Джозеф Хеллер - Something Happened

"I'm interested in all that," I tell her. "I'd like to see your posters and your funny lampshades and collages. What's the book by D. H. Lawrence?"

"You don't like D. H. Lawrence."

"My own taste isn't too good. I'd like to see what you've done with your room."

"Now?"

"If you'd let me."

She shakes her head. "You don't want to. You'd only pretend to look around for a second and then tell me to pick my clothes up off the floor."

"Are they on the floor?"

"You see? You're only interested in joking. You're not really interested in anything I do. You're only interested in yourself. You're not interested in me."

"You're not interested in me," I retaliate gently. "When I do start to ask you questions about yourself, you think I'm snooping into your affairs or trying to trap you in a lie or something."

"You usually are."

"Not always. You do tell lies. You do have things you try to hide."

"You won't let me hide them. You want to know everything. Mommy too."

"Sometimes they're things we should know."

"Sometimes they've got nothing to do with you."

"How can I tell until I find out what they are?"

"You could take my word."

"I can't. You know that."

"That's very flattering."

"You do lie a lot."

"You don't enjoy talking with me. You never want to discuss things with me or tell me anything. Unless it's to make me do my homework. Mommy spends more time talking to me than you do."

"Then why don't you like her more?"

"I don't like what she says."

"You aren't being fair. If I do try to tell you something about the company or my work, you usually sneer and make snotty wisecracks. You don't think the work I do is important."

"You don't think it's important, either. You just do it to make money."

"I think making money for you and the rest of the family is important. And doing my work well enough to maintain my self-respect is important, even though the work itself isn't. You know, it's not always so pleasant for me to have the work I do at the company ridiculed by you and your brother. Even though you're joking, and I'm not always sure you are. I spend so much of my life at it."

(Why must I win this argument? And why must I use this whining plea for pity to do it? Why must I show off for her and myself and exult in my fine logic and more expert command of language and details in a battle of wits with a fifteen-year-old child, my own? I could just as easily say, "You're right. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Even though I'm right and not really sorry. I could say so anyway. But I can't. And I am winning, for her look of resolution is failing, her hesitations are growing, and now it is her gaze that is shiftily avoiding mine. I relax complacently, with a momentary tingle of scorn for my inferior adversary, my teen-age daughter. I am a shit. But at least I am a successful one.)

My daughter replies apologetically. "I'm interested in your work," she tries to defend herself. "Sometimes I ask you questions."

"I always answer them."

"With a wisecrack."

"I know you're going to sneer."

"If you didn't wisecrack, maybe I wouldn't sneer."

"I promise never to wisecrack again," I wisecrack.

"That's a wisecrack," she says. (She is bright, and I am pleased with her alertness.)

"So is that," I retort (before I can restrain myself, for I suppose I have to show her that I am at least as good).

My daughter doesn't return my smile. "See? You're grinning already," she charges in a low, accusing tone. "You're turning it into a joke. Even now, when we're supposed to be serious."

I turn my eyes from her face and look past her shoulder uneasily at the bookcase on the wall. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to make you feel better. I was trying to make you laugh."

"I don't think there's anything funny."

"No, I'm not. I'm sorry if you thought so."

"You like to turn everything into a joke."

"I don't. Now don't get rude. Or I'll have to."

"You start making fun of me. You never want to talk seriously to any of us."

"That isn't true. That's the third time you've made me deny it."

"You always try to laugh and joke your way out whenever something serious comes up."

"That's the fourth."

"Or you get angry and bossy and begin yelling, like you're starting to do now."

"I'm sorry," I say, and pause to lower my voice. "It's my personality, I guess. And my nerves. I'm not really proud of it. What you have to try to remember, honey, and nobody seems to, is that I've got feelings too, that I get headaches, that I can't always control my own moods even though I seem to be the one in charge. I'm not always happy either. Please go on talking to me."

"Why should I?"

"Don't you want to?"

"You don't enjoy talking to me."

"Yes, I do."

"Now?"

"Yes. Tell me what you want to. That's how I'll know. Please. Otherwise I always have to guess."

"Was Derek born the way he is?"

"Yes. Of course. We think so."

"Or was it caused by something one of us did?"

"He was born that way."

"Why?"

"Nobody knows. We all think he was. That's part of the problem. Nobody knows what happened to him."

"Maybe that's what I'll be when I go to college. An anthropologist."

"Geneticist."

"Did you have to say that now?"

"You want to learn, don't you?"

"Not always."

"I thought you'd like to know the difference when you make a mistake."

"Not now. You knew what I meant. You didn't have to stop me just to show you're smarter. Did you?"

"You're very smart. You're very bright and very clever. Maybe you should be a lawyer. That's a compliment. I don't pay you compliments often."

"I'll say."

"You like to force people into a corner. I'm the same way."

"I think I try to be like you."

"I was happier."

"Was your family disappointed in you?"

"I can't remember. Is yours?"

"I don't know."

"I think my mother was. But later on, not when I was a child. When I was older and moved away."

"You never kiss me," my daughter says. "Or hug me. Or kid with me. Like other fathers."

She has black, large shadows under her eyes, which are swollen, gummy, and red suddenly, and she looks more wretched than any other human being I have ever stared at before. (I want to wrench my gaze away.)

"You stopped wanting me to kiss you," I explained softly with tenderness, feeling enormous pity for her (and for myself. Whenever I feel sorry for someone, I find that I also feel sorry for myself). "I used to. I used to want to hug you and kiss you. Then you began to pull away from me or draw your face back with a funny expression and make a disgusted sound. And laugh. As a joke at first, I thought. But then it became a habit, and you pulled away from me every time and made that same face and disgusted sound every time I tried to kiss you."

"So now you've stopped trying."

"It wasn't pleasant for me to be insulted that way."

"Were you hurt?" There is that glitter of too much eagerness in her expression. "Did it make you unhappy?"

"Yes." We are talking in monotones. (I don't remember when it really did begin to hurt me deeply each time she pulled away from my demonstrations of affection with signs of mock revulsion; and I also don't remember when it stopped bothering me at all.) "I was very unhappy. My feelings were hurt"

"You never said so."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

"I was little then."

"It was still very painful."

"I was just a little girl then. Wouldn't you give up just a little bit of your pride to satisfy me, if that's what I wanted?"

"No. I didn't."

"Would you do it now?"

"I'm not."

"You won't?"

"No. I don't think so. I don't think I'll ever let you get any satisfaction out of me that way.»