The Best American Short Stories 2016

by Junot Díaz

“Are you awake?” Pat asked now, in a last effort, and Sam didn’t respond. The space between them, imperceptible at first, became a sudden tear, threads popping from seams in one sure stroke.

  But he was nice enough, she thought. He was a nice man.

  BEN MARCUS

  Cold Little Bird

  FROM The New Yorker

  IT STARTED WITH bedtime. A coldness.

  A formality.

  Martin and Rachel tucked the boy in, as was their habit, then stooped to kiss him good night.

  “Please don’t do that,” he said, turning to face the wall.

  They took it as teasing, flopped onto his bed to nuzzle and tickle him.

  The boy turned rigid, endured the cuddle, then barked out at them, “I really don’t like that!”

  “Jonah?” Martin said, sitting up.

  “I don’t want your help at bedtime anymore,” he said. “I’m not a baby. You have Lester. Go cuddle with him.”

  “Sweetheart,” Rachel said. “We’re not helping you. We’re just saying good night. You like kisses, right? Don’t you like kisses and cuddles? You big silly.”

  Jonah hid under the blankets. A classic pout. Except that he wasn’t a pouter, he wasn’t a hider. He was a reserved boy who generally took a scientific interest in the tantrums and emotional extravagances of other children, marveling at them as though they were some strange form of street theater.

  Martin tried to tickle the blanketed lump of person that was his son. He didn’t know what part of Jonah he was touching. He just dug at him with a stiff hand, thinking a laugh would come out, some sound of pleasure. It used to work. One stab of the finger and the kid exploded with giggles. But Jonah didn’t speak, didn’t move.

  “We love you so much. You know?” Martin said. “So we like to show it. It feels good.”

  “Not to me. I don’t feel that way.”

  “What way? What do you mean?”

  They sat with him, perplexed, and tried to rub his back, but he’d rolled to the edge of the bed, nearly flattening himself against the wall.

  “I don’t love you,” Jonah said.

  “Oh, now,” Martin said. “You’re just tired. No need to say that sort of stuff. Get some rest.”

  “You told me to tell the truth, and I’m telling the truth. I. Don’t. Love. You.”

  This happened. Kids tested their attachments. They tried to push you away to see just how much it would take to really lose you. As a parent, you took the blow, even sharpened the knife yourself before handing it to the little fiends, who stepped right up and plunged. Or so Martin had heard.

  They hovered by Jonah’s bed, assuring him that it had been a long day—although the day had been entirely unremarkable—and he would feel better in the morning.

  Martin felt like a robot saying these things. He felt like a robot thinking them. There was nothing to do but leave the boy there, let him sleep it off.

  Downstairs, they cleaned the kitchen in silence. Rachel was troubled or not, he couldn’t tell, and it was better not to check. In some way, Martin was captivated. If he were Jonah, ten years old and reasonably smart, starting to sniff out the world and find his angle, this might be something worth exploring. Getting rid of the soft, warm, dumb providers who spun opportunity around you relentlessly, answering your every need. Good play, Jonah. But how do you follow such a strong, definitive opening move? What now?

  Over the next few weeks, Jonah stuck by his statement, wandering through their lives like some prisoner of war who’d been trained not to talk. He endured his parents, leaving for school in the morning with scarcely a goodbye. Upon coming home, he put away his coat and shoes, did his homework without prompting. He helped himself to snacks, dragging a chair into the kitchen so that he could climb on the counter. He got his own glass, filling it with water at the sink. When he was done eating, he loaded his dishes in the dishwasher. Martin, working from home in the afternoons, watched all this, impressed but bothered. He kept offering to help, but Jonah always said that he was fine, he could handle it. At bedtime, Martin and Rachel still fussed over Lester, who, at six years old, regressed and babified himself in order to drink up the extra attention. Jonah insisted on saying good night with no kiss, no hug. He shut his door and disappeared every night at eight p.m.

  When Martin or Rachel caught Jonah’s eye, the boy forced a smile at them. But it was so obviously fake. Could a boy his age do that?

