JК
Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
Страница: 380 из 398(Hypocrisy was easier.)
"Don't say that again!" my wife flares up at her that last time. "I don't ever want to hear you say anything about it again to us, or I won't let you come here. I mean that."
"I've had it," I roar at my wife afterward. "I don't ever want to hear her talk about him again. Or about any of the other kids either. I'll throw her out if she does. If you won't tell her I will."
"I did tell her. You heard me. Did you think that was easy?"
"You're only reacting that way because you know I'm right," her sister had responded self-righteously.
"She was only trying to be helpful," my wife continues repentently. "Now I'm sorry I yelled at her."
"No, she wasn't. Do you think she was trying to be helpful? I wish she'd move to Arizona with your mother."
"Her store is here."
She is a seamy, murky inner lining of my wife's character that my wife has never been able to look at without retreating immediately into remorse. She is another underside of my own (that I am able to show often at home to my family and reveal to myself in daydreams with vindictive jubilation) just as Derek also is, in my occasional wish to be speechless and powerless again and wholly dependent once more on parents and big brothers and sisters. (Except that I would not want to be sent away to a home.) Everyone around me now reminds me of me. Even Kagle reminds me of me. (Green doesn't. I admire Green. Arthur Baron doesn't; I find I don't identify as readily with my betters or with people who have more attractive qualities than my own. Only with people who are worse.) Arthur Baron never mentions Derek to me. Andy Kagle does, and I hate him for it. (I could have killed him when he showed up at the house Sunday without invitation to tell me, unctuously and pretentiously, that it was God's will. I wanted to hit him too.) I resent it blazingly when anyone talks to me about him (and want to kill them), although I also hope that everyone in the world will join together soon at the identical moment to tell me:
"Give the kid away."
That isn't going to happen.
I don't have to poll the members of my family to find out what we want. Even my fair-haired, lovable, good-hearted, sensitive boy, who is appalled by the alternatives, really doesn't mean it when he pleads:
"Don't."
He means:
"Please."
"But please whisk him away too swiftly for the eye to see or the mind to record and remember."
Kagle called from the filling station in town with the lie he just happened to be driving through and would like to say hello to the family.
"Don't say that again!" my wife flares up at her that last time. "I don't ever want to hear you say anything about it again to us, or I won't let you come here. I mean that."
"I've had it," I roar at my wife afterward. "I don't ever want to hear her talk about him again. Or about any of the other kids either. I'll throw her out if she does. If you won't tell her I will."
"I did tell her. You heard me. Did you think that was easy?"
"You're only reacting that way because you know I'm right," her sister had responded self-righteously.
"She was only trying to be helpful," my wife continues repentently. "Now I'm sorry I yelled at her."
"No, she wasn't. Do you think she was trying to be helpful? I wish she'd move to Arizona with your mother."
"Her store is here."
She is a seamy, murky inner lining of my wife's character that my wife has never been able to look at without retreating immediately into remorse. She is another underside of my own (that I am able to show often at home to my family and reveal to myself in daydreams with vindictive jubilation) just as Derek also is, in my occasional wish to be speechless and powerless again and wholly dependent once more on parents and big brothers and sisters. (Except that I would not want to be sent away to a home.) Everyone around me now reminds me of me. Even Kagle reminds me of me. (Green doesn't. I admire Green. Arthur Baron doesn't; I find I don't identify as readily with my betters or with people who have more attractive qualities than my own. Only with people who are worse.) Arthur Baron never mentions Derek to me. Andy Kagle does, and I hate him for it. (I could have killed him when he showed up at the house Sunday without invitation to tell me, unctuously and pretentiously, that it was God's will. I wanted to hit him too.) I resent it blazingly when anyone talks to me about him (and want to kill them), although I also hope that everyone in the world will join together soon at the identical moment to tell me:
"Give the kid away."
That isn't going to happen.
I don't have to poll the members of my family to find out what we want. Even my fair-haired, lovable, good-hearted, sensitive boy, who is appalled by the alternatives, really doesn't mean it when he pleads:
"Don't."
He means:
"Please."
"But please whisk him away too swiftly for the eye to see or the mind to record and remember."
Kagle called from the filling station in town with the lie he just happened to be driving through and would like to say hello to the family.