A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (55 page)

And Natalie from
“
Facts of Life.
”
And then poor Sari Locker, the sexologist.
”

“
That was different.
”

“
Right. You get a call from her publicist, a cold call because you people are on some general Gen X magazine list, and even though you would never have any real interest in the twenty-four-year-old author of
Mindblowing Sex in the
‘
90s
—
“

“
Mindblowing Sex in the Real World.
”

“
Fine. So you say, sure sure, let
’
s do an interview, chuckling to yourself—you can
’
t wait to hang up the phone and tell everyone, wanting only to tear her apart. Then while you
’
re in New York, you have dinner with her. Dinner goes well and you have drinks. During dinner and drinks—like, three or four hours of talking— she
’
s a little pushy and self-promoting, but also extremely generous—you had not bargained for that—and wants to hear all about me—that part shocked you—and about our parents, and says so many nice things, and during all this, while she
’
s being kind and listening and everything, all the while you
’
re balancing your two prevailing interests: recording her words to later use against her— because, she, too, had the temerity to be relatively famous and attractive (with a master
’
s from Penn)—while also, more pressingly, trying to
get
invited back to her apartment.
”

“
I almost did.
”

“
Yeah, you took a cab with her, watched her
get
out, didn
’
t know if you should make a move or whatever, and let her go, thinking, there goes my big chance to score with the sexologist.
”

“
I almost did.
”

“
And then you still went back and wrote a bitchy little thing about her.
”

“
She wasn
’
t offended.
”

“
Maybe she
’
s got thick skin. Maybe she didn
’
t read it. But don
’
t you see this is a kind of cannibalism? That you
’
re just grabbing at people, toys from a box, dressing them up, taking them
apart, ripping their heads off, discarding them when—
“

“
Weird that you mention Sari. She
’
s actually coming to town.
”

“
Oh Jesus. You
’
re not going to see her?
”

“
Yes I am, young Toph. Yes I am.
”

“
f don
’
t get it.
”

“
Nor should you. Much too complex for your tender mind. Put your head down. I have to wipe off your neck.
”

I brush the hair from his neck with a towel.

“
Toph, there are so many things you have yet to learn.
”

“
Right, right.
”

“
Just stay close to me, and you will glean.
”

“
Right.
”

“
Fear not.
”

“
I fear.
”

He looks perfect.

“
You look perfect.
”

He
’
s grimacing.

“
It
’
s too short. It
’
s brutal.
”

“
No, no. It
’
s perfect.
”

When Toph is gone, servicing his new, to-be-truthful-kind-of-annoying social life, things are sort of weird at home. At the moment he
’
s at Gabe
’
s house and there
’
s nothing to do. It
’
s not that I
’
m bored. Am I bored? I go into the hallway and lean my back against the wall. I look at my shoes. I should not wear white socks with these shoes, because the hole at the left pinkie toe becomes so much more pronounced with this bright white fuzz protruding. When was he supposed to
get
home again? He hadn
’
t said. I should call Gabe
’
s house. But would that look anxious? I don
’
t want to look anxious, do not want to be a parent who is jealous of his child
’
s time with friends, much like Mrs. H—, whose son we liked but who only let him out occasionally, because, we all felt,
even at twelve we felt that she was afraid that he would come to like us, his peers, more than her, his mother. I straighten the rug in the hall. I find the broom and sweep. I open the refrigerator and throw away a heavy bag of blue oranges. And baby carrots, now brown and soft. I go to my room, open the blinds. Across the street, at the retirement home, an elderly woman is out on the porch, moving slowly, watering her plants. I go back to the kitchen and pick up the phone. Who to call? I put it down. I turn on the computer. Get up, turn on the oven. What to cook? We have no food. I sit down, look at the computer and turn it off and stand up, staring toward the door. I lean my head against the molding near the window. What if my head became attached to the wall? I could be half of a pair of Siamese twins, attached at the head, the other half was actually this wall. I could be half man,
half walL
Would I die if not separated? No, I could survive. I would stay attached to the wall. Toph would feed me, and I would have a specially prepared chair, tall enough, so I could sit— But how would I change my shirt with my head attached to the wall? I think about this for a few minutes. Then it comes to me: Button-down shirts! Oh, but the bathroom problem... I
’
ll need a bedpan. Or a catheter. I could do this. I could.