  “Of course,” Rachel said. “You think he doesn’t know how to pretend?”

  “No, I know he can pretend. But this seems different. I mean, to have to pretend that he’s happy to see us. First of all, what the fuck is he so upset about? And second, it just seems so kind of . . . grown-up. In the worst possible way. A fake smile. It’s a tool one uses with strangers.”

  “Well, I don’t know. He’s ten. He has social skills. He can hide his feelings. That’s not such an advanced thing to do.”

  Martin studied his wife.

  “Okay, so you think everything’s fine?”

  “I think maybe he’s growing up and you don’t like it.”

  “And you like it? That’s what you’re saying? You like this?”

  His voice had gone up. He had lost control for a minute there, and, as per motherfucking usual, it was a deal-breaker. Rachel put up her hand, and she was gone. From the other room, he heard her say, “I’m not going to talk to you when you’re like this.”

  Okay, he thought. Goodbye. We’ll talk some other time when I’m not like this, AKA never.

  Jonah, it turned out, reserved this behavior solely for his parents. A probing note to his teacher revealed nothing. He was fine in school, did not act withdrawn, had successfully led a team project on Antarctica, and seemed to run and play with his friends during recess. Run and play? What animal were they discussing here? Everybody loved Jonah was the verdict, along with some bullshit about how happy he seemed. “Seemed” was just the thing. Seemed! If you were an idiot who didn’t know the boy, who had no grasp of human behavior.

  At home, Jonah doted on his brother, read to him, played with him, even let Lester climb on his back for rides around the house, all fairly verboten in the old days, when Jonah’s interest in Lester had only ever been theoretical. Lester was thrilled by it all. He suddenly had a new friend, the older brother he worshiped, who used to ignore him. Life was good. But to Martin it felt like a calculated display. With this performance of tenderness toward his brother, Jonah seemed to be saying, “Look, this is what you no longer get. See? It’s over for you. Go fuck yourself.”

  Martin took it too personally, he knew. Maybe because it was personal.

  One night, when Jonah hadn’t touched his dinner, they were asking him if he would like something else to eat, and, because he wasn’t answering, and really had not been answering for some weeks now, other than in one-word responses, curt and formal, Martin and Rachel abandoned their usual rules, the guideposts of parenting they’d clung to, and moved through a list of bribes. They dangled the promise of ice cream, and then those monstrosities passing for Popsicles, shaped like animals with chocolate faces or hats, which used to turn Jonah craven and desperate. When Jonah remained silent and sort of washed-out-looking, Martin offered his son candy. He could have some right now. If only he’d fucking say something.

  “It’s just that you’re all in his face,” Rachel said to him later. “How’s he supposed to breathe?”

  “You think my desire for him to speak is making him silent?”

  “It’s probably not helping.”

  “Whereas your approach is so amazing.”

  “My approach? You mean being his mother? Loving him for who he is? Keeping him safe? Yeah, it is pretty amazing.”

  He turned over to sleep while Rachel clipped on her book light.

  They’d ride this one out in silence, apparently.

  Yes, well. They’d written their own vows, promising to be “intensely honest” with each other. They had not specifically said that they would h
old up each other’s flaws to the most rigorous scrutiny, calling out each other’s smallest mistakes, like fact checkers, believing, perhaps, that the marriage would thrive only if all personal errors and misdeeds were rooted out of it. This mission had gone unstated.

  In the morning, when Martin got up, Jonah sat reading while Lester played soldiers on the rug. Lester was fully dressed, his backpack near the door. There was no possible way that Lester had done this on his own. Obviously, Jonah had dressed his brother, emptied the boy’s backpack of yesterday’s crap art from the first-grade praise farm he attended, and readied it for a new day. Months ago, they’d asked Jonah to perform this role in the morning, to dress and prepare his brother, so that they could sleep in, and Jonah had complied a few times, but halfheartedly, with a certain mysterious cost to little Lester, who was often speechless and tear-streaked by the time they found him. The chore had quickly lapsed, and usually Martin awoke to a hungry, half-naked Lester, waiting for his help.

