by Paul Clayton
Allen knelt down and conferred quietly with Reynaldo. “Just try and kick the ball. That’s all you have to do. Can you do it?”
Reynaldo smiled as he looked at the other boys. “Yes, Daddy.”
Allen held Reynaldo’s coat as he watched from the sidelines. The boys ran after the ball, occasionally zooming in to kick at it. Most of them had full uniforms with shorts and white knee socks. Overhead the fog filtered the light to a pale grey, setting off the bright green of the grass. Allen drew himself into the folds of his jacket. He smiled as Reynaldo rushed in and gave the ball a good kick. His aim was off, sending the ball back toward the other goal. Regardless, the boys pursued it, driving it further away from its intended destination until Chip blew the whistle and set them off again in the proper direction. The practice lasted forty-five minutes and then Allen and Reynaldo got in the car and began the drive home. Allen wiped Reynaldo’s runny nose before they went in the house.
Inside, Tina led Reynaldo off to his room and put him to work on his definitions. Allen got the newspaper and went down to the garage to read in his study. He was reading an editorial lamenting the lack of outrage over the Clinton scandals when the door opened and Tina glared angrily down at him. “He has a temperature!”
Allen put down his paper. “You’re kidding!”
“No I’m not kidding. It’s one hundred and two.” She closed the door hard.
Allen sighed, knowing that this was one of Tina’s big issues. Whenever the kids became sick she got manic. And all his efforts to calm her only seemed to make her more worried and excited.
He went up into the house. In Reynaldo’s room, Tina was roughly yanking his red Bulldog jersey over his head. She tossed it to the floor and began tugging his undershirt up.
“Did you take your coat off?” she demanded of Reynaldo.
Reynaldo looked at Allen for direction as tears rolled down his face. Allen kept his face expressionless, knowing they’d have to tough this one out. “Yes, Mommy,” said Reynaldo.
“Damn it,” Tina muttered angrily.
“Tina,” said Allen, trying to calm her, “I told him to take it off. You can’t play soccer running around in a coat like that.”
“Don’t tell me what you can and can’t do,” she shouted. “He’s sick! You know how much work he is for me when he gets sick!”
“He’ll be all right,” said Allen soothingly, “it’s just a cold or something.”
“Yeah! That’s what you say.” Tina turned back to Reynaldo. “No more soccer for you, do you hear me?”
“Sorry, Mommy,” Reynaldo burst out, trying to dissuade her from her obvious, and, once she’d embarked on it, unalterable course.
“How many times have I told you not to take off your coat?” she yelled at him.
“Sorry, Mommy, I didn’t mean it.”
Tina pulled his undershirt off and pointed to the bathroom. “Get in there, damn it!”
Allen felt terrible. Partly it was guilt. Maybe he shouldn’t have let Reynaldo play when it was foggy like that. But all the other little kids were playing! And if they got sick, would it be a big deal like this? No. It was an overreaction. Sometimes her responses to mildly stressful situations seemed way over the top. He resolved to again try and talk her into going to see Joel with him. He suspected that all this had something to do with menopause, or ‘the change,’ as it was called. But he could never tell her that. It was something she would have to hear from a professional, or maybe a relative or girlfriend. Maybe then she would seek help.
Allen recalled the last time he had been to his own doctor. He’d been waiting in the examining room and he could hear Dr. Waltz speaking with an older man in the next room. “It’s driving me crazy,” the man was saying with real concern in his voice, “she can’t sit still. She’s always fussing over things.”
“How is she sleeping? asked Dr. Waltz patiently.
“Sleeping?” said the man. “You’ve got to be kidding! She doesn’t sleep and then neither do I.”
“What’s her doctor’s name?” said Dr. Waltz, “I’ll give him a call.”
“It’s a her, a Dr. Panang, over at…”
Tina took Reynaldo into the bathroom and slammed the door. Allen went out into the living room. The faucet squeaked rustily and water splashed noisily into the tub. Tina’s angry words were dulled by the running water and the door as she continued to harangue Reynaldo. God, thought Allen, nothing like this had ever happened to him when he was a kid. When he or his brother or sister got sick, they got chicken soup, Vicks in the vaporizer, bed rest. They never got yelled out. Why the hell did Tina have to do this?
