by Harlan Ruud
On the edge of the tub, near my feet, is the bottle of bourbon. I look at it, then whisper:
'Drink it.'
Leaning forward, I grab the half-empty bottle, holding it to my mouth. Abruptly, I lower the bottle, setting it on the floor beside me.
'But I'm not thirsty,' I say.
I stand and step out of the tub. I dry myself with a towel and, when done, drape it over the rack. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and touch the wound on my chest.
Why did I do it? I wonder.
'Understanding your desire,' my father once said, 'sometimes destroys it.'
'Other times,' he added, 'it merely increases it.'
I have cut myself, I realize, raising my hand to my chest and resting it firmly over the wound, because I can.
'Drink it,' he says.
'But I'm not thirsty,' I reply.
He bends forward and, just inches from my face, whispers:
'You poured it; now drink it.'
I step back, frightened.
'I poured too much,' I say.
'What were you going to do with the rest, then?'
'Save it for later.'
He stands straight and looks down at me. He picks up the glass of milk from the table and holds it in front of my face. His hands are huge and dark; they smell of gasoline.
'You do this all the time; you pour a full glass of milk and then you drink only half. The rest you pour in the sink.'
'No, I don't.'
'Yes, you do.'
His voice is calm.
'Drink it,' he says.
'I can't.'
He smacks me across the face, then again, knocking me off balance. I begin to cry.
'Why are you crying?' he asks.
'Because you hit me,' I reply.
He hits me again.
'You're seven years old,' he says. 'Act like it.'
I say nothing, continuing to cry.
'Now, are you going to drink it?'
I reach for the glass of milk and, taking it from his hand, I drink it. Finished, I hold up the empty glass, expecting him to take it; he does not. I place it on the kitchen table and turn, as if to leave.
'You're not done,' he says.
I turn back, looking at the empty glass, then at his hands; they are at his side.
'What do you mean?' I ask. 'I – I drank it all.'
'No, you didn't. I want you to drink it all.'
I look again at the glass but it is, indeed, empty. I do not know what to say.
'Dad,' I say. 'It's all gone. I drank it all.'
He reaches forward, grabbing me by the back of the neck, and forces me toward the counter. There, at eye-level, next to the sink, is the jug of milk; it is nearly full.
'No,' he says. 'You didn't.'
I look up at him and say:
'Dad, I can't drink that. It –'
Abruptly, he bangs my head against the side of the counter, then pushes me to the floor. Everything, suddenly, is a blur. I sit, not moving; he grabs me by the shoulder and lifts me to my feet. He shoves me toward the table and screams:
'Sit down!'
I sit on one of the chairs, still crying, and watch as he takes the glass jug of milk and places it on the table in front of me.
'And I'll tell you right now, nigger, you better stop that crying. Do you hear me? You want to be a man, then you start acting like one. Now, drink.'
He opens the jug of milk and fills the glass.
'Drink.'
I drink.
'Don't stop,' he says softly. 'Keep drinking.'
I look at his hands.
I finish the glass of milk; he pours another. I finish it; he pours another. I throw up. I drink half of the glass and then, again, throw up.
He does not move; he stands and watches.
'Keep drinking,' he says. 'You'll clean up this mess when you're done.'
I keep drinking.
'A baby,' he says. 'Seven years old and still acting like a baby.'
I drink another glass, then another; I throw up. I drink half of a glass and, again, throw up; the vomit is pink and he tells me to stop.
'Clean this up and then go to bed,' he says. 'You can drink the rest tomorrow.'
The house is quiet.
I sit up, slowly putting my feet on the floor, and look into the shadows. I am about to stand when suddenly I hear the kitchen door open, then close.
My body tenses, but I do not move.
I hear the sound of bare, wet feet walking across the wooden floor. The steps are heavy, plodding. I peer into the darkness of the kitchen and, I am certain, see a shadow move slowly in front of the window. I close my eyes.
There is silence.
I sit completely still, then open my eyes. In an instant, I relax, then shake my head. I look into the darkness and say:
'Fuck me.'