  Today, Lester seemed happy. There was no sign of crying.

  “Good morning, Daddy,” he said.

  “Hello there, Les, my friend. Sleep okay?”

  “Jonah made me breakfast. I had juice and Cheerios. I brought in my own dishes.”

  “Way to go! Thank you.”

  Martin figured he’d just play it casual, not draw too much attention to anything.

  “Good morning, champ,” he said to Jonah. “What are you reading?”

  Martin braced himself for silence, for stillness, for a child who hadn’t heard or who didn’t want to answer. But Jonah looked at him.

  “It’s a book called The Short. It’s a novel,” he said, and then he resumed reading.

  A fat bolt of lightning filled the cover. A boy ran beneath it. The title lettering was achieved graphically with one long wire, a plug trailing off the cover.

  “Oh, yeah?” Martin said. “What’s it about? Tell me about it.”

  There was a long pause this time. Martin went into the kitchen to get his coffee started. He popped back out to the living room and snapped his fingers.

  “Jonah, hello. Your book. What’s it about?”

  Jonah spoke quietly. His little flannel shirt was buttoned up to the collar, as if he were headed out into a blizzard. Martin almost heard a kind of apology in his voice.

  “Since I have to leave for school in fifteen minutes, and since I was hoping to get to page 100 this morning, would it be okay if I didn’t describe it to you? You can look it up on Amazon.”

  He told Rachel about this later in the morning, the boy’s unsettling calm, his odd response.

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, good for him, right? He just wanted to read, and he told you that. So what?”

  “Huh,” Martin said.

  Rachel was busy cleaning. She hadn’t looked at him. Their argument last night had either been forgotten or stored for later activation. He’d find out. She seemed engrossed by a panicked effort at tidying, as if guests were arriving any second, as if their house were going to be inspected by the fucking UN. Martin followed her around while they talked, because if he didn’t she’d roam out of earshot and the conversation would expire.

  “He just seems like a stranger to me,” Martin said, trying to add a lightness to his voice so she wouldn’t hear it as a complaint.

  Rachel stopped cleaning. “Yeah.”

  For a moment, it seemed that she might agree with him and they’d see this thing similarly.

  “But he’s not a stranger. I don’t know. He’s growing up. You should be happy that he’s reading. At least he wasn’t begging to be on the stupid iPad, and it seems like he’s talking again. He wanted to read, and you’re freaking out. Honestly.”

  Yes, well. You had these creatures in your house. You fed them. You cleaned them. And here was the person you’d made them with. She was beautiful, probably. She was smart, probably. It was impossible to know anymore. He looked at her through an unclean filter, for sure. He could indulge a great anger toward her that would suddenly vanish if she touched his hand. What was wrong? He’d done something or he hadn’t done something. Figure it the fuck out, Martin thought. Root out the resentment. Apologize so hard it leaks from her body. Then drink the liquid. Or use it in a soup. Whatever.

  Jonah came and went, such a weird bird of a boy, so serious. Martin tried to tread lightly. He tried not to tread at all. Better to float overhead, to allow the cold remoteness of his elder son to freeze their home. He studied Rachel’s caution, her distance-giving, her respect, the confidence she possessed that he clearly lacked, even as he saw the toll it took on her, what had become of this person who needed to touch her young son and just couldn’t.

  Then, one afternoon, he forgot himself. He came home with groceries and saw Jonah down on the rug with Lester, setting up his Lego figures for him, such an impossibly small person, dressed so carefully by his own hand, his son—it still seemed ridiculous and a miracle to Martin that there’d be such a thing as a son, that a little creature in this world would be his to protect and befriend. Without thinking about it, he sat down next to Jonah and took the whole of the boy in his arms. He didn’t want to scare him, and he didn’t want to hurt him, but he needed this boy to feel what it was like to be held, to really be swallowed up in a father’s arms. Maybe he could squeeze all the aloofness out of the boy, just choke it out until it was gone.

  Jonah gave nothing back. He went limp, and the hug didn’t work the way Martin had hoped. You couldn’t do it alone. The person being hugged had to do something, to be something. The person being hugged had to fucking exist. And whoever this was, whoever he was holding, felt like nothing.