Allen listened to Tina’s yelling, still audible over the rush of the water into the bath, and felt terrible for Reynaldo. He sat down on the couch and turned on the news. He watched but he really didn’t hear what the anchor was saying.
Tina was struck by the brownness of Reynaldo’s little body against the whiteness of the porcelain as he climbed from the heap of clothing into the tub. Snot glistened under his nose and his hands and feet were dirty. He always got so dirty. She picked up the washcloth and started scrubbing his face and ears, ignoring his cries.
If only she hadn’t gone along with Allen on the adoption. If only she would have waited—what, another nine or ten months—she would have gotten pregnant anyway. And then she would have had more time and energy to devote to Christine instead of raising up somebody else’s kid.
As she scrubbed him, she listened to his incessant crying and noted the dirt in the tub. And what an armful he was! Always lying, stealing. His room was always messy. Getting out of his desk at school. Coming home with notes. Trouble, trouble, trouble!
Tina twisted the faucet shut with a rusty squeak, grabbed a towel, threw it around him and lifted him out of the tub. She rubbed him down roughly, ignoring his cries.
“Go to your room and get dressed,” she said. “And then finish your definitions.”
Reynaldo’s fever had broken by Sunday afternoon, but Tina had insisted that he was too sick to go to daycare the next day. So Allen took Monday off to take Reynaldo to the doctor. At six he heard Tina get out of bed and bustle about as she got Christine ready to go to daycare. He turned over under the warm covers. He couldn’t call Doctor Goldman’s office till nine. He half listened to Tina’s libations, her preparations out in the kitchen, and then he fell back to sleep. He opened his eyes again a little after eight and got out of bed. Careful not to wake Reynaldo, he went out to the kitchen and closed the door. Savoring the morning quiet of the house, he put on a pot of coffee and called work to say that he was sick and would not be in. He went out through the garage to get the paper. When he returned, Reynaldo was standing at the kitchen door in his pajamas.
“Good morning, Daddy.”
“Reynaldo, you’re up already. How do you feel?”
“Good, Daddy.”
“Good. Now go make your bed and get dressed. Then I’ll make you something to eat.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
When Reynaldo returned, Allen took his temperature. It was now normal and Allen hadn’t given him any Tylenol for the past six hours. As far as Allen was concerned, the cold or bug had passed and Reynaldo could have gone to daycare with his sister. Then he thought that maybe this could be productive. Maybe he could get some answers about his situation, like what was normal behavior for a kid Reynaldo’s age. And maybe, what was normal behavior for a woman entering menopause. Allen made Reynaldo some toast and called the doctor’s office, getting a ten-thirty appointment.
Doctor Goldman was a member of Peninsular Pediatrics, a bright, modern clinic with four full-time pediatricians. Peninsular Pediatrics was usually busy and this was no exception. About eight mothers filled the chairs in the waiting room, half of them with babies in their arms or in little baby carriers at their feet. A half dozen children, most with runny noses, played in a toy-filled anteroom equipped with a bright red and yellow plastic brick play house. After Allen finished checking
in, he turned to see Reynaldo happily playing with the other children. He cringed inwardly, hoping that Reynaldo wouldn’t pick up a new bug, but he left him alone to socialize with the others. Allen tried to read a magazine for parents and quickly grew bored with it. He stared at the lone, fist-sized angelfish in the large aquarium built into the wall under the reception desk. Finally the nurse called Reynaldo’s name and they went into the examination room. The nurse took Reynaldo’s temperature and told them it was ninety-eight point four. She took his history and left them alone to wait for the doctor. As Allen waited, Reynaldo began pushing the doctor’s little chrome wheeled stool around the room.
Doctor Goldman entered. A diminutive man, ten years younger than Allen, he smiled at Reynaldo and nodded a greeting to Allen.
“Well, how’s my little friend doing today?”
Reynaldo looked at Allen questioningly.
“Tell the doctor how you feel, Reynaldo.”
“I feel good.”
Allen laughed and turned to the doctor. “Yeah, I think he’s over it, whatever it was. But his mother insisted I bring him in.”
Doctor Goldman nodded. “Okay, Reynaldo. Let’s listen to your lungs.”
