30 Pieces of a Novel (79 page)

took off
her glasses and stared petulantly at him, and said, “You know, you could have knocked first. You didn't have to scare me by banging my door,” and he said, “Knocked? Knocked? Let me tell you, kid—” but caught himself and said, “Oh, what am I doing to you, to everyone here?” and grabbed his hair and began pulling it, and she said, “Daddy, don't, you'll hurt yourself,” and he said, “Everything's wrong”—his eyes were closed and he'd stopped pulling and he heard her book fall to the floor—“everything, you name it, this is all such crap, it's gotten too damn screwing hard,” and pulled her door closed and went into his room, shut his door so slowly he heard the latch click, and lay on the bed and turned off his night-table light to be in the dark, but the desk lamp was on and he didn't want to get up to turn it off too. His wife came in a few minutes later and said, “Now what could have provoked that?” and he said, “Something, I forget. I don't want to talk about it,” and looked away, and she said, “You realize how frightened the girls get? Something has to be terribly wrong for such an outburst. Just don't say it's nothing or not worth talking about,” and he looked at her and said, “Okay, it's everything. I can't stand it here; the whole damn joint's driving me up the wall,” and she said, “Then leave, go, because I'm tired of hearing how living here is so horrid and we're such a burden on you and driving you crazy, because you're gradually driving us crazy too,” and he said, “Good idea then; tomorrow, maybe,” and she said, “If you mean you're leaving, I hope so, or that you at least want to start talking about it and working it out so it doesn't happen again,” and stayed there staring at him—for an answer, he assumed—and he looked away and then said, “Would it be possible to shut off my desk lamp, please?” and she left the room and later went to sleep in her study, didn't come back, as she usually did—the two to three times a year things got so bad between them that she slept in another room—to get her pillows and a long-sleeved T-shirt she always sleeps in. This morning he woke up at the usual time, made sure his older daughter was up—“You don't have to check on me; I have my watch alarm”—set the table for her and her sister, asked if she wanted him to make her toast, and she said, “I'm not hungry,” and he said, “You have to eat something,” and she said, “It's my body and I'll do what I want with it and that old myth about breakfast being so important has been debunked by doctors,” and he said, “Okay, if you say,” drove her to school, didn't try to give her his customary goodbye kiss because he knew by her look and silence and coldness to him all morning that she wouldn't let him touch her, just said when she got out of the car, “See ya, and have a great day,” and she said, “Oh, yeah,
great day
, thanks to you,” and he said, “It was just an expression, and one I hate,” but she didn't answer that; drove back, his other daughter was at the table having breakfast and reading and never looked up or responded to the one thing he said—“Will that little bowl of cereal be enough for you?”—saw her to the school bus stop, best not to say anything to her in the mood she's in, he thought, but she said while they were standing there, “Why do you always have to yell and curse so much?”—he was looking at the sky and the tops of trees so as not to look at her and maybe make her feel self-conscious—and he said, “What?” and she said, “You know. It isn't good for you, especially the yelling, and both make it ugly for us. Awful ugly. It's horrible, like Mommy's said, and ruins everything that could be nice,” and he said, “You have a point, and I'm not just saying that. I'll think about what you said, and thanks for bringing it up,” and she said, “The bus,” and he said, “You can always hear things faster than me, but are you sure?” and he listened and finally heard it and then the bus appeared and he stepped forward to kiss her, thinking, They've talked a little about it, so maybe she'll let him, but she backed away when he put his arm out to draw her head to his face, and got on the bus and sat where she always did, talking to the same girl across the aisle she talks to every morning, and he thought, Don't even try to wave to her, she's not going to look, and when the bus was gone he thought, She's right, he should get out of here. She didn't say that but she hinted it. Even if she didn't hint it, it's what she wants. Even if she doesn't want it and her sister and mother don't, it'd be best if he did, for all of them, and he went back to the house, took off his sweatshirt and put on a sweater and coat and such, got the keys, started to open the door to the carport, thought of it a few seconds more, thought, Yes, he's really got to get away from here for a long time, though he doesn't know how long, and grabbed his gloves off the dryer and went outside and got in the car and left. Driving, he thinks of his daughter getting on the bus and immediately starting to talk animatedly with the girl across the aisle and the way his other daughter got out of the car and methodically got all her things together and walked to the school entrance, carrying her art portfolio and art supply box in one hand, other hand holding the strap of her backpack on her shoulder and her silver antique purse by its chain. Such beautiful girls, he thinks, so good, and young. Why does he persecute them the way he does? Torture them, whatever he does to them, make life miserable for them so much, for what'd they do? Well, that's why he's leaving, isn't it?