Джозеф Хеллер - Something Happened

I used to try to observe him closely to detect if there were patterns, to see if there were any categories of personality or experience into which the different kids he gave his pennies and nickels and dimes to — I'm not sure if he ever gave away as much as a dime — could be made to fit. I didn't find any. He knew we studied him and discussed him. I told him he was imagining it. Sometimes he was imagining it when I said so; other times he was not. I still watch him. (If my boy ever does get the feeling he was spied upon, mulled over, and talked about when he was young, he would not be entirely wrong. It will not be entirely a delusion.) I feel so foolish and so ashamed for the way I acted (and perhaps will act again). No more than a penny, nickel, or dime was ever involved. But what furors we raised, my adult wife and I; how outraged and scandalized we were that this five- or six- or seven-year-old child of ours had given away a penny, nickel, or dime he had gotten from us or somebody else and did not want for himself. We didn't yell at him. We did worse; we patronized, belittled. We were never really angry with him, never deliberately very mean. But we pretended to be (which must have baffled him even more), and we would raise our voices (not yelling, but for emphasis), and cock our eyes at him in ridicule, amusement, and disbelief. We would cackle and smirk and make jovial, wry wisecracks as we closed in and down upon him in heartless, patronizing argument (while my daughter, who was covetous of the greater consideration she felt he received, would regard us reproachfully from a corner in which she had chosen to hide, too young and still too reserved herself then to object vituperatively the way she frequently does now) that he must not, ought not, simply should not give his money away.

"Why?"

(Why not, indeed? Who knows? We didn't. Although we took it for granted we did.) We were unfailingly good-natured and convivial as we took pains to convey to him (it was our responsibility as parents to do so, we made plain), repeatedly, that we loved him as much as ever anyway and were not punishing him by criticizing him and were not really mad; but we did rebuke him diligently in cordial, tolerant tones (ganging up on him, two of us at a time) as we tried to educate him, and we did try, emphatically, tenaciously, maniacally, to elucidate patiently for him why what he was doing was not wise or correct.

And the problem was that we could not explain. (We had no explanation that made sense even to us. It is difficult to be persuasive when the only answer to his Why? is a lame and dogmatic Because. We were worse to him, I feel now, than Forgione has ever been, more cruel and demoralizing than any teacher. I am overwhelmed with remorse. And yet, I know instinctively that I will do it again if he does it again and I catch him, or at least I will feel the urge to. I hope I restrain myself. I know I feel that what he does is wrong. I don't know why it is wrong. I don't know why I feel it is.) I know we were unable to present to him a single truthful and convincing reason why he ought not to give his pennies, nickels, and dimes away to other children if he wanted to. We actually put him on notice that, not to punish him, but only to teach him a lesson, we were going to punish him by teaching him a lesson. We would withhold money for stipulated periods of time: we would not give him any the next time he wanted some; or instead of money for ice cream, soda, or candy, we would give him the ice cream, soda, candy itself, because we did not feel he could be trusted with money; or tell him, so magisterially, that he would have the money to buy his own now if he had not gone and given it away as we warned him not to. ("See? We told you.")

It crossed my mind whimsically to demand also that he always eat it all up himself right before our eyes (rather than run the risk he might give someone a bite from his Popsicle or candy bar), but I never went quite that far. (I am all heart, ha, ha.)

He was so uncomfortable through all these discussions and inquisitions (he didn't know what to do or where or how to look; no matter how much we joshed and chuckled to put him at ease, he was never at ease. His doubtful smile was always forced and wavering as he strained to joke back cordially with us and asked questions and gave answers to ours in a profound and abortive effort to understand just what in the world it was we had grown so determined to teach him, and why) I suppose he really wanted to give up and cry: when I look back now and recall his delicate, furrowed expression, his lowered, obliging voice, it seems evident (now) that he had come awfully close to tears, but he would not (because we did not want him to) let them flow: he masked it well (but I know him better now): he flashed his doubtful smile often at us instead, from one to the other of us, as we harangued and excoriated him affably and he groped undecidedly, with knitted brow, to catch on to and hold what we felt we had explained so fluently.

"Suppose you want the penny later, or tomorrow?" I would point out by way of benevolent illustration.

"Then I'll get another one," he would answer.

"Where?"

"Here."

"From who?"

"From you."

"I won't give you one."

He squinted. "How come?" he asked in puzzlement.

"Because I won't," I said, with a conclusive gloat

"How come?"

I shrugged.

"Then I'll get it from Mommy."

"Will you?"

