Джозеф Хеллер - Something Happened

"That boy. Oh, that boy of yours. He is really something."

We think so too (we are somewhat vain and braggarty about those precocious intuitions and idiosyncracies of his in which we can take proprietary delight) and (like rigid, high-powered machines not really in charge of ourselves) operate automatically to change him — to harden him, soften him, smarten him, desensitize him — lying to him and to ourselves (as I lied, and knew I was lying, when I filed my mother away into that repulsive nursing home that I described to her and others with false energy as being beautiful, new, and comfortable as a modern hotel) that it is for his own good. (And not for ours.)

"Be good," we fire at him. "Don't be afraid. You can do it. Try. Try harder. You can be anything you want to be. Don't do that. You're getting me angry."

(Maybe it is for his own good.)

(And maybe it isn't.)

And even the nurse we have for Derek now, who is considerate to none of us (and especially dislikes my daughter, who is defiant and impolite to her and never truckles at all), not even to Derek anymore, I suspect, singles my boy out periodically for loud flattery that embarrasses him and clumsy, possessive hugs that make him miserable as he sees her scowling reproachfully at the rest of us in taunting contrast, even though she does not approve of the way he acts toward Derek either.

"It's no wonder he doesn't want to play with him," she has censured the rest of us in his presence, "when he sees how the rest of you treat him. None of you want to play with him."

My boy does not like Derek's nurse or the harsh spotlight of her praise. (I think he senses he is being used by her to get at us.) He is actually afraid of her, as he is afraid of most of his teachers and the school nurse, and wishes, without evincing any of his dislike (he is always afraid to show antagonism to anyone), to avoid all possibilities for conversation with her and to escape her pinches, touches, and embraces. (He finds her obnoxious.)

"Get rid of her," I decide on cranky impulse and snap at my wife.

She sighs. "I don't want to have to start again."

"She isn't even good to him. She doesn't keep him clean."

"Where should I go?"

"Get someone young this time, can't you?"

"Where?"

"I wish we could get someone who would really like him. You can't. I know. They don't want to have to take care of him either."

"Maybe I should do it. Maybe I should devote my whole life to taking care of him."

"Holy you."

"What do you mean?"

"Become a nun."

"Maybe I should."

"Not if you think about it that way. You don't mean it. You'd probably be worse to him than any of them."

"Fuck you."

"I like the way you swear now," I joke. "You say 'Fuck you' much better than you used to."

"Practice. You taught me."

"I'm proud."

"Only with you. You make it very easy to say 'Fuck you' to you."

"You do it better too."

"Any complaints?"

"Not at this moment."

"Well fuck you again."

She rolls away from me. We are nearly naked. I continue laughing.

"I'm trying to," I tell her, coaxing her back. "I'm trying to get you to."

"Maybe we should start thinking about sending him away someplace."

"Maybe we should stop talking about nun now."

"I want to."

"No."

"Where he'll be much better off."

"No, I said."

"We'll have to, sooner or later. Think about it, I mean. You never want to think about it."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We'll have the money now. Won't we?"

"You don't understand, do you?"

"I'm asking."

"If I decide to take the job. I've got money enough for that anyway. It isn't money."

"Maybe you should decide to take it."

"I don't want to talk about it now."

"I'm talking about the job."

"I don't want to talk about that, either. No, you're not. You're not talking about the job. You lie a lot about yourself."

"We have to talk about it sometime. We're going to have to decide. Stop a minute, will you? You can't keep ducking away forever."

"I can till I die."

"Don't joke about it."

"And leave you with him?"

"Don't joke about that, either."

"And her. And him too. Won't you be busy."

"None of that's funny."

"Don't you want me to die?"

"You know I can't stand talking about things like that."

"He's still too small. I don't want to talk about him now. When the kids might hear."

"Should I lock the door?"

"You're just as bad," I remind her. "If I say yes, you say no. When I say send him away, you say we can't."

"It's for his own good."

"No, it's not."

"Maybe we should send them all away," she observes hopelessly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know what I mean," she retracts. "The kids are embarrassed by him. Ashamed. Maybe we should send them both away and keep him."

"How would it help to send them away?"

"I didn't mean it. You know that. I'm just feeling bad. They don't like to have their friends come to the house and have to see him. Neither do we."

"Talk about yourself. I'm more comfortable about him than you are."

"No, you're not. You just pretend. You put on an act. He makes everyone uncomfortable. He makes everyone who comes here put on an act."

"Fire the old cunt."

"How would that help?"

"It would help us. She's rude to everyone."

"Don't use that word. You know I don't like it."

"That's why I use it. You ought to get used to it by now. I am. In fact, I'm starting to get very used to it right now."

"It's easy for you."

"Sure."

"I know you. You'll probably be out of town the day I tell this one she has to go and the day the new one comes."

"You bet."

"You can laugh about it. You don't even want to interview them."

"I don't know what to ask."

"And then you're disappointed. You're never satisfied with the one I get."

"I'm just glad you can get anybody at all."

"Until you get used to them. Until you can't stand them and then want me to fire them."

"Get a young one, can't you? Can't you get a psychology major or something?"

"We need someone full tune. She has to do everything for him. He can't do anything. You never like to face anything unpleasant."

"Do you?"

"Don't you ever feel guilty doing this while we're talking about the children, or even Derek?"

"No. Why?"

"Even the day my grandmother died you wanted to make me do it."

"I wanted to make you do it the day your father died too."

"Don't say that. You know how I felt."

"What does one thing have to do with another?"

"I do. I don't feel right about it."

"Why should I?"

"It doesn't seem right."

"Do you want me to stop? I will if you want me to."

"It seems all wrong now. It seems dirty again. I don't know. I don't feel right."

"Don't you like feeling dirty?"

"No. You do."

"You feel fine."

"Am I coarse? Am I ever common?"

"Now I do. Yeah, I guess I do feel guilty. You did that. You do that a lot. We don't do it that often when we're talking about the kids or something serious."

"I feel dirty."

"Then I will stop. It's no fun for me. Do you want me to?"

"Lying here talking about sending him away."

"You were doing that. I wasn't. Is that what's making you feel dirty? Or me?"

"Do you love me?"

"I'm trying to. My hardest. Feel how hard I'm trying to love you."

"Don't do that."

"This?"

"You know what I mean."

"This?"

"Fuck you again."

"Lock the door."

"You lock the door, since you're feeling so peppy."

"Fire the old cunt."

"Christ, you're vulgar," she says, and means it.

"You're profane," I answer. "Suppose your new minister could hear you now. I bet he'd like to see you now. Aren't you glad I'm vulgar?"