—because he does all that. And his wife. She hasn't got it bad enough? Why can't he just adjust to it all, take it more easily, not think he has to do the same number of things in the same amount of time he did them before she got sick? Why can't he slow down a little, slow down a lot, take it as it comes, and so forth? Why does he resort so much to such extreme behavior, yelling when things get him down or he feels overtaxed, slamming doors, cursing, gibbering, mumbling insulting things to them under his breath, storming out of the house, hurling a book across the room, crumpling up the newspaper he's reading and then in a worse fit tearing pages of it into shreds, sweeping a filled dish rack into the sink, throwing a mug to the floor, kicking a door (once punching one), tearing at his hair and once ending up with a clump? He can try, can't he?—he's tried and tried but he can try to try harder—to show more control and think more about why he's doing these things and their consequences, because—who's he fooling?—he can't leave. It'll be too tough for them and he's hurt them plenty enough already and he doesn't want to go and live alone and all the other things, and he drives a little farther—Yes, he thinks, yes? It's just going to take longer getting back—and signals for a U-turn and drives home. His wife's in the kitchen when he gets there, and he says, “Hello,” and smiles and puts the keys on the hook, and she says, “How nice; you're happy. You've forgiven yourself and erased from your mind everything you did last night,” and he says, “Just the opposite,” and she says, “I don't believe it. Where were you, though? I only ask because I called for you when I had trouble getting off the bed. It's too high,” and he says, “Sorry, I was just taking a drive,” and she says, “You? You never drive to just drive. It always has to be
to
somewhere, even in the fall when I ask you to drive me around so I can see the leaves,” and he says, “When the girls were real small? And we couldn't get them to nap when we desperately needed them to have one, so I'd put them in their car seat—” and she says, “Only Fanny; Josephine never had a problem napping.” “Well, today I had lots of serious things on my mind and some free time so I drove to think them out,” and she says, “And what came out of it?” and he says, “I'm not intentionally changing the subject, but did you at least sleep well?” and she smiles and says, “You do so don't want to answer. Either because nothing did come out or you didn't drive just to think or you're hiding something. But you better say more than that you're sorrier than you were the last time and realize why you did what you did last night and it won't happen again, no matter how many times you know I've heard you say that, because that's what you always say and I always eventually say okay, and it always happens again,” and he says, “I also thought of that and I swear I'll also try to change my behavior, everything. But actually, to be absolutely honest, what I originally drove off for before I had all these thoughts—or rather, these thoughts came because of what I originally drove off for, if you can follow me—was to leave you and the kids. I left with nothing but the car, which I was going to get back to you somehow, and had intended to start out new with nothing in some new place. Then during the drive I thought about you and the kids—of course, you were all in my mind right from the beginning—but this time of the consequences to you and me about my leaving for good, and drove back. I know I can be a miserable bastard, irritable, critical, and a slew of other more contemptible and reprehensible things, and that I have a lot of changes in myself to make, though I'm not sure on everything how I will, and that last point I'm sorry but I don't think I made too clear,” and she has her hand to her face, had it there since he first said he'd left them, and says, “Wow, what a shocker! I don't know what to say or how to digest any of it, even where to begin. I'm not going to say you're making up the part about leaving us to deflect from how you acted last night or to say something shocking or new, because I know what you'll say, and that could start another argument. But you're not, are you, making it up?” and he says, “What do you think I'm going to