Something Happened

by Джозеф Хеллер

  "When you were in Puerto Rico," he says, "three years ago, were you very sad?"

  His question was unexpected. "That was two years ago," I correct.

  "Three."

  "I think you're right."

  "Two years ago your convention was in Florida."

  "You are right. No, I wasn't sad. Were you?"

  "I thought you weren't coming back."

  "Is that why? I did come back, didn't I? You didn't say anything about it."

  "I was too sad. I was angry at you also."

  "How come?"

  "I don't know."

  "At what?"

  Shrugging, he says he doesn't know.

  "Are you angry at me still?"

  "I get angry every time you have to go away."

  "Are you angry at me now?"

  "Do you have to go away again?"

  "Will you have to be angry?"

  "Will you have to go?"

  "Yes."

  "I guess I won't. Maybe I won't."

  "I miss you when I'm there."

  "Do you have a good time?" he asks.

  I pause a moment to reflect. "I do," I answer frankly. "All in all. I work very hard. At the beginning. And worry a lot. But then I relax and have a good time."

  "You don't telephone from conventions."

  "It's hard."

  "That's why I'm not sure you're coming back. You get very mean to everyone here before you go to a convention."

  "No, I don't."

  "Yes, you do. You don't listen when we talk to you and you yell a lot."

  "No, I don't."

  "You do."

  "Is that true?"

  "Yes. And you lock yourself in your room or the basement and talk to yourself."

  "I don't talk to myself," I answer with annoyance, and then smile. "I rehearse. I practice a speech and a slide show I know I have to give at the convention."

  "That's talking to yourself. Isn't it?"

  "I want to make sure I can do it right and that I won't forget any of it when I have to give it."

  "I get scared when I have to speak in front of the class."

  "So do I. I know you do."

  "Does rope climbing scare you?"

  "Yes. And I'm never going to climb another one, now that I don't have to."

  "Do you like it?"

  "Rope climbing?"

  "Making speeches?"

  "I think so. I like to be asked, anyway. I get nervous too. But I enjoy it. Especially afterward."

  "I'm always afraid that I'll forget what I'm supposed to say. Or that I'll get sick and have to vomit while I'm doing it. Do you know why I'm afraid to swim? I think if I ever started to drown, I'd be ashamed to call the lifeguard."

  "You'd call him."

  "Or that somebody in the class or the teacher won't like me. It. What I say."

  "That's why I work so hard and practice so much. And why I get a little angry if one of you interrupts me. To make sure I remember it."

  "Do you always remember?"

  "Not at the convention. I've never been able to give one. My boss always stops me."

  "Green," he guesses with certainty.

  "Yes."

  "I don't like Green, either," he confides, lowering his eyes. "Because you're afraid of him."

  "I'm not afraid of him."

  "You don't like him."

  "I like him okay."

  "You have to work for him."

  "That's part of the trouble. When people have to work for other people, they don't always get along well with the people they have to take orders from. But it doesn't mean I don't like him. Or that I'm afraid of him."

  "Do you?"

  "No. But I like him more than a lot of the others."

  "Why do you have to work in a place where you don't like so many people?"

  "Because I like it. I have to."

  "Do you know what I'm afraid of?" he asks, looking up at me with interest.

  "Lots of things."

  "Do you know what else I'm afraid of?"

  "Lots more things."

  "I'm serious."

  "What?"

  "That you won't come back."

  "I'm surprised. I never thought you thought about that."

  "I do."

  "All the time? Or only at conventions?"

  "All the time. But mostly at conventions. Because you're away so long."

  "Sometimes I call. When I get there."

  "And other times when you're away long. I don't mind so much if it's just for a day. I start to feel you won't come back."

  "I always have. I'm here now, ain't I? I'm going to have to die sometime."

  "I don't want you to."

  "I'll try not to."

  "Sometimes I do."

  "Do what?" I am more shocked than offended.

  "Want you to."

  "To die?"

  "I'm not sure. When I'm angry. Or have dreams."

  "You're never angry."

  "I get angry a lot when you go away," he pushes on intently. "No. I don't want you to die. Ever. I don't want to die either. Are you angry?"

  "No. Are you?"

  "No. I don't think I would be afraid so much if I were with you and Mommy instead of here. I don't want to be left alone."

  "You wouldn't be alone. You'd be with Mommy. A person can't be afraid all the time of all the bad things that might happen to him."

  "I can," he snickers mournfully.

  I smile back at him in response. "No, you can't. Not even you. I'll bet I can name a lot of things you're afraid of that you don't even have time to be afraid of all the time."

  "Don't," he exclaims, with mock alarm.

  "I won't," I promise sympathetically. "Something comes along that takes our mind away. Should we talk about things that make you laugh instead? Have some fun? Kid around?"

  "All right," he answers, with a momentary smile.

  "You begin."

  "Can a person's blood turn to water?"

  "Huh?"

  "That's what somebody told me."

  "That's what makes you laugh?"

  "No. I keep worrying about it."

  "When did he tell you?"

  "A few months ago."

  "Why didn't you ask me sooner?"

  "I wanted to think about it. He said he read it in the paper."

  "I don't think so."

  "That's what one of the kids at school told me. That a person's blood can turn to water and he dies."

  "He was probably talking about leukemia."

  "What's that?" he inquires sharply.

  "I knew it was a mistake to tell you," I reply, with a regretful click of the tongue. "Even as I was saying it. It's a disease of the blood. Something happens to the white corpuscles."

  "Does it turn to water?"

  "No. I don't think so. Not water. Something like it happens, though."

  "Do people die from it?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Do kids like me get it?"

  "I don't think so," I lie.

  "It was a kid he said he read about. He said it was a kid who died from it."

  "Maybe they do then. I think that once in a while —»

  "Don't tell me about it," he interrupts, putting both hands up in another comical gesture of awestruck horror that is both histrionic and real.

  "I already have."

  "Don't tell me any more."

  "You always do that," I criticize him kindly. "You ask me all the questions you can think of about something terrible and then when I finish answering them you tell me, 'don't tell me about it.»

  "Are you angry?"

  "Do I look it? No, of course not."

  "Sometimes I can't tell."

  "Sure, you can. You keep telling me I yell all the time. No, I'm not angry. I want you to talk to me about the things you're thinking about, especially the things you can't figure out."

  "Do you? I will."

  "I do. Ask me anything."

  "Do you fuck Mommy," he asks. "You said I
could," he pleads hastily, as he sees me gape at him in surprise.

  "Yes, you can," I answer. "Sometimes."

  "Why?"

  "It feels good, that's why. It's kind of fun. Do you know what it means?"

  He shakes his head unsurely. "Is it all right for me to ask you?"

  "It's all right to ask if I do. I think it would be better to ask someone else what it is. It would also be a little better if you used a different word."

  "I don't know a different word. Screw?"

  "That's almost the same. You can use the word you want. It's a little funny, though, to use it with me. Use it. I suppose it's good enough."

  "Are you angry with me?"

  "No. Why do you keep asking me that? Don't you know when I'm angry or not?"

  "Not all the time."

  "I thought I yelled so much."

  "Not all the time. Sometimes you don't talk at all. Or you talk to yourself."

  "I don't talk to myself."

  "You bite your nails and don't even listen to any of us."

  "Do I? What makes you think I'm angry when I'm like that?"

  "We're all afraid."

  "That doesn't mean I am. Sometimes I'm just feeling unhappy. Or concentrating. I can be unhappy too, can't I?"

  "Would Mommy be angry if I asked her?"

  "What?"

  "If you fuck her."

  "Only because of that word. Maybe not. Don't do it in front of anyone."

  "I better not."

  "You already asked me. I already told you. If you ask her too, it wouldn't be to find out, would it? It would just be to see if she gets angry."

  "Was it all right? To ask you?"

  "You already asked me that three times. I'm not angry. Do you want me to be angry?"

  "I thought you'd be. I bet other kids' fathers would be."

  "Maybe I ought to be. I'm better than other kids' fathers. Is that why you keep asking me? Are you trying to make me angry?"

  He shakes his head positively. "No. I don't like it when you're angry. I can tell. You're starting to get angry now, aren't you?"

  "I don't like it, either. And I'm not."

  "Emphasis?" he remembers.

  "Emphasis," I confirm.

  "I don't like Derek," he remarks without pause. He wears a troubled, injured look.

  "You're not supposed to say that," I instruct him mildly. "You're not supposed to feel that way, either."

  "Do you?"

  "You're not supposed to ask that."

  "You just told me I could ask you anything. That's another thing I always think about."

  "Yes. You can. It was okay for you to say what you did and ask me. And it was also okay for me to answer you the way I did. It was all right for both of us. Can you understand that? I hope that's not too confusing for you. I'm not trying to duck out on the question."

  "Am I supposed to say it or not? I don't know."

  "I don't know," I admit resignedly. "I'm not sure I like Derek, either, the situation I mean, the way he is, maybe even him too. I'm not sure. But we often have to live with things we don't like. Like my job. Me too. I don't know what to do about him yet. And nobody can help me."

  "He makes me uncomfortable."

  "He makes me uncomfortable."

  "I'm ashamed to bring friends here. I think they'll make jokes about me."

  "So are we. But we try not to be. We shouldn't be. And you should try not to be too. It's not our fault, it really isn't, so we pretend we aren't. Ashamed. What else?"

  "Money."

  "What about it?"

  "You want me to tell you what's on my mind, don't you?"

  "Yours too?"

  "Do we have any?"

  "What do you want?"

  "That's not why."

  "What is?"

  "You buy me everything."

  "So far."

  "Have we got too much?"

  "For what? We're not millionaires."

  "Have we got enough?"

  "For what?"

  "You make it hard," he charges. "You're kidding now. And I'm not."

  "To give away?" I kid some more, taunting.

  "You give money away," he rejoins in defense.

  "To cancer and things like that. Not to other people. Not to kids. I don't shovel it out to kids I hardly even know like it's too hot for me to hold on to."

  "Leukemia?" he asks.

  "I knew you'd ask that. Do you want me to?"

  He shrugs almost indifferently. "I would like it, I think. But don't take it away from cancer."

  "I knew you'd start worrying about leukemia the second I told you. I'm sorry I told you."

  "I'm not worrying about it. I don't even know what it is yet."

  "Don't you ever worry about things you don't know about?"

  "Like what?"

  "Why should I tell you if you don't know about them?"

  "Now I'll worry about them. Now I'll worry about things to worry about," he adds, with another gloomy laugh.

  "That's what a lot of people do worry about."

  "You don't like me to give money away," he observes. "It makes you angry, doesn't it?"

  "Is that why you do it?"

  "I'm not gonna tell."

  "You're not gonna do it."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'll kick your ass," I warn him jocularly.

  I am happy we are talking together so freely. (I relish those moments when he seems to enjoy being with me.)

  He used to give money away (probably still does, or will start giving money away again when the warm weather comes and he finds himself outside the house a lot with other kids), pennies, nickels, and dimes (money that we gave him for himself, or that he took from us, although I don't believe he has started stealing coins from us yet or lighting matches. That will come with masturbation. That's the way it came with me. I stole coins from everyone in my family and set fire secretly to everything I could find in the medicine cabinet that I discovered would burn with a flame. I squeezed blackheads from my face and fiddled with cigarette lighters with enormous fires. And jerked off. We didn't want him to. I used to try to explicate for him with professional authority why it was improper for him to give presents that we gave to him away to somebody else, and that the money we gave to him was a present. It was talking to the wall. He would hear me out dutifully every time; but he would not grasp what I meant. His face was vacant, patient, and condescending. I did not know what I meant either, or why I even tried to make him stop. And continued to try. It was only pennies, nickels, and dimes, and yet I moved in on him with the same zealous dedication with which I used to attack the blackheads around my nose and squeeze from my skin tiny yellow filaments that could have been pus. I think I felt him ungrateful). I think he still does give money away, for I have noticed that he and his friends, like my daughter, who is not normally generous, and some of her closest friends, tend to give money and other things back and forth to each other without keeping record or demanding return. I hope he does (even though I've told him he shouldn't), for I would like him to be unselfish. So why did I harangue him? I would like him to grow up to be one of these young people I see so many of today who seem to want to be very good to each other. They even lend cars. We never lent cars. I wish I were one of them; I wish I had a second chance to be young and could be part of them. I wish I could be sure they are as happy and satisified as I think they are. (My daughter isn't happy, and neither is my son, and maybe she will be, and so will my son. Maybe they still have a chance.) Every once in a while my gaze falls on a young boy and a young girl (she doesn't even have to be pretty) walking or sitting in public with their arms around each other trustingly and intimately and I can almost fall down in pain with piercing envy and lust. No, not lust. Envy. Longing. Every once in a while I do find myself with a young girl something like that; but I think she thinks I'm "square," even though she may like me (and sleep with me) for a while. And I think she's right: I am square. I am even gauche. I even feel gauche when I'm making my pitch
for some girl with my customary flip, suggestive (and predictable) (and trite) repartee, and I think less of myself for being that way even while I am that way and see myself succeeding. I don't enjoy adultery, really. I'm not even sure I enjoy getting laid. Sometimes it's okay. Other times it's only coming. Is there supposed to be more? There used to be. There used to be much more heat. My wife and I used to upbraid him fiercely each time we learned, through crafty and persistent interrogation, that he had given money away again. Sometimes it would not even be to a kid he liked much or knew particularly well, but to one he had just met that summer who simply happened to be with him on the boardwalk or street and seemed to want it more. Sometimes that was the only reason he gave us for doing it. He gives cookies away too, and candy, and lets other children play with his toys, even when new. For some reason, it still galls me (my wife reacts similarly — a mood of jealousy and rejection is what I feel) when we see him permit some other kid to play with some new present we have just given him. (We feel it is still ours, rather than his.)

  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.