Джозеф Хеллер - Something Happened

"That new minister of yours," I might announce sonorously on the way back, pausing to make certain the two children in the rear of the open convertible are brought in as accomplices, "gives me a sharp pain in the ass."

The children crane forward delightedly.

My wife purses her lips with a sidelong smile and decides to pretend to whistle. It will take more than a little routine baiting this fine sunny morning to crinkle the state of euphoria she's in as a result of having shown up in church with her husband and children. At moments like this, we are suddenly very close. (They don't last.) My wife even had the hope not long ago of walking unashamedly into church one day with Derek too. I killed that one quick.

"What say, Dad?" inquires my daughter, to help things along, when she sees my wife intends to remain silent.

"I really don't think," chastises my wife amiably, going along with the game against us in a manner of placid contemplation, "you ought to say things like that in front of the children."

"Like what?" I am all contrived innocence.

"If you don't know."

"Minister?"

"No."

"What then?"

"You know."

"I've no idea."

"What?" demands my boy, bouncing on his haunches in anticipation as the three of us close in on her.

"Donkey," exclaims my wife in triumph, evading his snare nimbly.

"No fair. He didn't say donkey."

"I know, dear."

"He said ass," says my daughter.

"I know, darling. And I think he's depraved."

"And I'm inclined to agree," I second immediately. "And his English is terrible. And I don't think it's healthy to bring the children to church to listen to a depraved minister."

"I'm not talking about him!"

"His vocabulary's pretentious and his syntax is frequently wrong."

"I'm talking about you. I'm not talking about his language. I'm talking about yours."

"Well, it is."

"And yours?"

"All right," I yield, with a gesture of liberal acquiescence. "I'll change the subject. What do you think of the rectum as a whole?"

"That's even worse!"

"I don't get it."

"Don't you get it?"

"Now I get it."

"Pretty shitty, huh?"

"I thought we agreed," says my wife, with an exaggerated politeness that sometimes gets my goat, "to try not to disagree anymore in front of the children."

"A-men," says my daughter sarcastically, and claps her hands.

"That's the kind of remark," I reply good-naturedly, because I really do not want to upset her, "that can only lead to a disagreement. But, I surrender. I yield. That new minister of yours doesn't give me a pain in the ass."

The children explode with laughter.

"You show me one doctor," says my wife, when she can be heard, "who'll say it's healthy to use such language in front of your own son and daughter."

"Name one we've seen who'd say it isn't."

"I thought you agreed," interjects my daughter cynically, "not to fight in front of us anymore."

"We aren't fighting," my wife responds automatically.

"I know," scoffs my daughter. "You were discussing."

"With emphasis," adds my son in friendly mockery.

All of us smile but my wife, who nibbles on her lip in distracted gloom. She is extremely uneasy.

"What's wrong?" I inquire softly.

She is silent a moment, seems burdened with a knowledge almost too enormous to express. "He's coming to the house," she blurts out sheepishly.

"Who?"

"Him."

"When?"

On the part of the rest of us, there is massive shock.

"Today."

"Today?"

"I invited him for lunch."

"You're crazy!"

"I'm getting out!"

"I don't want him."

"And I ," announces my wife in an expansive bellow of glowing self-congratulation, turning pointedly to gloat at each of us, "was making that up! Do you think," she continues in her rare flight of exultation, "I would expose a respectable man of the cloth to a gang of idiots like you?"

"Oh, Mom!" My daughter flings her arm around my wife's neck and hugs her from behind. "Mom, Mom, Mom. I just love her when she kids hike that. Don't you?"

"And so do I."

But it doesn't last, not on a Saturday, Sunday, or holiday, unless all of us have already made plans, for Derek is waiting at home.

He is still there. He grows older every day.

"Can't she take him out some place?" my daughter objects. "He's always home."

And so is his quacking, ill-visaged, overweight nurse with her rinsed white hair and offensive scent of bath powder, whom I've ordered my wife to get rid of once and for all, even if we have to take care of him ourselves for a little while. (It might do us some good.) And the maid can go too, for all I care. (I can't feel at home when she's tiptoeing around.)

"Get a German, for Christ sakes," I barked at my wife. "Import a Dane."

"Where will I get them?"

"How the hell should I know? Other people do."

"I get embarrassed when my friends come over."

(So do we.)

"There's no need to," I tell my daughter gently.

"I knew you'd say that," she sulks in disapproval. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying anything like that," my wife says to her in reproof.

"Leave her alone."

"She ought to be glad she's not that way."

"She is."

"You always take her part," my wife accuses. "The doctors said you shouldn't do that."

"She thinks I take yours."

"Why does she always have to bring him in?" my daughter protests. "Can't she keep him in his own room when my friends are here?"

(We wish she would keep him out of sight also when our friends are here and have told her so. She parades him through anyway, gabbling loudly at him and pointing to our guests to show him off, or to inflict a penance on us.)

"You shouldn't mind it that much," I counsel.

"You do too."

"He isn't that bad."

"He makes us uncomfortable."

(He makes me uncomfortable too.)

"You shouldn't be," I tell her. "It wasn't the fault of any of us. It could have happened in any family."

But it happened in mine.

"We have another child also," I have been forced to reveal time and time again in ordinary social conversation to people I barely knew, "who's somewhat brain damaged. It was congenital," I add. "He's retarded."

"We also have a child who's retarded or very seriously emotionally disturbed," couples who knew about us have sought me out to reveal (as though we had something I wanted to share).

It's a club I don't want to join, and I find those clannish parents repellent. (Their suggestive intimacy makes my flesh creep and I want to shake them away from me as I would flies. I detest clannishness of every kind. It boxes me in claustrophobically. Or shuts me out. I don't like to feel boxed in.)

I saw it happening to Derek long before anyone else did (boxing me in) and said nothing about it to anyone. (Later, when others began to notice things and make hesitant, fearful observations, I denied them with emphasis. I didn't want it to be true. I had nightmarish warnings. I saw the realities assembling themselves ahead of me in mapped-out phases. I still do. I felt if no one talked about it, it would not be true. I was wrong.) He sat late, stood late, walked late, ran late. Even to a father's doting eye, his coordination was poor. We thought him clumsy and cute as a newborn puppy or foal as he staggered, stumbled, and fell. There is not harmony in his movements now. He makes no effort to open his jaws wide when he tries to speak — he does not seem to associate mouth with speech. He looks like lockjaw when he tries to talk. (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.