  Finally, Martin released him, and Jonah straightened his hair. He did not look happy.

  “I know that you and Mom are in charge and you make the rules,” Jonah said. “But even though I’m only ten, don’t I have a right not to be touched?”

  The boy sounded so reasonable.

  “You do,” Martin said. “I apologize.”

  “I keep asking, but you don’t listen.”

  “I listen.”

  “You don’t. Because you keep doing it. So does Mom. You want to treat me like a stuffed animal, and I don’t want to be treated like that.”

  “No, I don’t, buddy.”

  “I don’t want to be called buddy. Or mister. Or champ. I don’t do that to you. You wouldn’t want me always inventing some new ridiculous name for you.”

  “Okay.” Martin put up his hands in surrender. “No more nicknames. I promise. It’s just that you’re my son and I like to hug you. We like to hug you.”

  “I don’t want you to anymore. And I’ve said that.”

  “Well, too bad,” Martin said, laughing, and as if to prove he was right, he grabbed Lester, and Lester squealed with delight, squirming in his father’s arms.

  Do you see how this used to work? Martin wanted to say to Jonah. This was you once, this was us.

  Jonah seemed genuinely puzzled. “It doesn’t matter to you that I don’t like it?”

  “It matters, but you’re wrong. You can be wrong, you know. You’ll die, without affection. I’m not kidding. You will actually dry up and die.”

  Again, he found he had to explain love to this boy, to detail what it was like when you felt a desperate connection with someone else, how you wanted to hold that person and just crush him with hugs. But as Martin fought through the difficult and ridiculous discussion, he felt as if he were having a conversation with a lawyer. A lawyer, a scold, a little prick of a person. Whom he wanted to hug less and less. Maybe it’d be simpler just to give Jonah what he wanted. What he thought he wanted.

  Jonah seemed pensive, concerned.

  “Does any of that make sense to you?” Martin asked.

  “It’s just that I’d rather not say things that could hurt someone,” Jonah said.

  “Well . . . that’s good. That’s how you should feel.”

  “I’d rather not have to say anything abo
ut you and Mom. At school. To Mr. Fourenay.”

  Mr. Fourenay was what they called a “feelings doctor.” He was paid, certainly not very much, to take the kids and their feelings very, very seriously. Martin and Rachel had trouble taking him seriously. He looked like a man who had subsisted, for a very long time, on a strict diet of the feelings of children. Gutted, wasted, and soft.

  “Jonah, what are you talking about?”

  “About you touching me when I don’t want you to. I don’t want to have to mention that to anyone at school. I really don’t.”

  Martin stood up. It was as if a hand had moved inside him.

  He stared at Jonah, who held his gaze patiently, waiting for an answer. “Message received. I’ll discuss it with Mom.”

  “Thank you.”

  Without really thinking about it, Martin had crafted an adulthood that was essentially friendless. There were, of course, the friends of the marriage, who knew him only as part of a couple—the dour, rotten part—and thus they were ruled out for anything remotely candid, like a confession of what the fuck had just gone down in his own home. Before the children came, he’d managed, sometimes erratically, to maintain preposterous phone relationships with several male friends. Deep, searching, facially sweaty conversations on the phone with other semi-articulate, vaguely unhappy men. In general, these friendships had heated up and found their purpose around a courtship or a breakup, when an aria of complaint or desire could be harmonized by some pathetic accomplice. But after Jonah was born, and then Lester, phone calls with friends had become out of the question. There was just never a time when it was okay, or even appealing, to talk on the phone. When he was home, he was in shark mode, cruising slowly and brutally through the house, cleaning and clearing, scrubbing food from rugs, folding and storing tiny items of clothing, and, if no one was looking, occasionally stopping at his laptop to see if his prospects had suddenly been lifted by some piece of tremendous fortune, delivered via email. When he finally came to rest, in a barf-covered chair, he was done for the night. He poured several beers, in succession, right onto his pleasure center, which could remain dry and withered no matter what came soaking down.