"I won't give you one either."

"How come?" He draws back a bit and gazes at my wife.

"You just gave one away before, didn't you? That's how little you thought of it."

He sees us watching him in silence, waiting for his next attempt.

"From the boy I gave it to," he says. "I'll get it from him."

"He won't have it."

"He won't give it to you."

"He'll spend it by then. That's why he wanted it."

"Do you think everyone's so generous?"

"Or he won't give it to you. Not everyone is as generous as you are."

"Or as rich."

"Or as well off. We're not rich."

"So you see? Do you?"

"We won't give it to you."

"You won't have one tomorrow."

My boy is befuddled and gapes at us searchingly, still straining to smile and endeavoring to make some sense of the situation, twisting in confusion (and plucking rapidly, distractedly, at his penis) as he waits for a hint, seeks hopefully to detect some beam of light that will illuminate it as some kind of well-intentioned practical joke.

("Don't pull at your penis," I am tempted to reprimand him, but I don't.)

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" my wife does inquire peremptorily. He shakes his head with surprise, wondering why she has asked.

He cannot figure out what has just happened to him. A tremor of uncertainty shivers through him as he turns, looking frozen, from one to the other of us and finds himself deserted by both.

"How come?" he asks plaintively, and now a note of misery and total resignation perforates his voice. (He is ready to capitulate if he has to.)

"To," I summarize with lofty and deliberate relish, "teach you a lesson."

What a prick I was.

What a selfish, small, obtuse, and insensitive prick. I am glum with shame and repentance now when I remember those smug and tyrannical persecutions of my little boy (and will be sickened with shame and repentance afterward when I inflict them on him again. How can I stop myself?). For my own part (I plead guilty, your honor, but with an explanation, sir), I honestly believe I was motivated mainly by a protective and furious desire to safeguard him against being taken advantage of by other children (even by my daughter. I never could stand to see him taken advantage of. It was as though I myself were undergoing the helpless humiliation of being tricked, turned into a sucker. My own pride and ego would drip with wounded recognition. That's when I have been most enraged by him, when I wanted to smash and annihilate him, at those times when I felt, in a flaring outbreak of nearly unbridled bitterness, that he was allowing himself to be victimized and bullied by other children. So I bullied and victimized him, instead). I have loved and grieved for him almost from the day he was born, from the time I first noticed his lonesome, ingrained predilection for staring pensively out from his crib or playpen (my daughter was not that way, and neither was Derek, who seemed placid and normal at the beginning). And I loved him also for his naпve candor and absence of hostility, pitied him (and gave him black marks sullenly) for his tender impulses and for his many nameless and immobilizing forebodings; he seemed lost and distant and passive to me in a way it seemed I had once been myself and still feel I am at times when my guard lets down and all my strength ebbs away; I have always wanted him immune to abuse and defeat. So I abused and defeated him instead with my unctuous homilies, my meddlesome intrusions on his behalf, with my nagging, endless admonitions and discourses. I never could bear to see him unhappy (and would find it difficult to pardon him whenever he was); so I made him unhappier still (purging myself of some of my own distress in the act of doing so), but always feeling smirched immediately afterwards. (I can never sustain satisfaction from humbling him, as I usually can do when I humble my daughter, and always do when I win fights with my wife. With my wife by now, I think it no longer matters very much either way to either one of us whether I make her happy or unhappy; the difference is not so great nor the effect lasting; by now, I think we have learned how to get through the rest of our lives with each other and are both already more than halfway there. Who would ever have believed long, long ago that I would live as long as I have? But my boy is still only just beginning.) What a blind, petty, domineering, and sanctimonious prick I truly was. He simply could not see, and we simply could not show him. And even while all of these disputes were going on (it was usually during the summer in the country or at the beach, where I rent a house and all of us go almost every year and none of us ever have a good time. None of us but Derek. Who is able to take what simple pleasures he enjoys anywhere, even at home. Like Martha going crazy slowly in our office, hearing voices that bring a glow of pleasure to her face and playing games on country outings somewhere else as she gazes over the carriage of her typewriter at the blank green wall just a foot or two in front of her. I wonder how she will finally go under, how she will elect to do it, and whose responsibility this Martha our typist really is, Green, who hired her, or Personnel's, who screened and recommended her. She is not mine. At least in the summer, I can stay alone in the city more when the family is away and am free to have as much fun as I can find), my wife and I were charmed extremely by his peculiar generosity (if that's what it was) and beguiling good nature (we would smile at each other in fond and complacent self-approval and comment about him in fascination: