by Unknown
Now Carlo lived in the home that his mother could not wait to leave, while Mary traveled incessantly. In two or three more years, she had told Paget, her new career as a journalist would be stable enough to let her stay in one city, pay for a live-in person to help her raise Carlo. Meanwhile, she said, her parents were at least better than her older brothers and sisters. Paget knew only that two of Mary’s brothers drank too much; that an older sister had refused to raise Carlo; and that the distance Mary had traveled made relations with her siblings as bad as with her parents. Some of that, Paget guessed, was the result of her relentless drive. But it was as hard for Paget to imagine Mary bounded by this world of parochial schools, male dominance, and rigid structure as it was for him to realize that her oldest sister still referred to Carlo as ‘Mary’s bastard.’
When John Carelli opened the door, he stared at Paget as if he were a derelict. He was a short man with a face like a walnut, all knots and crevices, a stooped body, and sharp, suspicious eyes. Nothing about him suggested warmth or laughter; Paget sensed a soul in life’s harness, living so fiercely by the rules of his church and culture that it had killed something inside him. Whoever remained, Paget guessed, had just enough life to despise Paget for being like his daughter.
They stood in a cramped alcove. Behind John Carelli, a dark hallway stretched past a series of doors; like a ghost, Francesca Carelli appeared in the hallway, opened one of the doors, and closed it behind her. In three prior visits, Paget had not met her; he could only sense that once she might have looked like Mary.
John Carelli ignored his outstretched hand. ‘She said you were coming.’
Paget nodded. ‘To see Carlo.’
Carelli did not move; everything in his posture said that were he younger, he would throw Paget out. Finally, he grunted, ‘He’s in here,’ and led Paget to the living room.
Its only adornments were heavy drapes that were completely drawn, a crucified Jesus, a still life of a pear and apples, and family pictures from which Mary was missing. The dark room smelled stale, as if no one had opened the windows for some time. There was nothing of Mary, save for the slim, dark-haired boy in front of the television, eyes vacant, watching reruns of a cop show. In profile, the boy had long eyelashes, delicate features.
‘Carlo?’ Paget called.
The boy did not look up. Paget knelt beside him. ‘I’m Christopher,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’
Hesitant, the boy turned to him; as before, Paget was startled by the clear blue eyes. But they held neither recognition nor interest: two years was a long time in the life of a seven-year-old, and the boy did not remember him.
‘Would you like to go outside and play?’ Paget asked.
The boy did not answer. Paget touched his shoulder. ‘Maybe we can go to a park.’
Quickly, the boy shook his head. ‘I want to watch this.’
Paget looked up at John Carelli. ‘Do you have a baseball or anything?’
Carelli scowled. ‘This is what he likes to do.’
Paget glanced at the boy, still intent on the television, and then back to Mary’s father. ‘I’ll just be here, then. Don’t let me keep you from whatever you were doing.’
John Carelli was silent for a moment, and then he left the room. Paget sat next to Carlo.
The show was about the California highway patrol. ‘Who are the good guys?’ Paget asked.
The boy pointed at the television. ‘Him, and him.’
‘What are their names?’
‘John and Ponch. They’re on TV every day.’
‘Do you watch them every day?’
The boy nodded, eyes not moving from the television.
‘Why do you do that?’ Paget asked.
‘Because John is my best friend.’ The boy hesitated. ‘Sometimes Ponch is too.’
‘Do you ever play with other friends, outside?’
Slowly, the boy shook his head.
‘Why not?’
The boy looked vaguely frightened. Finally, he said, ‘I’d miss John and Ponch.’
The answer had a bewildered sound, as if the idea of doing something else was overwhelming. Paget had the sudden desire to rip down the blinds, throw the windows open. Instead he watched television in the gloomy room, saying little, sitting beside Carlo Carelli.
On the television, the two highway patrolmen helped a mother and father look for a small boy named Timmy, who had gotten lost in a mountainous state forest. At least, Paget thought to himself, they had let Timmy play outdoors.
He forced himself to settle back, miming the boy’s attentiveness.
After a time, he felt Carlo’s shoulder touching his. He glanced over. The boy’s gaze at the television was more intent than ever, as if he was afraid to acknowledge what he had done.
Paget said nothing. Then, without speaking or looking over, Paget lightly put his arm around him. The boy was very still. As they watched John and Ponch look for Timmy, Paget felt the boy lean into him, ever so slightly.
On the screen, Timmy had encountered a bear.
‘Maybe,’ Paget said gently, ‘you’d better sit in my lap.’
The boy seemed to hesitate. Without saying anything more, Christopher Paget picked him up.