say?” and she says, “What a surprise, though. Anyway, I'm glad you didn't go—you didn't just come back for your clothes, I hope. But you're not off the hook yet, and for the time being, welcome back,” and he says, “Great, and thanks,” and bends down to kiss her, and she says, “Not right now, if you don't mind. Even if you do,” and wheels herself out of the room, suddenly looking angry. He has to get away from everything here: family and work. His wife's at her physical therapy session, kids are at school, and he packs a few clothes and personal belongings and gets in the car and drives to another city. He gets a cheap hotel room for a week, buys a newspaper, and looks in the Help Wanted section. He sees a few jobs that might be for him and calls one. He's interviewed, gets
the job, and starts work
the next day. When he gets his first week's salary he rents a furnished room. He constantly thinks he has to speak to them, he can't let them continue to worry, and two weeks after he left home, he calls. “Oh, God, I knew I'd have to face this one day,” his wife says, “though it's good to hear your voice. You're all right? Where are you? We thought you could be dead.” “That's why I called. I'm living in another city and I don't plan to come home.” The other phone's picked up, and his older daughter says, “Where are you calling from, Daddy? We were so worried. We all thought you were dead and then thought you couldn't be because your car wasn't found. That's what the police lady told us.” “You went to the police for me and they couldn't find me? I don't know why. I got a job. I gave my real name and Social Security number and already got a pay check. I could have been traced.” “We didn't get the police to search for you. We only wanted to know—Mommy did—if you got into a car accident and were dead.” “Well, I'm not, sweetie. And the car I'm giving back to the family. I left home, that's all. Not ‘that's all,' of course, because it's a lot. But I couldn't take it there anymore. It's been too much for me. You've seen that and how I always react. Not ‘always,' but too often. You know I've been threatening to go for a long time. And so, when things got too much for me a couple of weeks ago, I went. I know my going is a crazy act of sorts. Or not ‘of sorts,' but simply crazy and wrong and every name in the book you want to put on it. But I don't want to talk anymore about it than I just have. I couldn't take it there anymore. I know I already said that, but I didn't know it while I was saying it. There's a perfect example—or not ‘perfect,' but just an example—of where my mind is now. Don't even ask how I got a new job with my mind in this condition, but I got one. I'm working. As menial a position as there ever was one—'position' is too good a word for it, even—but it does provide me with enough for a cheap room—and so I don't starve—and my newspaper and coffee every day, and for now that's all I want. Or need. Or want. Or both. Everything there is yours, though. Where you live, I mean—all I have. Are you listening, Sally? I want you and the kids to have—” and she says, “I heard, but I can't understand how you could say to her what you just did and going on with it as if it has no effect. You didn't hear her crying?” “No, is she?” “Now she's away from the phone, but before, she was, into it, and she's still crying. You also saying you didn't hear me telling you to stop and that if you have to say these things, to say them only to me when she's off the phone?” “No, also. My hearing's bad. I'm getting old. It's been going for a long time, my ears.” “Leaving us is one thing—just slipping out without a word, though of course it troubled us till we knew better and it still affects us deeply. But acting cruel like that on the phone to her once you're gone?” and he says, “I was acting cruel? Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that ‘oh, so sorry' sardonically, by the way. Not ‘sardonic,' but you know what I mean. For I'm really sorry. I wouldn't hurt her for the world, either kid, you too, though I know I have in the past with my rages and cursing and outbursts and you name it, which I'm so sorry for too.” “I have to take care of her; she's crying even worse now. Don't call back if that's how you're going to act on the phone,” and she hangs up. He calls his boss and says he won't be in today and probably never again and she doesn't have to pay him for the days he weeked this work. “I mean, worked this week. I'm a little confused because I've just decided to go back to my family. I didn't tell you I have one. I in fact thought if I did tell you you wouldn't hire me because you'd think I'd deserted them, but I do: kids, wife, house, even a cat. Thanks for taking me on when I didn't have the right experience for it but needed a job badly. I'm being sincere about that.” “Well, no, thank you, Bookbinder, because you've put me in one heck of a spot. It's not that you have a job no one else can do. But