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Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
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"You don't like me to ask you questions, do you?"
"Sometimes."
"What do you do in there?"
"Read. Watch television. I do my homework. Think."
"Alone?"
"I like it."
"You didn't use to."
"Now I do."
"Are you always able to do all of your homework without me?"
"Not always."
"What do you do?"
"It's all right if it's wrong."
"Wouldn't it be better, though, if it were always correct?"
"The teachers don't care. Can I go now?"
"Where?"
He smiles apologetically, anticipating the humor of his reply. "To my room."
"Sure," I consent genially, with a heartiness that is false. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't angry with me."
"You stay in your room a lot," he pauses near the staircase to argue over his shoulder defensively. "Mommy stays in her room. You don't think there's something wrong with me, do you?"
"But I always let you come into mine."
Oh, God — here he is, a sensitive, candid, alert little boy, no larger now, it seems, than he was as a toddler; and I am quarreling with him, near tears (and with a lump in my throat), as though I were a rejected suitor, fencing with him selfishly as I would with my wife or my daughter.
How shall I die? Let me count the ways. (No, I won't.) I've been through that juvenile exercise before and won't waste time. None is good. I'm unable to eradicate from my mind the image of that vigorous, prosperous, large, handsome man who fell dead in the lobby of my office building a few weeks ago as we were nearly abreast of each other. I saw him clearly as he fell forward. Even as he was doubling over and crumpling he looked the epitome of radiant and robust indestructibility until his face hit the floor with a soggy whack and blood from the impact shot out of his mouth. I continued walking past him without a hitch in my stride. I made believe I didn't see. When I got back from lunch, he wasn't there. He had been taken away. I was disappointed. Someone had distorted reality for the sake of neatness. (I have things organized very neatly now upstairs.) I still catch myself looking for him in the spot where he fell. I still remember him falling. This morning on my way to work I saw an unconscious derelict lying on the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, staining the stone platforms with a fluid that could have been urine or whiskey. Policemen were there and had the situation in hand. They didn't need my help.
It's a good thing they didn't.
Woe, woe, alas, and alack. My wife is unhappy too again.
"You don't like me to ask you questions, do you?"
"Sometimes."
"What do you do in there?"
"Read. Watch television. I do my homework. Think."
"Alone?"
"I like it."
"You didn't use to."
"Now I do."
"Are you always able to do all of your homework without me?"
"Not always."
"What do you do?"
"It's all right if it's wrong."
"Wouldn't it be better, though, if it were always correct?"
"The teachers don't care. Can I go now?"
"Where?"
He smiles apologetically, anticipating the humor of his reply. "To my room."
"Sure," I consent genially, with a heartiness that is false. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't angry with me."
"You stay in your room a lot," he pauses near the staircase to argue over his shoulder defensively. "Mommy stays in her room. You don't think there's something wrong with me, do you?"
"But I always let you come into mine."
Oh, God — here he is, a sensitive, candid, alert little boy, no larger now, it seems, than he was as a toddler; and I am quarreling with him, near tears (and with a lump in my throat), as though I were a rejected suitor, fencing with him selfishly as I would with my wife or my daughter.
How shall I die? Let me count the ways. (No, I won't.) I've been through that juvenile exercise before and won't waste time. None is good. I'm unable to eradicate from my mind the image of that vigorous, prosperous, large, handsome man who fell dead in the lobby of my office building a few weeks ago as we were nearly abreast of each other. I saw him clearly as he fell forward. Even as he was doubling over and crumpling he looked the epitome of radiant and robust indestructibility until his face hit the floor with a soggy whack and blood from the impact shot out of his mouth. I continued walking past him without a hitch in my stride. I made believe I didn't see. When I got back from lunch, he wasn't there. He had been taken away. I was disappointed. Someone had distorted reality for the sake of neatness. (I have things organized very neatly now upstairs.) I still catch myself looking for him in the spot where he fell. I still remember him falling. This morning on my way to work I saw an unconscious derelict lying on the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, staining the stone platforms with a fluid that could have been urine or whiskey. Policemen were there and had the situation in hand. They didn't need my help.
It's a good thing they didn't.
Woe, woe, alas, and alack. My wife is unhappy too again.