into the house. Victor was a squealer and a tattletale. He was just like the rest of them.

“Shut up, Victor. Shut the fuck up.”

Stew slapped him.

“Shut up, you fucker.”

Stew put his hand over Victor’s mouth and squeezed it.

“Shut up, or I won’t have a home.”

Victor yelled, and now Carole was screaming from the other side of the house. It was too late, though. Why did Victor have to do that to him? The little shit. Stewie hit Victor in the head.

“Shut up, Victor,” Stew said, pulling his arms and swinging him around. He could feel the little boy’s arm slip out of the socket.

“Shut up, you little tattletale.”

Then Stew felt worried.

“Please shut up,” he said. “If you would just shut up, everything would be all right.”

Carole was banging on the door of the house, but Stew had locked it.

Why can’t people just stop doing stupid things? Just stop it? If everyone would shut up and listen, Stew would have a chance. They all needed to listen and stop saying cruel things, things Stew couldn’t take.

“Shut up, Victor.”

Stew tightened his hold on Victor’s mouth. Victor was gurgling.

Here comes Carole, screaming again; all she ever does is scream. Now she was banging the plate glass with a baseball bat and climbing into the living room through the broken window.

Stew held Victor between himself and Carole. Victor was like a chair or a garbage can. He would protect Stew one way or the other. Victor flew around the room, Stew holding on to his arms. Victor’s head hit the wall. Carole ran to him and Stew grabbed the bat. She wouldn’t let go of it. She reached for Victor and still held the bat. Stew pulled on it. Then he got it and swung around. He grabbed
it and swung at Carole. She fell down. Then he hit Victor on the head. He smashed Victor’s head and dropped the bat. Then he ran out through the shattered picture window.

Stew ran to the other side of the park, but when he got there he forgot why he had come. So he lay down under a bush. He noticed that he was bloody, but he wasn’t bleeding. Dirt was clinging to the blood. He was crying, but in a way he felt better. He had shown how he felt. After all this time of keeping everything bottled up, he had gotten angry, and he felt a slight relief. But now he was afraid. What if something really bad had happened? They would never get over it. Victor would be okay–he was just scared. But what if Stew had to go to jail? He would get AIDS.

Stew imagined the trial. He saw himself in handcuffs, feeling so scared. If there was a trial, the judge would find out in court that it was really Stew’s father’s fault and Carole’s fault, because they never listened. The judge would cross-examine them. And they’d have to answer, because it was the law.

“Mr. Mulcahey, what did you do when Stew begged you to stop insulting him?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Objection overruled. Answer the question.”

“I didn’t do what he asked.”

“And what, Mr. Mulcahey, would have happened if you had done what Stew asked, if you had stopped insulting him?”

“My son would have gotten a fair shake.”

“Thank you. No more questions, Your Honor.”

Stew suddenly looked up. He had been daydreaming or sleeping or something, but a lot of time had passed. There was an afternoon
chill and it was threatening. His legs and hands were sore and swollen. His shoulder hurt terribly.

Stew knew he had to find someone he could explain things to so that all of this could get cleared up. Then his father would be nice to him and Stew could go home. He couldn’t call Carole; she would be mad about Victor, and she would never admit that the whole thing would have turned out differently if she hadn’t put him down. He couldn’t call David, because David was in jail. He couldn’t call Kevin Bart—what a moron. Maybe he could hitch a ride to the mall and trick with some guy in the men’s room, and maybe that guy would help him. The problem was how dirty he had gotten and how much everything hurt. No one would give him a ride, and then he’d have to deal with mall security, who probably already had their eyes on him. They’d turn him in in a flash. Then he decided to go see Dr. Wisotscky.

 

“Sit here, Stew,” Wisotscky said, shutting down his computer. “You look terrible. What happened to you?”

“I got in a fight.”

Stew started to cry.

“I see,” he said, picking up the box of tissues and placing it at Stew’s disposal. “I’m glad you came to me about it. That was the right thing to do. Now, why were you fighting?”

“He wouldn’t stop insulting me.”

“Well, did you walk away?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t walk away; he wanted me to walk away. If I had walked away, he would have won by getting rid of me. I wanted to stay.”

“But, Stew, you can’t control other people. It may be frustrating for you if another boy at school doesn’t want to be your friend, but you can’t make him do it. You know, these are hard things to learn, but we all have to learn. Let me tell you something. You’re into computers, right?”

“Yes.”

Stew looked at Wisotscky’s computer. He wanted to steal it. How come the old man got a computer and Stew couldn’t have one?

“Look at my computer. At first, when I was gathering data for my studies, I set up a camcorder on a tripod and pointed it at the screen.” Wisotscky laughed good-naturedly at himself. “I didn’t realize I could save it to a disk. At the beginning I was really stupid.”

Stew was speechless. He was getting worried. This guy wasn’t helping him.

“That’s how it is with you, Stew. You are at the beginning of your life. In a way, you’re stupid. You need to learn that people can’t be forced to be your friend. No matter how frustrating they may be.”

Stew was exhausted. He was ready to cry.

“What are you feeling, Stew?”

