The Best American Short Stories 2016

by Junot Díaz

  The gamble of a friendless adulthood, whether by accident or design, was that your partner would step up to the role. She for you, and you for her.

  But when Martin thought about Jonah’s threat—blackmail, really—he knew he couldn’t tell Rachel. In a certain light, the only light that mattered, he was in the wrong. The instructions were already out that they were not to get all huggy with Jonah, and here he’d gone and done it anyway. Rachel would just ask him what he had expected and why he was surprised that Jonah had lashed out at him for not respecting his boundaries.

  So, yeah, maybe, maybe that was all true. But there was the other part. The threat that came out of the boy. The quiet force of it. To even mention that Jonah had threatened to report them for touching him ghosted an irreversible suspicion into people’s minds. You couldn’t talk about it. You couldn’t mention it. It seemed better to not even think it, to do the work that would begin to block such an event from memory.

  The boys were talking quietly on the couch one afternoon a few days later. Martin was in the next room, and he caught the sweet tones, the two voices he loved, that he couldn’t even bear. For a minute he forgot what was going on and listened to the life he’d helped make. They were speaking like little people, not kids, back and forth, a real discussion. Jonah was explaining something to Lester, and Lester was asking questions, listening patiently. It was heartbreaking.

  He snuck out to see the boys on the couch, Lester cuddled up against his older brother, who had a big book in his hands. A grown-up one. On the cover, instead of a boy dashing beneath a bolt of lightning, were the good old Twin Towers. The title, Lies, was glazed in blood, which dripped down the towers themselves.

  Oh, motherfucking hell.

  “What’s this?” Martin asked. “What are you reading there?”

  “A book about 9/11. Who caused it.”

  Martin grabbed it, thumbed the pages. “Where’d you get it?”

  “From Amazon. With my birthday gift card.”

  “Hmm. Do you believe it?”

  “What do you mean? It’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  “That the Jews caused 9/11 and they all stayed home that day so they wouldn’t get killed.”

  Martin excused Lester. Told him to skedaddle and, yes, it was okay to watch TV, even though watching time hadn’t started yet. Just go, go.

  “Okay, Jonah,” he whispered. “Jonah, stop. This is not okay. Not at all okay. First of all, Jonah, you have to listen to me. This is insane. This is a book by an insane person.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, I don’t know him. I don’t have to. Listen to me, you know that we’re Jewish, right? You, me, Mom, Lester. We’re Jewish.”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really?”

  “You don’t go to synagogue. You don’t seem to worship. You never talk about it.”

  “That’s not all that matters.”

  “Last month was Yom Kippur and you didn’t fast. You didn’t go to services. You don’t ever say Happy New Year on Rosh Hashanah.”

  “Those are rituals. You don’t need to observe them to be part of the faith.”

  “But do you know anything about it?”

  “9/11?”

  “No, being Jewish. Do you know what it means and what you’re supposed to believe and how you’re supposed to act?”

  “I do, yes. I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Jonah.”

  “What? I’m just wondering how you can call yourself Jewish.”

  “How? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  He needed to walk away before he did something.

  “Okay, Jonah, it’s actually really simple. I’ll tell you how. Because everyone else in the world would call me Jewish. With no debate. None. Because of my parents and their parents, and their parents, including whoever got turned to dust in the war. Zayde Anshel’s whole family. You walk by their picture every day in the hall. Do you think you’re not related to them? And because I was called a kike in junior high school, and high school, and college, and probably beyond that, right up to this fucking day. And because if they started rounding up Jews again they’d take one look at our name and they’d know. And that’s you too, mister. They would come for us and kill us. Okay? You.”

  He was shaking his fist in his son’s face. Just old-school shouting. He wanted to do more. He wanted to tear something apart. There was no safe way to behave right now.

  “They would kill you. And you’d be dead. You’d die.”

  “Martin?” Rachel said. “What’s going on?”

  Of course. There she was. Lurking. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there, what she’d heard.

  Martin wasn’t done. Jonah seemed fascinated, his eyes wide as his father ranted.

  “Even if you said that you hated Jews too, and that Jews were evil and caused all the suffering in the world, they would look at you and know for sure that you were Jewish, for sure! Buddy, champ, mister”—just spitting these names at his son—“because only a Jew, they would say, only a Jew would betray his own people like that.”

  Jonah looked at him. “I understand,” he said. He didn’t seem shaken. He didn’t seem disturbed. Had he heard? How could he really understand?

  The boy picked up the book and thumbed through it.

  “This is just a different point of view. You always say that I should have an open mind, that I should think for myself. You say that to me all the time.”

  “Yes, I do. You’re right.” Martin was trembling.

  “Then do I have your permission to keep reading it?”

  “No, you absolutely don’t. Not this time. Permission denied.”

  Rachel was shaking her head.

  “Do you see what he’s reading? Do you see it?” he shouted.

  He waved the book at her, and she just looked at him with no expression at all.

  After the kids were in bed, and the house had been quietly put back together, Rachel said they needed to talk.

  Yes, we do, he thought, and about fucking time.

