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Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
Страница: 364 из 398(Tendons stretch and bulge and I wish he'd stop.) He can open his mouth wide enough, though, when he eats or laughs or just wants to make noise. Though what he's got to laugh about I don't know, except when I offer him things in play and snatch them back, and then he's just as apt to cry.
(You can't even play normal infant's games with him anymore. I feel worthless when I try to play with him and he cries. I slink away in rejection. I am furious with myself and with him. The least he can do, it seems to me, is be decent enough to laugh when I try to play with him.)
"Is having Derek for a brother," my daughter wants to know, in a manner that is somewhat demanding and somewhat abject, "going to make it harder for me to find a husband?"
"No, of course not," we lie.
"Why should it?" my wife flashes at her belligerently. She is shocked and outraged by the directness of the question. (And now it is I who must shield my little girl against her.)
"Leave her alone," I request softly.
My daughter turns to me for the truth. "Is it?"
"Are you thinking of getting married?" I gamble in a pleasant rejoinder.
"See how he tries not to answer me?"
"You should be ashamed of yourself," my wife says to her, "for even thinking like that."
"Leave her alone," I repeat.
"Will people think my own children will turn out the same way?" my daughter persists.
My wife gasps. "That's a terrible thing to say!" she rebukes her with emotion. "He's your own brother."
"That's why I worry about it. Can't I ask?"
"Leave her alone, for Christ sakes," I shout, and whirl upon my wife to glare at her. "I worry about the same thing."
"She's the one who should be ashamed."
"And you worry about it too. For Christ sakes, stop blaming her for him."
"Stop blaming me. You're always taking her part. The doctors said you shouldn't do that."
"I'm not."
"He's nothing to be ashamed of."
"If he's nothing to be ashamed of, why the hell are we always ashamed of him?"
"We're not."
"We are."
"You're always blaming me for him."
"I'm not. Like hell I am."
"Don't yell at me," my wife says unexpectedly, with an air of indignant calm and refinement that is utterly astounding.
I turn away from her in disgust. "Oh, Christ," I mutter. "You make me laugh."
"And don't swear at me, either," she reacts mechanically. "I've told you that before. Especially in front of the children. I think you must enjoy humiliating me. I really think you do.
(You can't even play normal infant's games with him anymore. I feel worthless when I try to play with him and he cries. I slink away in rejection. I am furious with myself and with him. The least he can do, it seems to me, is be decent enough to laugh when I try to play with him.)
"Is having Derek for a brother," my daughter wants to know, in a manner that is somewhat demanding and somewhat abject, "going to make it harder for me to find a husband?"
"No, of course not," we lie.
"Why should it?" my wife flashes at her belligerently. She is shocked and outraged by the directness of the question. (And now it is I who must shield my little girl against her.)
"Leave her alone," I request softly.
My daughter turns to me for the truth. "Is it?"
"Are you thinking of getting married?" I gamble in a pleasant rejoinder.
"See how he tries not to answer me?"
"You should be ashamed of yourself," my wife says to her, "for even thinking like that."
"Leave her alone," I repeat.
"Will people think my own children will turn out the same way?" my daughter persists.
My wife gasps. "That's a terrible thing to say!" she rebukes her with emotion. "He's your own brother."
"That's why I worry about it. Can't I ask?"
"Leave her alone, for Christ sakes," I shout, and whirl upon my wife to glare at her. "I worry about the same thing."
"She's the one who should be ashamed."
"And you worry about it too. For Christ sakes, stop blaming her for him."
"Stop blaming me. You're always taking her part. The doctors said you shouldn't do that."
"I'm not."
"He's nothing to be ashamed of."
"If he's nothing to be ashamed of, why the hell are we always ashamed of him?"
"We're not."
"We are."
"You're always blaming me for him."
"I'm not. Like hell I am."
"Don't yell at me," my wife says unexpectedly, with an air of indignant calm and refinement that is utterly astounding.
I turn away from her in disgust. "Oh, Christ," I mutter. "You make me laugh."
"And don't swear at me, either," she reacts mechanically. "I've told you that before. Especially in front of the children. I think you must enjoy humiliating me. I really think you do.