when I hired you I expected you to come in on time every day and, if you had to quit, then to give me at least a week's notice. Now I have to find someone fast or do what you're supposed to be doing while I'm doing all my other work. You change your mind about quitting, don't call me,” and she slams the phone down. He packs his things and drives back home. The locks have been changed. He rings the doorbell. His younger daughter comes to the door, looks through it and screams “Daddy!” and runs out of the room. His wife comes to the door. “Go away,” she says through it. “You're not welcome here anymore and you gave up your right to even be on the property.” “But I've come back, quit my new job and room, and am determined to work it out here. Believe me, I've changed, or have come closer to it than I ever have. That last incident with Fanny on the phone did something to me. Please let me in. I'll sleep on the couch or anywhere you want, just so I'm home and the kids know I'm here for them, and you too, I hope, if you need my help.” His daughters come into the kitchen. Older one whispers into his wife's ear; she shakes her head and shuts her eyes and says no and then nods and unlocks the door. “They thought I should. I only went along with it because I didn't want to hurt them further. You can sleep on the couch or in the basement. Either one, you'll have to make your own bed.” “Will do, which is what I did every day anyway, making our bed, cooking all the dinners, doing most of the clean-up work and laundry and shopping and driving the kids around, not that I'm complaining or blaming you or them. In the end I liked doing things for you all; that's what I learned while I was away and from our last phone call. Hiya, girls,” he says to his daughters. “What you did was horrible,” his older daughter says. “Not on the phone as much as leaving us without saying anything.” “Still,” his younger daughter says, “we talked it over, Fanny and me, and we're glad to see you home and being so happy.” “Thanks, my sweethearts,” and he tries to kiss the girls but they back away and leave the room. “My reaction exactly,” his wife says, “if you make a similar move to me. Please see that the house is locked up. And don't turn down the heat too low, as you like to do; we found less uncomfortable ways to save money,” and goes to their bedroom. He sleeps on the couch, makes the kids breakfast the next morning, drives the older one to school, walks the younger one to the bus stop and waves goodbye, says to each of them, “It'll take time, but I assure you, everything will be good.” Calls his old boss and says, “Quite truthfully, I had a breakdown of sorts a few weeks ago, which you must have heard about when someone there probably called to ask where I was. But everything's fine with me now and I'm eager to return to work, if you'll have me, and you have every reason not to, and no hard feelings if that's what you want,” and the man says, “We all felt bad when we learned of it, and the job's still yours,” and he goes to work. He has his first tantrum a week later. Something spills when he's making the kids breakfast, then the food he replaces it with burns, and the handle of the pan's so hot when he grabs it to take it off the stove that he drops it to the floor, and finally his younger daughter knocks over a glass of orange juice while reaching for something else. He shouts, “Do you always have to be so careless?” and she says, “I don't, always. It was an accident, like the French toast you burned and which I'll clean up.” “It's always one mishap after another here. But I got to take Fanny to school. I got to get dressed. I got to shave and be at work in an hour. I have to make the goddamn money for this house and the paper towels we use by the carload and you kids. Who else is going to do it, your mom? I can't stay around here cleaning up everyone's mess, and I can't leave it there either, soaking into the table and the floor,” and his older daughter says, “Josie said she'd clean it up, and I'll help her,” and starts mopping up the juice on the table with her napkin. “What're you doing? You don't use a cloth napkin for that. That just makes one more thing for me to rinse out and take time with and wash in the machine.” “What's the difference?” she says. “There's already juice on it, and I don't see why you're making it into such a big thing,” and he says, “You don't, huh? Then I'll tell you. I'll tell you both why,” and his younger daughter says, “Daddy, get control of yourself; you're getting excited over nothing,” and he says, “Nothing to you, maybe, because you don't have to do all these things. But you're two of a pair: too clumsy to eat breakfast properly and, when you knock something over, too stupid to care,” and they both start crying. “Oh, no,” he says, “I'm so sorry,” and his wife's yelling from her bedroom, “What's going on there? Gould, stop!” and he tries to hold them while he says, “Please forgive me; I made a