Lionel Shriver - We Need to Talk About Kevin

“You never want him to come with us, do you? You always want to find somebody to dump him with so we can waltz off by ourselves, like what you obviously consider the good old days.”

“I don’t remember saying any such thing,” I said stonily.

“You don’t have to. I can tell you’re disappointed every time I suggest we do something so that Kevin can come, too.”

“That must explain why you and I have spent countless long, boozy evenings in expensive restaurants, while our son languishes with strangers.”

“See? You resent it. And what about this summer? You wanted to go to Peru. Okay, I was game. But I assumed we’d take a vacation as a family. So I start supposing how far a six-year-old can hike in a day, and you should have seen your face, Eva. It fell like a lead balloon. Soon as Peru would involve Kevin, too, you lose interest. Well, I’m sorry. But I for one didn’t have a kid in order to get away from him as often as possible.”

I was leery of where this was headed. I’d known that eventually we would need to discuss all that had been left unsaid, but I wasn’t ready. I needed ballast. I needed supporting evidence, which would take me a minimum of nine months to gather.

“I’m with him all day,” I said. “It makes sense that I’d be more anxious than you for a break—”

“And I never cease to hear about what a terrible sacrifice you’ve been making.”

“I’m sorry that it means so little to you.”

“It’s not important it mean something to me. It should mean something to him.”

“Franklin, I don’t understand where—”

“And that’s typical isn’t it? You stay home for him to impress me . He just never enters in, does he?”

“ Where is all this coming from? I only wanted to tell you that I’d like us to have another baby, and for you to be happy about it, or at least start getting used to the idea.”

“You pick on him,” you said. With another cautionary glance at the tether-ball court up the hill, you had an air of just getting started. “You blame him for everything that goes wrong around this house. And at his kindergarten. You’ve complained about the poor kid at every stage of the game. First he cries too much, then he’s too quiet. He develops his own little language, and it’s annoying. He doesn’t play right—meaning the way you did. He doesn’t treat the toys you make him like museum pieces. He doesn’t pat you on the back every time he learns to spell a new word, and since the whole neighborhood isn’t clamoring to sign his dance card, you’re determined to paint him as a pariah. He develops one, yes, serious psychological problem having to do with his toilet training—it’s not that unusual, Eva, but it can be very painful for the kid—and you insist on interpreting it as some mean-spirited, personal contest between you and him. I’m relieved he seems to be over it, but with your attitude I’m not surprised it lasted a long time. I do what I can to make up for your—and I’m very sorry if this hurts your feelings, but I don’t know what else to call it—your coldness. But there’s no substitute for a mother’s love, and I am damned if I am going to let you freeze out another kid of mine.”

I was stunned. “Franklin—”

“This discussion is over . I didn’t enjoy saying all that, and I still hope things can get better. I know you think you make an effort—well, maybe you do make what for you is an effort—but so far it’s not enough. Let’s all keep trying.—Hey, sport!” You swooped Kevin up as he sauntered in from the deck, raising him over your head as if posing for a Father’s Day ad. “At the end of your tether?”

When you set him down, he said, “I wrapped the ball around 843 times.”

“That’s terrific! I bet next time you’ll be able to do it 844 times!”

You were trying to make an awkward transition after an argument that left me feeling run over by a truck, but I can’t say I care for the Hollywood gaga that’s expected of modern parents. Kevin’s own expression flickered with a suggestion of oh-brother.

“If I try really hard,” he said, deadpan. “Isn’t it great to have a goal?”

“Kevin.” I called him over and stooped. “I’m afraid your friend Trent has had an accident. It’s not too bad, and he’ll be all right. But maybe you and I could make him a get-well card—like the one Grandma Sonya made you when you hurt your arm.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, moving away. “He thinks he’s so cool with that bike.”

The AC must have been turned too high; I stood up and rubbed my arms. I didn’t remember mentioning anything about a bicycle.

Eva

Dear Franklin,

For some reason I imagine it will reassure you that I still get the Times . But I seem to have misplaced the grid I once imposed on it to determine what parts were worth reading. Famines and Hollywood divorces appear equally vital and equally trifling. Arbitrarily, I either devour the paper soup to nuts, or I toss it smooth and cool on the stack by the door. How right I was, in those days; how easily the United States can get on without me.

For the last two weeks I’ve tossed them unread, for if memory serves, the earnest pomp of presidential inaugurations left me cold even when I had clear enthusiasms and aversions. Capriciously, this morning I read everything, including an article about American workers’ excessive overtime—and perhaps it is interesting, though I couldn’t say, that the Land of the Free prefers work to play. I read about a young electrical lineman who would soon have been married, and who in his eagerness to salt away funds for his family-to-be had slept only five hours in two and a half days. He had been climbing up and down poles for twenty-four hours straight:

Taking a break for breakfast on Sunday morning, he got yet another call.

At about noon, he climbed a 30-foot pole, hooked on his safety straps and reached for a 7,200-volt cable without first putting on his insulating gloves. There was a flash, and Mr. Churchill was hanging motionless by his straps. His father, arriving before the ladder-truck did and thinking his son might still be alive, stood at the foot of the pole for more than an hour begging for somebody to bring his boy down.

I have no strong feelings about overtime; I’m acquainted with no electrical linemen. I only know that this image—of a father pleading with onlookers themselves as powerless as he, while his hardworking son creaked in the breeze like a hanged man—made me cry. Fathers and sons? Grief and misspent diligence? There are connections. But I also wept for that young man’s real father.

You see, it was drilled into me since I could talk that 1.5 million of my people were slaughtered by Turks; my own father was killed in a war against the worst of ourselves, and in the very month I was born, we were driven to use the worst of ourselves to defeat it. Since Thursday was the slimy garnish on this feast of snakes, I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself hard of heart. Instead, I’m easily moved, even mawkish. Maybe my expectations of my fellows have been reduced to so base a level that the smallest kindness overwhelms me for being, like Thursday itself, so unnecessary. Holocausts do not amaze me. Rapes and child slavery do not amaze me. And Franklin, I know you feel otherwise, but Kevin does not amaze me. I am amazed when I drop a glove in the street and a teenager runs two blocks to return it. I am amazed when a checkout girl flashes me a wide smile with my change, though my own face had been a mask of expedience. Lost wallets posted to their owners, strangers who furnish meticulous directions, neighbors who water each other’s houseplants—these things amaze me. Celia amazed me.