Charles Grant - The Pet

He grinned then and returned the handset to its cradle on the floor beside him. “The creep hung up on me. He ain’t got no manners, and that’s shocking in a teacher. Hi, Don, saw you talking to the kids tonight. You change your mind about joining us and being a teacher, carrying on the new family tradition?”

“Dad,” he said, suddenly cold. “Dad, there’s a big test next week. Mr. Falcone is my teacher.”

“I know that.”

“But you were yelling at him!”

“Hey, he won’t do anything, don’t worry about it.”

Don squeezed the soda can. “You always say that.”

“And it always turns out, right?”

“No,” he said softly. “No, not always.” And before his father could respond, he said, “See you tomorrow. It’s late. Mom wants me in bed.”

He took the stairs slowly in case his father wanted to join him, but there was nothing but the sound of his mother bringing in the coffee, and the start of low voices. He heard his name once before he reached the top landing, but there was no temptation to eavesdrop. He knew what they were probably saying.

Dad was wondering if there was anything wrong, and Mom would tell him it was all part of growing up and Donny was really in a difficult position and perhaps Norm shouldn’t lose his temper like that at the boy’s teachers. Dad would bluster a bit, deny any problems, finally see the point, and reassure his wife that none of the faculty would dare do anything out of line, not if they wanted his support in the strike.

It was getting to be an old story.

Great , he thought as he pushed into his room. I’m not a son anymore, I’m a weapon. An ace up the old sleeve. If I fail, it isn’t me, it’s the teachers getting even; if I get an A, it isn’t me, it’s the teacher kissing ass. Great. Just … great.

He slammed the door, turned on the light, and greeted his pets by kicking the bed.

“I don’t understand it,” said Joyce Boyd from her place on the sofa when she heard the door slam. “He’s a perfectly normal boy, we know that, but he hardly ever goes anywhere anymore. If we hadn’t insisted tonight, he would have stayed home, playing with those damned things he has upstairs.”

“Sure he goes out,” Norm said, lighting a cigarette, crossing his legs. “But with all your zillion civic projects and that Art League thing — not to mention the Ashford Day business— you’re just not home long enough to see it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a crack.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I thought we agreed not to do that anymore.”

He studied the cigarette’s tip, the round of his knees, and brushed at an ash that settled on his chest. The coffee was on the table beside him, growing cold. “I guess we did at that.”

“I guess we did at that,” she mimicked sourly, and pulled her legs under her. A hand passed wearily over her eyes. “Damn you, Norman,” she said wearily, “I do the best I can.”

“Sure you do,” he answered without conviction. “Whenever you’re around.”

“Well, look at him, will you?” Her lips, thin at best, vanished when her mouth tightened. “When was the last time you spent an evening with him, huh? I don’t think that poor boy has seen you for more than a couple of hours in the last two weeks.”

“I have a school year to run,” he reminded her tonelessly, “and a possible strike on my hands. Besides, he sees me at the school every day.”

“Not hardly the same thing, Norm, and you know it. You’re not his father there, not the way it should be.”

He pushed himself deeper into the chair and stretched out his legs. “Knock it off, Joyce, okay? I’m tired, and the boy can take care of himself.”

“Well, so am I tired,” she snapped, “but I have to defend myself and you don’t, is that it?”

“What’s to defend?”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Nothing,” she said in mild disgust, and reached over a pile of manila folders for a magazine, flipped the pages without looking, and tossed it aside. She picked up a folder — schedules for Ashford Day. She was one of the women in charge of coordinating the entertainment from the two high schools. She dropped that as well and plucked at her blouse. “I worry about all that running he does too.”

He was surprised, and he showed it.

“What I mean is,” she said hastily, “it’s not really like jogging, is it? He’s not interested in keeping fit or joining the track team or cross-country. He just … runs.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that? It’s good for him.”

“But he’s always alone,” she said, looking at him as if he ought to understand. “And he doesn’t have a regular schedule either, nothing like that at all. He just runs when he gets in one of his moods. And he doesn’t even do it here, around the block or something — he does it at the school track.”

“Joyce, you’re not making sense. Why run on cracked pavement and take a chance on a broken leg or twisted ankle when you can run on a real track?”

“It just … I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Maybe it helps him think. Some guys lift weights, some guys use a punching bag, and Donald runs. So what?”

“If he has problems,” she said primly, “he shouldn’t … he shouldn’t try to run away from them. He should come to us.”

“Why?” he said coldly. “The way you’ve been lately, why should he bother?”

“Me?”

Her stare was uncomfortable.

“All right. We.” And he let his eyes close.

A few moments later: “Norman, do you think he’s forgotten that animal hospital stuff?”

“I guess. He hasn’t said anything since last month. At least not to me.”

“Me either.”

He opened his eyes again and looked at the empty fireplace, ran a finger absently down the crooked length of his nose. “I guess, when you think about it, we didn’t handle it very well. We could have shown a little more enthusiasm.”

“Agreed.” She rubbed at her knees.

Norm allowed himself a sly look. “Maybe,” he said with a glance to his wife, “we ought to do like that couple we read about in the Times, the one that claimed they solved their kid’s mind-shit by taking him to a massage parlor.” He chuckled quietly. “That’s it. Maybe we ought to get him laid.” He laughed aloud, shaking his head and trying to imagine his son — not a movie star, but not an ogre either— humping a woman. He couldn’t do it. Donald, as far as he was concerned, was almost totally sexless.

“Jesus,” she muttered.

“Christ, I was only kidding.”

“Jesus.” She reached again for the magazine, gave it up halfway through the motion, and stood. “I’m going to bed. I have to teach tomorrow.”

He waited until she was in the foyer before he rose and followed.

“You don’t have to come.”

“I know,” he said, “but I have to be principal tomorrow.”

At the landing she turned and looked down at him. “We’re going to get a divorce, aren’t we?”

He gripped the banister hard and shook his head. “God, Joyce, do you have to end every disagreement with talk of divorce? Other people argue like cats and dogs and they don’t go running for a lawyer.”

He followed her down the hall, past Don’s room, and into their own. She switched on the dresser lamp and opened their bathroom door. Her blouse was already unbuttoned by the time he had sagged onto the bed and had his shoes off. Standing in the doorway, the pale light pink behind her from the tile on the walls and floor, she dropped the blouse and kicked it away. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and though he could not see her face, he knew it wasn’t an invitation.

“I know why,” she said, working at the snap on her slacks.