by Dave Eggers
—Thomas, why don’t you unlock me and we can talk about straightening all this out? I can help you get out of here. I’m happy to take the blame for all this. I can tell the police it was my idea, that you weren’t here at all.
—That would be the most self-sacrificing thing you’ve ever done.
—Thomas, we have many more years together. We don’t have anyone else. We should look forward. You’re always looking backward, blaming and dissecting, and it’s hampered your ability to move ahead. You need to choose to look to the light.
—Listen to yourself! “Look to the light”? You’ve always had this bizarre mix—you’re so nasty, but then you spout these New Ageisms. Don’t give me advice.
—I want to be supportive. That’s all I want now. You know I’m better than I used to be. We can be partners.
—We won’t be partners. I don’t like you.
—We’re stuck with each other, Thomas.
—I’m not stuck with you. And you’re still using.
—It’s under control.
—That’s not possible.
—Thomas, I’ve had the same job for four years. Could I be doing that if I was out of control?
—You’re screwing the owner. I hear that you come into work twice a week.
—That is patently untrue.
—You always had situations like that, didn’t you? You’d screw some guy who could provide you with some kind of financial assistance or some kind of vague job on someone’s payroll. You did that at the hospital supply company.
—That was a legitimate job. I worked my ass off there. I hated that job but I did it.
—For a while you did. Maybe six months. Then you were on severance for a year.
—Is it my fault they gave me severance?
—A year’s severance for a half year’s work? Was that company policy?
—I have no idea.
—And still you dated that guy. Dalton. I can’t believe you brought a grown man named Dalton into our house.
—He took you to SeaWorld.
—You have an answer for every one of these guys. You act like every one of them was such a gift to my life.
—You were a lonely boy.
—I was a lonely boy? That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that. What does that mean?
—It means there was only so much I could do with you. You came out of the womb a certain way. You were always diffident. I tried to have you play with other kids but there was always some reason they didn’t appeal to you. You went off by yourself and then complained that you had no friends.
—You’re making this up.
—I’m trying to tell it to you straight. You want to blame me for everything, fine, but you were always a certain way. On your fourth birthday, you hid in the garage. At your eighth-grade graduation, you stayed in the parking lot, in the car, so I went alone. You never joined the big group activities. I would buy you tickets to everything, sign you up for everything, and you would stay home. How is that my fault? I put you in a position to be happy and you chose to be alone.
—I didn’t want to be alone.
—You drove people away. You tried to drive me away.
—I wish I’d been better at it.
—Then why didn’t you leave?
—Why didn’t I leave?
—Thomas, you lived at home till you were twenty-five.
—You lie. I left when I was twenty-two.
—For eight months. Then you came back.
—For a year.
—No, you came back for two years and eight months. You were twenty-five when you moved out for good. If I was so terrible why come back? Why stay with me so long?
—
—And you couldn’t keep a job. You know how easy it is for a white man to make money in this country? It’s like falling off a log. For so long I blamed myself for what happened to us. But all along I had a feeling there was something strange about you. And I know I’m right. You were born with certain tendencies, and I really don’t think I could have done anything to prevent them. I had a feeling something like this would happen.
—Of course you did.
—You had extreme tendencies. People thought you were gentle and lonely and harmless but I knew a different side of you. When you were seven you choked me. You remember that?
—I didn’t choke you.
—You did. This was just after your father left. It was at that rich kid’s house. His family had a lot of money. You remember this kid?
—How would I remember something like that?
—I don’t know where they got their money, something fishy, but they were sweet to you. He used to have you over to play after school, and he had a playroom and a million toys. They knew I was alone and working so they said you could come over anytime. You don’t remember this? They lived on the lake.
—Fine.
—There was one time I picked you up. I used to come to their house and get you after work. And always it was a hassle to get you to leave, but no more than any kid leaving any friend, I figured. But this time you were really resisting. You wouldn’t come, and I was standing there in the doorway to the kid’s room, with his mom, just trying to chat and be casual while trying to get you to put on your jacket and come with me. But you wouldn’t move. I think you thought maybe I’d just leave and let you live there. I mean, it made no sense because obviously you have to leave at some point. So finally it starts getting embarrassing, and the mom, I can’t remember her name, something like Aureola, she says she has to get something in the kitchen or something. She knew I might need some time alone with you. So she left, and she brought her son with her. Then it was just you and me alone in his room. And I got down on my knees and brought you close to me, and I whispered in your ear that we needed to go. I used to do that in public, get you close and whisper sort of urgently in your ear when you were misbehaving. And so I cupped my hand around your ear and whispered a few choice things about us needing to leave, you embarrassing us, how you’d be punished if you didn’t comply, and then I backed up a bit to look into your eyes and make sure you understood, and that’s when this look came over your face and you tried to strangle me.
—I did not.