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Wisotscky made a note. He wrote the word
guilt
.

“That’s not a feeling, that’s a thought.” Wisotscky had his fatherly cap on. “A feeling starts with
I feel
. If you start with
I think
, that’s a thought.”

Stew shut up.

“You’re young, you’re bright, you have your whole future ahead of you. Now you’re having some problems at home and at school. But you have a choice, Stew. You can either see your problems or emphasize your gifts. You can see the glass as half empty, Stew, or
half full. Half empty or half full. Half empty or half full.”

The phone rang. “What’ll it be? Huh, Stew?” Wisotscky swiveled in his chair and picked up the phone. “Wisotscky…. Yes. Lieutenant Bart?” He listened. “Oh.” He looked up nervously at Stew. “Yes, yes I see.” He ran his hands over his scalp and then took out his handkerchief and wiped them. “I understand completely.” He hung up and looked at Stew.

“Was that my father?”

“You know very well that it wasn’t.”

“Okay, so there’s something wrong with me.” Stew was crying. “My father hates me.”

“Your father is an asshole.” Wisotscky was nervous. What did this mean about him? He folded his hands and clenched them. He could lose his licence over this. “You’re responsible, Stew.” He looked up at the boy–he was lost. Stew had no idea of who he had become.

“What do I do now?”

The social worker stared. He felt pity. It was so intimate, this moment. Soon the police would come, but right now it was quiet.

“Stew. I’m sorry. Nothing can help you but mercy.”

Hockey unlocked his office door at eight-thirty the next morning to find Eva fast asleep on his desk. The lamp was on, and she held the telephone in her hand. The desk, chairs, and floor were cluttered with half-written letters, notes for half-written letters. Some of these failed, regretful missives had even been sealed in envelopes before being crumpled and tossed to the floor. Some even with stamps. They were accompanied by discarded pens and many cartons of bad take-out food of such poor quality the consumer clearly had to be out of her mind with grief.

“What did you do? Spend the night here? Did you get a bad result from the clinic?”

It was Hockey’s second day back in the office on his new new medication and his new new required dietary regimen. He’d brought a kelp salad from home, a decaf no-fat latte, a protein bar, and an apple. It felt great to swing his briefcase, to tie his tie, to grab a cab. These actions boondoggled the guillotine.

“I don’t have cancer,” Eva smiled.

“That’s amazing!”

He kissed her and squeezed her.

“Mary won’t answer the phone,” Eva said quietly. Then her face fell apart.

Hockey shut off the lamp and turned on the light.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said, emphasizing the good, while knowing that the heart is a different kind of ache than the lymph node.

“Thank you.”

“Is she still at her mother’s?”

“I don’t know.”

Eva’s eyes had receded an inch into her head. She looked like her frontal lobe was climbing out of her cranium.

“Is she dead? Is there an answering machine?”

“Yes, there is a machine. She hasn’t returned my calls. I sent her a telegram.”

“They still have those?”

“Yes, and she still hasn’t responded.”

“Call the police.” Hockey loosened his tie. He hung his jacket up in the closet and started cleaning up the detritus of Eva’s night.

“I called the police, and they said.…”

“What?”

“They said….”

He stood still then. When all was silent and immobile. Eva looked up at him like she was a five-year-old grandmother. Girlish, used up, and out of step. “They said she doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t know why.”

“Oh my God, Eva. I didn’t know Mary could be so abusive. What the hell is going on with her?”

“Well, there’s got to be a reason.”

Hockey took out his pillbox and started swallowing. “What kind of reason could there be?”

Okay, they were strategizing now, together. She began to feel less insane. “Like if I stole her money to buy drugs.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Eva, I think if you did something so bad that this was an appropriate reaction, you would know what it is. What do you want to do?”

“I phoned all of our friends. Thirty. None of them felt that anything was wrong. No one heard anything bad from Mary. One person remembered a time she had come to dinner at our place three years ago and Mary was mean to me but I didn’t notice. But that’s all I could find. It doesn’t make sense to call her alcoholic, flag-waving, Christian cousins, does it?”

“No. Does she come from a family of drunks?”

“Her father drank himself to death. But she says she got over it. That’s not possible, is it?”

“What are you, in denial about everything?”

“No.”

They laughed.

“Should I call my mother?”

“No. Are you out of your mind?”

Eva thought for a minute. “Yes.”

Hockey tied up the garbage bag and wiped off the desktop. “You can only call your mother if you don’t need her.”

“What should I do?”

“Cut your losses.” He was full steam into puttering, opening windows, making coffee, starting the day. He looked at her. She was a shocked person. “Okay, give me the number.”

“I’ve got to talk to Mary,” Eva said. “This is all a big misunderstanding. We don’t have anything, but we have each other. That’s it. When there is no justice, when there is no family, there is Mary.”

Hockey pressed
Redial
.

“Hello?” He winked at Eva. “I got the machine. I can make her
pick up.” He waited. “Hello? This is the local store calling. You seem to have left some money on the counter…. Hello?… Hold on.”

He handed the phone to Eva.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked with all sincerity.