But my head is not, in fact, attached to the wall. I remove my head from the wall.

If he got home by four there
’
d still be time to play. Is it too windy? Will he be too tired?

The bell rings.

I look out the window and down. It
’
s him. A surge runs through me.

“
Where
’
s your key?
”

“
I forgot it.
”

I make the obligatory scoff.
You flake ha ha!
I throw him my keys. They clink on the sidewalk.

I watch him put the key in, turn, push, disappear into the wall.

Should I scare him when he walks in? No, no, he knows I
’
m here. Punch him? Pour something on him?
Shit, no time!

“
Hey.
”

“
Hey.
”

“
So? Was it fun?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
What
’
d you do?
”

“
Nothing. We got pictures today.
”

“
What pictures?
”

“
School pictures.
”

“
You got them when?
”

“
Today.
”

“
No. I mean, when did you take them?
”

“
I don
’
t know. A month ago I guess.
”

“
You didn
’
t tell me. What did you wear?
”

“
A yellow shirt.
”

“
Which one?
”

“
The dark yellow one.
”

“
Was it clean?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
Let me see the picture.
”

“
You
’
re not going to like it.
”

“
Why?
”

“
You
’
ll see.
”

“
Are your eyes closed?
”

“
No.
”

“
Are you giving the finger?
”

“
No.
”

“
Then why?
”

“
You
’
ll see.
”

He digs the pictures, letter-sized, carboard backing, in a plastic sleeve, from his backpack and hands them to me and Good fucking God no. No. No. No. No. This is bad. This is so bad. This
is unbelievably bad. This is so unbelievably bad. They
’
ll take him away now. They
’
ll take him away for sure. If ever they needed a reason now they have one good God. It
’
s proof of everyhing. The proof they want.

“
Toph, this is bad.
”

“
It
’
s not that bad.
”

“
It
’
s so bad.
”

“
It
’
s not.
”

“
It
’
s horrible.
”

“
Whatever.
”

“
No, you whatever yourself whatever whatever. God. Damn. You look like you
’
re about to cry. Jesus. You like you
’
re pleading for help.
”

And he does. Yes he is tan and blond and cute—he does look very cute, his eyes exceptionally blue here—but he
’
s looking out so forlornly, so helpless, soft, neck extended, eyes almost watery... Fuck. This is so bad. This is worse than the Phone Voice Problem. The Phone Voice Problem we have addressed over and over, and it
’
s improved but still hasn
’
t been resolved, fixed.

For years he
’
s been answering the phone like this: m
i*?

And of course people wonder. What
’
s wrong with Toph? they ask me when he hands me the phone. And always I have to be cavalier.
That
’
s just Toph! ha ha.
But he does sound like he
’
s been bawling, like he
’
s locked himself in the bathroom and I
’
m banging on it, yelling over his sniffling, and he
’
s just starting to control his breathing when someone calls and that
’
s when he says Hello?... And worse, he achieves this same tone every time, day or night, always this crinkly slow *«/ /·/», at the edge of 12-year-old sanity and suffering. So I
’
ve been imploring him to sound normal. Please sound normal, Toph, you are normal, we are normal so just sound normal please can
’
t you? Don
’
t sound like I
’
ve been beating you, like you
’
re in the bathroom hiding from me, because I have been there, have hidden from parents before, have been on the other side
of a door being struck with all conceivable parental force, have searched the bathroom for places to hide, have found a place in the closet where the bath toys are kept, under the lowest shelf, and I have hidden there, and have seen, darkening the white slit of light under the door to this closet, his shoes, and then the white light everywhere as the door is opened, and have had my shoulder grabbed and.. .and he
’
s been working on it, especially when I make him do it in front of me, my arms crossed in front of me, watching, coaching, making a chipper smiley face for him, eyebrows shooting skyward...
happy!