I take a deep breath and lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. I shiver briefly, then smile. I am both relieved and embarrassed.
'Fuck me,' I say again.
I stand, walk into the kitchen, turn on the light, and glance at the floor. There are no footprints and briefly I am disappointed. I walk to the sink and look out the window; it will soon be dawn.
I move from the window and walk out the door onto the verandah. I stare into the early morning darkness. The sun is beginning to rise, and the sky in the distance is a sliver of pale blue, orange, pink. The morning air, though slightly humid, is cool.
I turn and step back into the house. I look at the clock; it is 4:47 a.m. Quickly, I begin to clean, organize. I fill boxes, then stack the boxes. I stack and line and dust and sweep. I mop.
The sun rises, has risen, and I continue: from the kitchen to the living room to the storage room to the bedrooms and bathroom. I open the cellar door but, just as quickly, close it.
'You'll clean up this mess when you're done,' I say.
I make a pot of coffee; I drink four cups, one after the other. I eat a banana. I return to each room in the house; the floors are clean, beds are made, were already made, everything folded and organized and neat and closed and wiped. It has taken me perhaps four hours, and I am finished; there is nothing left to do.
I put on a shirt, socks, my shoes, move my suitcase downstairs to the kitchen, and sit. I look out the window, then at the table before me. In its center, I notice, is my plane ticket. I feel a hand on my shoulder and, without moving, I say:
'That's funny, I was just thinking about you.'
'I imagined you dead,' I say.
He looks at me and smiles, saying nothing.
'I imagined burying you,' I continue. 'I imagined a warm summer night and I carried you through the woods and I buried you in a grave and I felt nothing, not even relief. I even imagined hearing you return from your grave and walk across the kitchen floor and imagined then that it was all my imagination. God.'
What are you thinking? I want to ask. Instead, I remain silent for a moment, looking at him, then continue speaking.
'How can I explain that I wanted you dead, imagined it, but imagining it, I imagined not caring? I don't know. I can't explain it. I always – you know, I always, well, there were many times I imagined you dead. Wished you dead. And sometimes I was happy, and sometimes I was sad, and this time I didn't care. I saw myself sitting and thinking and not caring and wondering, even, if I was just pretending not to care. Just – well, I'm not making any sense, am I? Of course I'm not.'
He unfolds his arms and leans forward, clasping his hands and resting them on the table. He looks at me, he has not stopped looking at me. Still, he smiles.
'Ulysses,' he says, 'what do you want me to say? Do you want me to make you feel better? Ease your guilt? What? Do you want me to tell you it's normal to wish your father dead? To think about him in –'
He abruptly pauses, frowning.
'Son,' he says, 'your nose is bleeding.'
I raise my hand, touching my upper lip. It is wet with blood; I look at my fingertips, then at my fath
er. He stares at me as if he is repulsed; ashamed, I look away, wiping the blood with the back of my hand.
Suddenly, I feel something smooth and solid begin to slide down and out of my nasal passage. As if to stop it, I put my thumb and forefinger again to my nose.
'Dad,' I say, then become silent.
I begin to pull the bloodied mass, long and slick, like a worm, from my nostril. It is the color and texture, I think, of liver. Terrified, I look up at my father.
He stares at me, angry, then stands, his chair falling back to the floor, and says:
'Ulysses, what is – what?'
Blood begins to gush from my nose, thick and clotted, almost black, as I continue to pull at the – viscous, it sticks like mucus to my fingers as I lean forward, dazed, horrified. The room begins to shift, then spin. I hear my father, as if from another room, calling my name as he moves to my side, putting his hands to my head and pulling me back in the chair.
'Dad!' I scream, looking up into his huge, dark, blank face. 'Dad, don't –'
'What have you been doing?' he asks.
I hold the bar of soap and look at it.
'Dad,' he says, 'I don't understand what – listen, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.'
His voice is patient, condescending, and I wish he would leave.
'I can bathe myself,' I say, staring at the bar of soap.
'No,' he replies, 'you can't'.'
He takes the soap from my hand, dips it in the water, and begins to lather my back and shoulders.
'Either there's nothing wrong with you,' he says, 'or it's worse than I thought.'
He pushes me forward and continues to roughly wash my back.
'I just don't understand,' he says. 'I'm gone overnight and – and I come back to find you've cleaned the entire house and packed your suitcase as if – Dad, and, my God, cut your nipple off!'
He rinses my back and shoulders with the bath water.
'Talk to me, Dad,' he says, gently pushing me backward, where I rest then against the tub.
'I can bathe myself,' I say, ignoring his questions.
He rests his elbows on the edge of the tub, the soap in his hand, and looks at me.
'Well,' he says, 'I guess if you can clean the entire house, you can indeed bathe yourself.'
He hands me the bar of soap, and I take it from him. I look at him as he stands, then sits on the toilet, watching me.
'Go ahead, then,' he says.
'I don't need you to watch me,' I say.
'Yes,' he replies, 'you do.'
He folds his arms and I am reminded of an impatient grade school teacher. I look down at the bar of blue soap in my hand let it fall into the bath water. He leans forward, sliding off the toilet, kneels next to the tub, and grabs the soap.
'Jesus, Dad,' he says. 'Make up your mind.'
I do not move as he begins to quickly but gently wash my entire body. He says nothing as he does this, moving my limbs, guiding them, scrubbing them, rinsing them. I wonder if he will wash between my legs; he does, pulling back my foreskin, even. Once finished, he pulls the plug, helps me out of the tub, and dries me with a towel. I stand, listening to the water drain from the tub.
'Dad,' he says, 'you know I want to help you. But you have to be honest with me. You have to – oh, Lord. I just don't know what's happening. I don't.'
He stands straight, draping the towel over the edge of the tub, and takes my forearm, guiding me out of the bathroom and down the hallway to my bedroom. He sits me on the bed and rubs lotion on my scalp and arms and legs. He dresses me in a pair of brown corduroy trousers, a white, short-sleeved shirt, and the soft, black-leather bedroom slippers I have worn for years.
'There,' he says, standing before me. 'Is that okay?'
We look at each other.
'A dancer,' I say. 'Are you a dancer?'
'Dad,' he replies, frowning sadly, 'yes, I'm a dancer. You know I'm a dancer.'
He kneels before me and puts his hands on my knees. He looks up at me, staring into my eyes.
'Dad,' he asks, 'do you know who I am? Do you?'
'You're a dancer,' I reply.
'Yes,' he says, 'and I'm your son; do you know my name?'
'Ulysses,' I reply.
He nods, smiling softly, and asks:
'And what is your name?'
'I'm not crazy,' I reply. 'So don't talk to me like I am, damnit.'
He closes his eyes, exhaling as if exhausted, then opens them and slowly shakes his head.
'Then why do you act like you are?' he asks, standing.
He is tall and muscular, dark, handsome, more like his mother than like me. Too big, I think, to be a dancer. But that is just what he is: a dancer.
'Because it pleases you,' I reply.
'No, Dad,' he says, as if disgusted. 'It doesn't.'
Yes, it does, I think. You just don't know it.
He stands, then sits on the bed next to me.
'Dad,' he says, 'are you conscious of doing these things? I mean, when you do them, do you know you're doing them?'
'Do what?' I ask, knowing that the question will irritate him.
'Dad!' he exclaims. 'Do – God, cleaning the house, cutting yourself, walking out into the woods at one in the morning, not moving for days, then not sitting still, not sleeping, calling me names I don't recognize, calling me Dad, pacing the hallway, Christ, for hours, and then forgetting, or pretending to forget, and – and just all this crazy behavior.'
I look out the window and say nothing.
'I know you're sick,' he continues, 'but I don't understand how – how it's affecting your mind. And I hope I'm wrong , but sometimes I just, well, I really think sometimes you're just doing it to irritate me, to test me. And if you are, why? But if you're not, then I want to know if you're conscious of it when it's happening. Tell me, Dad, are you?'
Still, I say nothing.
'Well,' he says, 'whatever's happening is – God, I just don't. I can't understand it. And maybe I don't want to. I guess. I guess I just don't know.'
'You're repeating yourself,' I say.
He looks at me and frowns.
'Well,' he says, 'that much is the same; you're still a –'
He stops.
He turns and glances out the door into the hallway.
'Do you want to go sit on the verandah?'' he asks. 'Or in the living room?'
'The verandah,' I reply.
'Are you walking?' he asks, and I hear the sarcasm in his voice. 'Or do you need my help?'
I say nothing, standing, and walk slowly out of the room. He does not follow me.
I sit on the bench beneath the shade of the verandah, my hands on my knees, and stare out into the yard. The day is hot and windy, and the sun is bright. It has been weeks since the lawn was mowed, and its grass is long and littered with dandelions.
'I am not crazy,' I whisper, watching as an orange and black butterfly lands on the verandah's railing, flutters its wings, then flies away.
I hear Ulysses in the kitchen, sliding a chair across the floor and, I assume, sitting down. Last week, I remember, he threatened to return me to the hospital.
'I am a full-grown man,' I said. 'I can take care of myself.'
'You're an old man,' he replied. 'And you're sick, and you're all alone on the farm. And no, you cannot take care of yourself.'
He does not want to be here, I know, any more than I want him to be here.
'How do I take care of you,' he often says, 'when I don't know what's wrong with you, when even the doctors don't know what's wrong?'
He believes my sickness to be psychological; I am, he says, simply willing myself, in his words, to disintegrate. I tell him this is not true, but he does not believe me. He just looks at me and shakes his head.
If I could will myself to die, I want to tell him, I would already be dead.
'A dancer, ' he says. Of all the useless fucking things to be, good Lord, he's a dancer. A dancer. I bet he's queer, too.'
'M
y son isn't queer. Not all dancers are queer, Dad.'
'Well,' he says, 'being a queer or a – a ballerina – it's all the same fucking thing. Useless. Just like you and your writing.'
'He's not a ballerina,' I say. "He's a dancer. He dances. And my writing wasn't –'
'Oh, a ballerina doesn't dance?' he mocks, interrupting me. 'A ballerina isn't a dancer?'
A ballerina is a dancer, I want to say. But a dancer isn't necessarily a ballerina. Instead, I shake my head and look out the window.
Why, I wonder, do I talk to him? If he was stupid, I could perhaps reason with him, convince him, but he is not. He is a self-educated man, well-read, and, as such, his ignorance is fundamental, innate. He will not be moved.
Upstairs, I hear Ulysses walking across his bedroom floor, and I wonder briefly if he has heard us talking. But what does it matter? I tell myself; it's nothing he hasn't heard before.
I turn and look at my father. He has fallen asleep and I am struck, watching him, by how old and frail he looks. Just an old, bitter man, asleep at the kitchen table.
I look up at the ceiling and listen to the sound of my son's footsteps. And when I look at Ulysses, I reflect, I am struck by his youth. Jealous even of his energy and strength and bright, black eyes. Jealous too of his ignorance.
He reminds me of his mother. As I, I've been told, reminded my father of mine. And is it this presence, this memory, I briefly wonder, that keeps a man from killing his son? I smile at such a thought and turn again to my father. He is softly snoring, and I slam my fist onto the table. He is startled from his sleep, mouth open, and he looks at me, angry.
'What the hell?' he says.
'Dad,' I reply, 'go to bed if you're tired.'
I open my eyes. The sun has begun to set, and I think, good Lord, did I fall asleep?
I look to the driveway. Ulysses' dark red Ford pickup truck is no longer there. Did he leave, I wonder? Surely, I reason, he would not have left without first waking me.
I lean forward.
'Lee,' I call out, 'Where are you? Ulysses, are you here?'
There is no answer, and I listen to the faint sound of the breeze rustling through the leaves; it is my favorite sound. I lean back in the seat and rest a hand on each thigh.