  “Honestly,” she said. “It’s upsetting that he had that book, but the way you spoke to him? I don’t want you going anywhere near him.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not for you to say. You’re his mom, not mine. You want to file papers? You want to seek custody? Good luck, Mrs. Freeze. I’m his father. And you didn’t hear it. You didn’t hear it all. You have no fucking idea.”

  “I heard it, and I heard you. Martin, you need help. You’re, I don’t know, depressed. You’re self-pitying. You think everything is some concerted attack on you. For the record, I am worried about Jonah. Really worried. Something is seriously wrong. There is no debate there. But you’re just the worst possible partner in that worry—the fucking worst—because you make everything harder, and we can’t discuss it without analyzing your bullshit feelings. You act wounded and hurt, and we’re all supposed to feel sorry for you. For you! This isn’t about you. So shut down the pity party already.”

  When this kind of talk came on, Martin knew to listen. This was the scold she’d been winding up for, and if he could endure it, and cop to it, there might be some release and clarity at the other end. A part of him found these outbursts from Rachel thrilling, and in some ways it was possible that he co-engineered them, without really thinking about it. Performed the sullen and narcissistic dance moves that, over time, would yield this kind of eruption from her. His wife was alive. She cared. Even if it seemed that she might sort of hate him.

  He circled the house for a while, cooling off, letting the attack—no, no, the truth—settle. Any argument or even discussion to the contrary would just feed her point and read as the defensive bleating of a cornered man. Any speech, that is, except admission, contrition, and apology, the three horsemen.

  Which was who he brought back into the room with him.

  Rachel was in bed reading, eyes burned onto the page.
She didn’t seem even remotely ready to surrender her anger.

  “Hey, listen,” Martin said. “So I know you’re mad, but I just want to say that I agree with everything you said. I’m scared and I’m worried and I’m sorry.”

  He let this settle. It needed to spread, to sink in. She needed to realize that he was agreeing with her.

  It was hard to tell, but it seemed that some of her anger, with nothing to meet it, was draining out.

  “And,” he continued. He waited for her to look up, which she finally did. “You’ll think I’m kidding, and I know you don’t even want to hear this right now, but it’s true, and I have to say it. It made me a little bit horny to hear all that.”

  She shook her head at the bad joke, which at least meant there was room to move here.

  “Shut up,” she said.

  This was the way in. He took it.

  “You shut up.”

  “Sorry to yell, Martin. I am. I just—this is so hard. I’m sorry.”

  She probably wasn’t. This was simply the script back in, to the two of them united, and they both knew it. One day, one of them would choose not to play. It would be so easy not to say their lines.

  “No, it’s okay,” he said to her, climbing onto the bed. “I get it. Listen, let’s take the little motherfucker to the shop. Get him fixed. I’ll call some doctors in the morning.”

  They hugged. An actual hug, between two consenting people. A novelty in this house.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m terrified. I don’t know what’s happening. I look at him and want so much to just grab him, but he’s not there anymore. What has he done to himself?”

  “Maybe he just needs minor surgery. Does that work on 9/11 truthers?”

  “Oh, look,” she said to him softly. “You’re back. The real you. We missed you.”

  They talked a little and got up close to each other in bed. For a moment, their good feeling came on them—a version of it, anyway. It felt mild and transitory, but he would take it. It was nice. He was in bed with his wife, and they would figure this out.

  “Listen,” he said to her. “Do you want to just shag a pony right now, get back on track?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I feel gross. I feel depressed.”

  “I feel gross too. Let’s do it. Two gross people licking each other’s buttons.”

  She went to the bathroom and got the jar of enabler. They took their positions on the bed.

  He hoped he could. He hoped he could. He hoped he could.

  He was cold and insecure, so he left his shirt on. And his socks.

  They used a cream. They used their hands. They used an object or two. During the brief strain of actual fornication they persisted with casual conversation about the next day’s errands. In the early days of their marriage, this had seemed wicked and sexy, some ironic ballast against the animal greed. Now it just seemed efficient, and the animal greed no longer appeared. Minus the wet spot at the end, and the minor glow one occasionally felt, their sex wasn’t so different from riding the subway.

  It turned out that there was a deep arsenal of medical professionals who would be delighted to consult on the problem of a disturbed child. Angry, depressed, anxious, remote, bizarre. Even a Jew-hating Jewish child who might very well be dead inside. Only when his parents looked at him, though. Only when his parents spoke to him. Important parameter for the differential.

  They zeroed in on recommendations with the help of a high-level participant in this world, a friend named Maureen, whose three exquisitely exceptional children had consumed, and spat back out, various kinds of psych services ever since they could walk. Each of the kids seemed to romance a different diagnosis every month, so Maureen had a pretty good idea of who fixed what and for how much goddamn moolah.

  When they told her, in pale terms, about Jonah, she, as a connoisseur of alienating behavior from the young, got excited.

  “This is so The Fifth Child,” she said. “Did you guys read that? I mean, you probably shouldn’t read that. But did you? It’s like a fiction novel. I don’t think it really happened. But it’s still fascinating.”

