Джозеф Хеллер - Something Happened

"Why would I do that?"

"Angry enough to yell and begin punishing you."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because that's the way you are."

"Why would I want you to punish me?"

"Because that is the way you are. Don't you see? And that's the way you want me to feel. Don't you see that? Don't you think I can see it?"

"What do you mean?"

"That's what I mean."

"It's a matter of supreme indifference to me," she rejoins loftily, "how you feel."

"Then why bother," I mimic just as loftily, "to tell me at all?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if how I feel is really a matter of such supreme indifference to you, why bother to ever talk to me at all?"

"What should I do?"

"Unless you want something."

"And you wonder why I bite my nails and can't sleep well and why I eat too much."

"Don't blame your eating too much on me."

"What about the rest?"

"I eat too much also."

"You don't think very much of me," she alleges. "Do you?"

"Not right now. How much do you think of yourself?"

"I was only trying to be honest."

"Bull."

"You want me to be honest, don't you?"

"No."

"You don't?"

"Of course not. Why should I?"

An unexpected answer like that always outfoxes her, strikes her speechless for a few moments, makes her stammer and regret even further that she came barging into my study so rashly in the first place to start up with me. If she tries to continue the contest, her voice will drop to a diffident murmur that is almost too faint to be heard (I will pretend not to hear any of it and make her repeat each remark); or she will explode suddenly in a snarling, unintelligible, dramatic outburst and storm away in total defeat, banging some furniture or slamming a door. (I can outfox her easily every time.) But she never seems to learn (or she has learned and is drawn self-destructively to repeat these same cheerless defeats), so we go through innumerable repetitions of these same annoying, time-wasting, belittling (she makes fun of me because I'm getting fat. And getting bald. And I strike back by being faster, keener, and better informed in my repartee) «frank» and «honest» disputes with each other (I manage to win them all, although I sometimes feel wounded afterward) over money, smoking, sex, marijuana, late hours, dirty words, schoolwork, drugs, Blacks, freedom (hers), yelling, bullying, and insults to my wife.

"What will you do," she will ask baitingly, "if I come home with a Black boyfriend?"

This is a peculiarly ingenious stroke of hers that requires lightning dexterity to counter and with which she does succeed in confounding and vanquishing my wife. There is no way out, and I am tempted to award her accolades: if I tell her I'd object, I'm a racist; if I tell her I wouldn't, I have no regard for her. My wife succumbs by taking her seriously. I survive by skirting the trap.

"I would still ask you to clean up your room," I reply nimbly. "And to stop reading my mail and showing my bank statements to your friends."

Of course I'm a racist! And so is she. Who the devil isn't?

"That's not answering the question," she is intelligent enough to sulk. "And you know it."

"Bring one home and see," I challenge her with a snicker, because I know she is not ready to try that one on us yet.

She wants me to promise her now that she'll have her own car. She is willing to promise she'll give up smoking cigarettes in return. I used to order her not to smoke because of the risk of cancer, until I grew so weary of bickering with her over that subject that I stopped caring whether she smoked or not, despite the risk of cancer. (I did my best for a while as a responsible parent. And it did no good.) So now she smokes regularly (she says), over a pack a day (she says), but I don't believe her, for she could be lying about that too. (She lies about everything. She lies to her teachers too.) But she is not allowed to smoke in the house, which makes it easier for my wife and me to pretend that she doesn't smoke at all. And perhaps she doesn't. (Really, who cares? I don't. And I don't like to have to feel forced to pretend to. If she didn't tell us, I wouldn't have to.)

"I do smoke," she insists. "I even inhale. I guess it's a regular habit with me by now. I don't think I could stop smoking cigarettes now even if I wanted to."

"It's your life," I answer placidly.

"Over a pack a day, sometimes two. I know you wouldn't want me to be a sneak about anything like that, would you?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I do."

"You would?"

"Of course."

"A sneak?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes cloud with uncertainty and her mouth begins to quiver. I have just outfoxed her again.

"I do want you to be a sneak." I continue breezily, and zero in for the kill. "About smoking, and all those dirty, really very vulgar words and phrases you're so fond of using so openly."

"You use them."

"I'm an adult. And a man."

"Mommy uses them."

"Not the same ones you do."

"Mommy's a prude."

"You're a child."

"I'm sixteen."

"You're fifteen and a half."

"I'm nearer to sixteen."

"So?"

"Can't you say anything more than that?"

"Like what?"

"You always like to give short answers when we argue. You think it's a good trick."

"It is."

"You're so sarcastic."

"Be a sneak," I tell her sarcastically. "I'm not being sarcastic now. It will make things easier for all of us. I give you that advice as a pal, as a really devoted father to a young daughter. Sneak outside on the porch or into the garage when you want to smoke or burn that crappy incense or do something else you don't want us to know about. And close the door of your room when you're on the telephone so we won't have to listen to you complain about us to all of your friends or see those crappy sex novels you read instead of the books you're supposed to be reading for school. You can get away with much more that way. By being a good sneak. Just don't let me find out about it. Because if I do find out, I'm going to have to do something about it. I'm going to have to disapprove and get angry and punish you, and other things like that, and that will make you unhappy and me unhappy."

"Why will it make you unhappy?" she wants to know.

"Because you're my daughter. And I really don't enjoy seeing you unhappy."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Ha."

"And because I don't like to waste so much time fighting with you and yelling at you when I have other things I'd rather be doing."

"Like what?"

"Anything."

"What?"

"Working. Reading a magazine."

"Why must you say that? Why must you be this way?"

(I don't know.) "What way?"

"You know."

"I don't." (I do.)

"Why can't you ever pay me a compliment without taking it back?"

"What compliment?"

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"No."

"See?"

"I'm not going to say another word."

"Now you're trying to turn the whole thing into a big joke, aren't you?" she says reprovingly. "You always have to try to turn everything into a big joke, don't you?"

(I'm contrite. I feel a little bit shamed. But I try not to let it show.)

"Let me work now," I tell her quietly.

"I want to talk."

"Please. I was working when you came in."

"You were reading a magazine."

"That's part of my work. And I have to prepare a program for the next company convention and work on two speeches."

"Where is it? The convention."

"Puerto Rico again."

"Can I help with the speeches?"

"No, I don't think so. Not yet."

"Is it more important than me?"

"It's something I want to get done tonight."

"I want to talk now."