Allen hoisted Reynaldo up onto the examining table and Doctor Goldman pulled up his shirt and placed his stethoscope on his bony ribcage. Reynaldo immediately began giggling.
“Tickles, eh?” said Goldman.
Reynaldo nodded.
“Okay, Reynaldo. Sit up and let’s look at your tonsils.”
After Goldman completed his examination, Reynaldo slid off the couch and went back over to the chrome, wheeled stool. He began pushing it about the room as Goldman wrote in his chart. Reynaldo climbed up onto the stool and moved himself along the floor by pulling on the table.
Allen thought how Reynaldo’s inability to just sit still was a big part of the problem. Reynaldo’s teacher would not tolerate it. Then she would send him home with notes which got Tina all ratcheted up. Allen nodded over at Reynaldo when Doctor Goldman looked his way. “Do you think he’s a little too bouncy?”
Doctor Goldman turned to look at Reynaldo. “No more than half the kids that come through here. He’ll grow out of it.”
Allen nodded, feeling a little bit frustrated. It was not a problem for Goldman, but Reynaldo’s teacher and Tina were a different story.
“Is there a problem at school or something,” asked Doctor Goldman.
“We’ve been getting notes about his getting out of his seat.”
Doctor Goldman frowned. “Has he hit or hurt any of the other children?”
“No.”
Doctor Goldman shook his head. “Then I don’t think it’s a problem. As long as he’s not violent or destructive. Sometimes the expectations on the part of the teachers are unrealistic. You can’t expect all of these kids to sit still for hours on end.”
Allen nodded. “I think he gets on the wife’s nerves a little too.”
“Why? How does she react?”
Allen felt the warning flags go up. Some would consider Tina’s treatment over the top. Some not. “Ah, she just gives him time outs… stuff like that.”
Doctor Goldman seemed to study Allen closely. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on him. If this develops into a bigger problem we can try some therapy.”
“You mean Ritalin?”
“That’s an option too. And there are other medications. But we don’t want to go there too quickly.” Doctor Goldman started moving toward the door, signaling that the visit was over. He patted Reynaldo on the head. “Okay, Reynaldo. You’re fine now. No medicine, no shots. Just a lollipop if you want one.”
For lunch, Allen bought Reynaldo a McDonald’s Happy Meal and they left for the beach in San Francisco. As Allen drove along Skyline Boulevard, he marveled at the cloudless pastel blue sky, the monsoon-soaked jade-green cliffs, and the deep indigo blue of the sea. In the seat next to him, Reynaldo stuck a French fry in his mouth as he looked out at the colors wide-eyed. A few miles ahead in the distance, Allen spotted a bunch of hang gliders circling the cliffs of Fort Funston like flies over a garbage pail.
Allen exited onto the Great Highway; the four lane road ran parallel with the beach. He looked at his watch: 2:00 PM. The day had warmed considerably. The weatherman had said that the temperature would reach the upper seventies. It felt like it had already.
“Look Daddy.” Reynaldo pointed at the dunes on their right. A file of joggers wound around a path, up a dune and then down out of sight.
Allen nodded and smiled. The upset and craziness of the weekend was quickly fading. Both he and Reynaldo were feeling better. Maybe they would get through this. He scanned the beach on his left. In the summertime it would be crowded with sunbathers, all greased and tanned, very few of them venturing into the icy Pacific waters of Northern California. But now it was deserted, with only a few tracks in the wet sand. A half-mile out past the breakers, a dozen wet-suited surfers, dark dots in the water, rose and sank slowly as a large swell rolled beneath them. Further out, a lone container ship slowly turned in toward the Golden Gate. Allen made out part of the ship’s name, Wang something-or-other, painted in white on the rusting bow. A dirty plume of diesel smoke issued from the ship’s stack and moved sluggishly eastward.
Allen turned into the parking lot. Most of the cars were new except for an older, beat-up van near the entrance. He figured it belonged to surfers or the many homeless that hung around the beach. The homeless were a rough-looking feral bunch, hardened by their lifestyle. Once, while strolling the beach, Allen had come upon the evidence of one of their late night bacchanals—fast food wrappers, screw-top wine bottles, and used rubbers. He decided to park closer to the Cliff House. There would be foreign tourists there, walking down from their buses and the restaurants and souvenir shops.