—But you did. Why else would I remember it twenty-five years later? You put your hands around my neck and squeezed. I don’t even know where you learned how to do that. I’d never been so scared. Just the look in your eyes! It was pure hatred, pure evil. But then you held on. You were so strong and I couldn’t get your hands off me and then your eyes went dull, like a snake’s when it’s got something in its jaws. You know how they have some mouse in their jaws but their eyes stay open and seem so far away? That was the look you had.
—You’re making all of this up.
—So finally I got free, and I spanked you, and you still struggled. I had to carry you out kicking and screaming. You scratched my face and it took a month to heal. I mean, this was terrifying. Can you imagine? You never went back to that house. I was too embarrassed to let them have you over. From then on I always had an inkling you were capable of something like this. Capable of anything.
—You are so full of shit.
—Thomas, you want to attribute your behavior to a set of external factors. You want to cede your life and decisions and consequences to forces outside of you, but that’s the coward’s way. And blaming your mother? It’s so easy. You were not a lump of clay I molded. You and every other child comes into the world with their personality baked in. How else do you think a kid like Jim Avila is gay and designs dresses when his parents are white-trash farmers? The thing you always had was a need to blame. You get a bad grade, it’s because the teacher doesn’t like you. Some girl doesn’t like you and it’s because she’s a slut or whatever else. I mean, as a mother I was exasperated by all this. I wanted to be on your side but there were too many battles. You were at war every day, and it was exhausting.
—So you take no responsibility.
—I take
the same amount of responsibility as any parent. Which should be limited. If you were raised in a standard two-parent family, with all the money and stability in the world, you would have turned out exactly the same. Maybe with some superficial differences. You’d have slightly different clothes.
—That’s an incredible statement.
—Thomas, I wasn’t one of those mothers who waited ten years to have a child. I wasn’t placing all my worldly hopes on the outcome of my womb.
—Wait. What’s that got to do with anything? What does that even mean?
—It means I wasn’t so awed by the idea of having a child that I went dancing around you like you were some golden calf. Most parents are so grateful to their children for existing that they become obsequious. I promised myself I would not be one of those obsequious mothers.
—Obsequious? You are amazing.
—I find all that disgusting. It begins a lifetime of perceived debt that does no one any good.
—I have no idea what you’re talking about.
—Thomas, I did not think you some miracle bestowed upon me. You were born and I was happy to have you. And I don’t think you thought of me as some miracle, either. We were, or should have been, partners. I was happy you existed and wanted you to thrive. My hope was that you were happy to exist and that you yourself would endeavor to thrive. But instead you were aggrieved by your existence and my role in it. I think that’s why you were so drawn to Christ.
—I wasn’t drawn to Christ. What does that mean?
—You used to draw the crucifix on your notebooks. Other kids were drawing spaceships or Grateful Dead skulls or penises, but you were drawing crucifixes. You thought that was you, suffering on the cross. I considered you a partner and an equal but you wanted to be beneath me and a martyr.
—You’re the one who brought me to church.
—I brought you once. You know how I hate Christianity and all that wretched iconography. You know what? You see pictures of Buddha and he’s sitting, reclining, at peace. The Hindus have their twelve-armed elephant god, who also seems so content but not powerless. But leave it to the Christians to have a dead and bloody man nailed to a cross. You walk into a church and you see a helpless man bleeding all over himself—how can we come away hopeful after such a sight? People bring their children to mass and have them stare for two hours at a man hammered to a beam and picked at by crows. How is that elevating? It’s all about accountability for them.
—What is?
—The Christians, the Bible. It’s all about who’s at fault. A whole religion based on accountability. Who’s to blame? What’s the judgment? Who gets punished? Who gets jailed, banished, killed, drowned, decimated. You want to know the main takeaway most people got from Jesus’s death? Not sacrifice, nothing like that. The takeaway, after all that Old Testament judgment, is that the Jews did it.
—Incredible.
—You loved it, though. Especially as a teenager. Young men love martyrdom. You get to be the victim and the hero at the same time. Do you remember when you said you wanted to be a priest?
—I didn’t want to be a priest.
—A monk? What was it? It was Don’s influence. Wasn’t his mom some Bible thumper?
—She wasn’t a Bible thumper.
—Don thought himself some kind of elevated young man, didn’t he? He took himself very seriously. The last time I saw him he was spouting some very pious stuff. He looked at me like I was one of his parishioners, like he was taking an interest in me—that he might save me.
—You’re faulting him for caring about you. I know how foreign that is to you. To care about someone. To care about their well-being.
—You mean me with you? If anything, I was too protective.
—Holy shit.
—What are you doing now? Don’t get so excited. Stop the jumping around, Thomas. Please. I didn’t make you get jobs. I allowed you to flounder. It made you soft. I let you quit college. I let you live at home.
—So why did you?
—I felt guilty. You guilted me into it. You made me feel like I’d done all these horrible things, so I coddled you. You’d have been better off in military school. The Army straightens boys like you out. You needed some discipline. You needed to be around people who wake up in the morning and go to work, do something.
—You didn’t keep me safe.