  Rachel had read it. Happy couple with four children and perfect life have fifth child, leading to less perfect life. Much, much, much, much less perfect. Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, grief, and sorrow. Not really life at all.

  “Yeah, but the kid in that book is a monster,” Rachel said. “So heartless. He’s not real. And he just wants to inflict pain. Jonah wouldn’t hurt anyone. He wants to be alone. Or, not that, but. I don’t know what Jonah wants. He’s not violent, though. Or even mad. I don’t think.”

  “All right, but he is hurting you, right?” Maureen said. “I mean, it seems like this is really causing you guys a lot of pain and suffering.”

  “I haven’t read the book,” Martin said. “But this isn’t about us. This is about Jonah. His pain, his suffering. We just want to get to the bottom of it. To help him. To give him support.”

  In Rachel’s silence he could feel her agreement and, maybe, her surprise that he would, or even could, think this way. He knew what to say now. He wasn’t going to get burned again. But did he believe it? Was it true? He honestly didn’t even know, and he wasn’t so sure it mattered.

  The doctor wanted to see them alone first. He said that it was his job to listen. So they talked, just dumped the thing out on the floor. It was ugly, Martin thought, but it was a rough picture of what was going down. The doctor scribbled away, stopping occasionally to look at them, to really deeply look at them, and nod. Since when had the act of listening turned into such a strange charade?

  Then the doctor met with Jonah, to see for himself, pull evidence right from the culprit’s mouth. Martin and Rachel sat in the waiting room and stared at the door. What would the doctor see? Which kid would he get? Were they crazy and was this all just some preteen freak-out?

  Finally, the whole gang of them—doctor, parents, and child—gathered to go over the plan, Jonah sitting polite and alert while the future of his brain was discussed. They told him the proposal: a slow ramp of antidepressants, along with weekly therapy, and then, depending, some group work, if that all sounded good to Jonah.

  Jonah didn’t respond.

  “What do you think?” the doctor said. “So you can feel better? And things can maybe go back to normal?”

  “I told you, I feel fine,” Jonah said.

  “Yes, good! But sometimes when we’re sick we think we’re not. That can be a symptom of being sick—to think we are well.”

  “So all the healthy people are just lying to themselves?”

  “Well, no, of course not,” the doctor said.

  “Right now I never think about hurting myself, but you want to give me a medicine that might make me think about hurting myself?”

  The doctor seemed uneasy.

  “It’s called suicidal ideation,” Jonah said.

  “And how do you know about that?” the doctor asked.

  “The Internet.”

  The adults all looked at one another.

  “How come people are so surprised when someone knows something?” Jonah asked. “Your generation had better get used to how completely unspecial it is that a kid can look up a medicine online and learn about the side effects. That’s not me being precocious. It’s just me using my stupid computer.”

  “Okay, good. Well, you’re right, you should be informed, and I want to congratulate you on finding that out for yourself. That’s great work, Jonah.”

  Martin watched Jonah. He found himself hoping that the real Jonah would appear, scathing and cold, to show the doctor what they were dealing with.

  “Thank you,” Jonah said. “I’m really proud of myself. I didn’t think I could do it, but I just really stuck with it and I kept trying until I succeeded.”

  Martin could not tell if the doctor caught the tone of this response.

  “But you might have also read that that’s a very uncommon symptom. It hardly ever happens. We just have to
warn you and your parents about it, to be on the lookout for it.”

  “Maybe. But I have none of the symptoms of depression, either. So why would you risk making me feel like I want to kill myself if I’m not depressed and feel fine?”

  “Okay, Jonah. You know what? I’m going to talk to your parents alone now. Does that sound all right? You can wait outside in the play area. There are books and games.”

  “Okay,” Jonah said. “I’ll just run and play now.”

  “There,” Martin said. “There,” after Jonah had closed the door. “That was it. That’s what he does.”

  “Sarcasm? Maybe you don’t much like it, but we don’t treat sarcasm in young people. I think it’s too virulent a strain.” The doctor chuckled.

  “No offense,” Martin said to the doctor, “and I’m sure you know your job and this is your specialty, but I think that way of speaking to him—”

  “What way?”

  “Just, you know, as if he were much younger. He’s just—I don’t think that works with him.”

  “And how do you speak to him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How do you speak to him? I’m curious.”

  Rachel coughed and seemed uncomfortable. They’d agreed to be open, to let each other have ideas and opinions without feeling mad or threatened.

  “It’s true,” she said. “I mean, Martin, I think you have been surprised lately that Jonah is as mature as he is. That seems to have really almost upset you. You know, you really have yelled at him a lot. We can’t just pretend that hasn’t happened.” She looked at him apologetically. “Aside,” she added, “from the scary things that he’s been saying.”

  “Is it maturity? I don’t think so. Have I been upset? Fucking hell, yes. And so have you, Rachel. And not because he thinks the Jews caused 9/11 or because he threatened to report us for sexual abuse for trying to hug him, which, for what it’s worth, I spared you from, Rachel. I spared you. Because I didn’t think you could bear it.”