Allen passed a newer van, its interior invisible behind black-tinted windows. He had a paranoid vision of several men crowded inside, videotaping his day at the beach with his son when he should have been at the office. He glanced over at Reynaldo. He still looked fine, showing no evidence of the bug he’d had.
Allen parked and took Reynaldo’s bicycle from the trunk and set it on the pavement. Then Allen sat on the bench and opened the San Francisco Chronicle. He read a news story about a man who had been found dead inside the trunk of his own car.
“Daddy?”
Reynaldo sat motionless on his bike, propped up by his training wheels.
Allen put the newspaper down. “Yes, Reynaldo?”
“Can I play in the sand?”
Allen said nothing for a moment. Tina would freak if he got wet and he didn’t want to have to deal with another of her over-reactions. “You’re just getting over a cold, Reynaldo. You better stay up here.” Maybe part of it was cultural, he thought. Tina evidently believed that kids got colds from not wearing enough clothing. Because of that, Reynaldo often went to school dressed in so many layers of shirts and sweaters that he looked like a tiny weight lifter on steroids. Allen had tried to explain to Tina that these childhood colds and flus were inevitable and that the germs got passed around at school from one snot-nosed kid to another. But she didn’t believe him. Once, when Reynaldo had come home with the sniffles, Tina had gotten so angry she’d yanked all his clothes off and locked him down in the garage, naked. Allen had brought him back up and Tina became enraged at his interference. She didn’t talk to him or Reynaldo for a week.
“Daddy,” said Reynaldo. He sat stiffly on his bike. A warm breeze mussed his silken black hair. “I want to play in the sand. Please?”
As long as he played in the sand, Allen reasoned, it should be okay. The temperature felt like it was about seventy. “Okay, but don’t get wet.”
“Okay, Daddy.” Reynaldo happily climbed off his bike.
Allen put the bike in the trunk and they walked down the steps onto the beach. The sand was warm; Allen could feel it through the soles of his shoes. He took Reynaldo’s hand and they walked down to the water’s edge. All
en looked out at the sea. It was flat and empty. He imagined himself alone out there in the water and felt a twinge of self-pity. He and Tina fought an awful lot now. He thought of perhaps calling his brother in Maine and talking things over with him.
“Daddy, can I take my shoes off?”
Allen tried to look stern. “No. And you have to stay on the dry sand. Mommy doesn’t want you getting wet.”
“Okay, Daddy,” said Reynaldo sadly. They walked back from the water’s edge a couple hundred feet. Reynaldo knelt and began scooping trenches in the dry sand with his hands. Allen spread the business section of the Chronicle out on the sand and sat on it. He opened the news to the story about the man found dead in the trunk, and tried to read. But instead he found himself thinking of his situation with Tina. If Joel could not help him come up with strategies to use with Tina, they would have to ‘have it out,’ as the saying went. This would lead to divorce. It was the last thing he wanted. Not because he didn’t believe in the rightness of his cause, but because of what he could potentially lose. Allen imagined a stern judge looking down from the bench at Reynaldo. Would he order that Reynaldo be sent back to the county foster care system? After all, Allen and Tina had adopted Reynaldo as a couple, and the judge might not think a single father capable of providing a stable, proper household. And there was another danger. This was California—and if they ended up in divorce court he could very well lose custody of his daughter.
Allen glanced over at Reynaldo playing in the sand and then looked back at his paper. Unable to get back into his reading, he had a vision of Reynaldo being hustled into a car to be taken away into the cold vastness of the foster care system while he, Allen, ending up living in some dumpy little apartment, picking up his daughter at what had once been his home, every other weekend, like half the dads in California. Allen’s eyes misted up. Jesus Christ! They’d only had Reynaldo four years; he was still a little kid, for crying out loud! Allen shook the thought off. It was overwhelming. Maybe he should look into retaining a lawyer. The more he thought about it, the more it appealed to him. He started writing notes about his situation in the margins of the newspaper. Finishing, he decided to finalize it at work and mail it from there so Tina could not intercept the reply when it came in.