—I did keep you safe.
—Whether or not you felt responsible for my birth, you’re supposed to keep your children safe.
—I did as much as I could. As anyone could.
—You know what Mr. Hansen did with us? He played a game called “tailor.” It involved him measuring various parts of our bodies.
—Did he undress you?
—He says he didn’t.
—Do you remember him undressing you?
—No. But I could have buried that memory. We all could have.
—Oh get serious. So he took a tape measure or what?
—He put the tape measure against the insides of our legs. He did that to every kid, alone in his closet, and then we’d all lie on the bed together watching movies. He was breathing heavily the whole time.
—And that’s what has you thinking your life is irreparable?
—No. It’s just one of the many things I shouldn’t have seen or had to endure. Things I wouldn’t have been subjected to if you were present and sober.
—Thomas. I remember very clearly sending you to Mr. Hansen’s house. I was sober then and I’m sober now. It seemed like a fine idea, and a safe idea. There were kids going off on overnights all the time. Boy Scout trips, sports trips, band trips. Summer camp. It was not an outrageous proposition to allow a group of boys to sleep at a trusted adult’s house. And now you tell me that this man put a tape measure against your leg, and that this is the great crime of the world.
—I didn’t say that.
—Thomas, why don’t you kidnap some kid born with leukemia, or a woman who’s been sold into prostitution? You had a tape measure against your leg and it’s paralyzed you for life.
—I can’t stand you.
—Fine. But someone needs to give you some tough love. You’re soft. You need to find some steel.
—And you’re the embodiment of inner strength? Let me enumerate the places I found you blacked out. In the backyard. In your car, in the garage, as if you meant to kill yourself with carbon monoxide and fell asleep in the middle of the task. And growing up, I found you in my bed. That was once a week, at least, you’d be in my bed. I could smell the wine fermenting. You know that smell? It’s this musty animal smell, like your body was some wet sponge full of everything it wiped off the dinner dishes. See, the nice thing about having you here is that I can see what sort of withdrawal you go through. Are you already jonesing?
—No, I am not. I’m not the person you’re battling. You’re battling me from fifteen years ago. I have everything under control and I think you know that. You’re fighting the former, lesser version of myself—so why bother?
—You know, only a narcissist could come up with a phrase like that. “Former, lesser version of myself.” That’s evidence of someone who’s spent a lot of time thinking about herself, perfecting certain phrases. You know what? I just had an idea. I think, after I let the other people go, I’ll hold on to you. You’ll get clean, and I’ll have more time to get some things cleared up.
—You’ll be caught within twenty-four hours. Tommy, please, let us all go. I know we can start again. I want you alive. I don’t want to see you killed out here, but I have a terrible feeling that’s where all this is heading.
—You know what, Mom? I’m done with you tonight. The sun’s coming up and I’m tired, and when I’m this tired, I can’t listen to you spout your nonsense. I don’t even know if you’re on something now, so I’m going to leave you for tonight. And tomorrow we’ll have more fun like we’ve had tonight. Maybe you’ll be clearer in the head, and you’ll have given some thought to your culpability in all this. Okay
?
—Thomas, stop. You can’t leave me like this.
—You’ll be fine.
—Thomas.
—Nighty night.
BUILDING 52
—You’re back.
—You hungry?
—With all these granola bars? How could I be hungry?
—I’m giving you most of the food, Kev, because you were the first. But now that there are four of you, I have to be careful divvying up what’s left.
—Four people?
—I guess I didn’t tell you that already.
—You have four people out here?
—It wasn’t even that hard, after you. I admit the others weren’t, you know, military men. And my mom was easy.
—You have your mom here?
—There were a lot of things we needed to talk about.
—Makes sense.
—I know it does.
—You’re a family man.
—I don’t need the sarcasm, Kev. This is all lining up. It’s working so fluidly that I know it was meant to be. And I have to thank you. You made it all possible.
—At least until they come and shoot you, which will be momentarily.
—You know Kev, I don’t know if that’s true. It’s been three days so far, and I don’t see or hear any sign of anyone coming. To me this is actually a sign of how far astronauts have slipped in our collective national esteem. You think Neil Armstrong would have been allowed to rot on a military base like this for two, three days? There would have been an international manhunt.
—You know, I don’t know if I need to talk to you anymore. It’s a waste of breath. Any minute, you’ll see a shadow in the trees, and that’ll be the sniper shooting you dead.
—Kev, that’s a very vivid and very graphic picture. You’re a military man, so I assume you probably get off on that kind of thing, picturing bullets ripping through skulls and flesh. But I can’t let it bother me. Today is a good day.
—You’re getting sicker.
—No, Kev, I’m getting better. I got some sleep last night, and then what happened this morning—it means that everything’s brightening for me, more so every day. The answers I’m getting are very helpful, first of all. And the craziest and best thing just happened to me while I was walking on the beach this morning. I saw a woman and I believe it’s a sign of good things to come.