When the bear went away, Carlo remained in Paget’s lap. He was still there at the end, as Timmy and his parents hugged each other.
‘My daddy’s dead,’ Carlo said.
Paget rested his face against the top of Carlo’s head. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Papa.’
‘Who’s that?’
Silent, Carlo pointed down the hall.
‘What does your mommy say?’
The boy shrugged. The small gesture, like the boy himself, felt fragile.
Looking up, Paget saw John Carelli standing in the entryway. The hard look in his face said that Paget’s time was up.
‘Is there a park around?’ Paget asked. ‘I was going to ask Carlo to play with me.’
‘He doesn’t have time,’ John Carelli said. ‘We eat at five-thirty.’
How, Paget wondered, had Mary ever escaped this, and how could she stand to think about Carlo here? ‘That’s nice of you,’ he answered pleasantly, ‘but I wouldn’t want Mrs Carelli to go to the trouble of feeding me. Thank her for me, though.’ Paget paused, allowing himself a moment’s petty enjoyment at the old man’s look of anger, and then added, ‘I’ll just feed Carlo after we’ve played. Is seven-thirty all right, or did you have something special planned?’
John Carelli stepped forward, blocking his path. ‘We didn’t know you were staying.’
For the dead, Paget thought but did not say, time is never a problem. Then he felt the boy stiffen in his arms, as if aware of his grandfather’s disapproval. He stood, scooping Carlo up in one arm, so that the boy could not see the warning look he gave John Carelli as he walked towards him.
‘Well, I am,’ he said in a cheery voice meant for Carlo. ‘It’s not every day that I have a boy to play with.’
Carelli did not move. As they reached him, Paget politely said, ‘Pardon me,’ as if stepping into a crowded elevator, and firmly pushed the old man back with his free hand. Slung against Paget, the boy saw nothing. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ Paget said over his shoulder. ‘Do enjoy your dinner, and thank Mrs Carelli for her hospitality.’
‘Well,’ he said to Carlo when they got to the car, ‘where do we go from here?’
The boy shook his head; Paget realized that he had not seen him smile.
‘What I figured,’ Paget said, ‘is that we’d go to a playground and then to dinner. What do you like to eat?’
The boy hesitated. ‘Pizza?’ he ventured.
‘Pizza it is. All we need now is a playground. It’s been years, Carlo, since I’ve been on the slide.’
The boy pointed to his suit. ‘You can’t go like that.’
‘Oh, that just makes it more fun.’ Paget eyed him. ‘Do you ever do things you’re not supposed to do?’
Again, t
he boy shook his head. ‘Papa won’t let me.’
Paget nodded. ‘Papa just wants to take care of you. But I’m thirty-seven years old, so I get to slide dressed any way I want to.’
Carlo looked at him. ‘You’re as old as my mommy, I think. She’s thirty years older than me.’
Paget smiled. ‘That’s really not very old. At least your mommy doesn’t seem old.’
‘Do you know her?’
Paget nodded. ‘Your mommy and I are friends.’
The boy hesitated. Finally, he asked, ‘Did you know my daddy?’
Paget looked at him, and then he smiled again. ‘Why don’t I be that, just for today, and you can help me find a park.’
The boy’s eyes changed, as if trying to remember how the subject had shifted. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Christopher.’ Paget turned the ignition. ‘And I’m ready to play.’
The playground was small, cramped, but filled with mothers and children and a few old men on benches. Paget took a red rubber ball from the car. ‘Ever play catch?’ he asked.
Carlo shook his head. ‘Only at school. They don’t let me much – I’m not very good.’
‘I’ll bet you’re better than you think.’ He pointed to a swath of grass. ‘Here, I’ll help you practice.’
Haltingly, Carlo backed out onto the grass. Paget tossed the ball underhand. The boy flinched; when he clutched at the ball, it had already hit his chest.
‘We’ll start over,’ Paget said. ‘From closer.’
He knelt a few inches away and tossed the ball more softly. Carlo dropped it again.
‘That’s okay,’ Paget said. ‘When I was a kid, I had to practice a lot.’
‘Were you good?’
‘Not at first. But in the end, I got good.’
On the fourth try, Carlo caught the ball.
He moved like his mother, Paget saw; he would be a tall boy, and even now the length of his arms and legs caused a little awkwardness. But his hands were quick enough; his problem was not reflexes but confidence and opportunity.
Carlo caught the ball again.
‘You see,’ Paget said. ‘You’re good.’
Once more, Carlo shook his head. ‘I’m not good. You’re just letting me be good.’
Paget smiled. ‘It’s you who’s catching the ball. Not me.’
‘They’ll never let me play.’ Carlo’s voice was flat. ‘I could ask them for a million years, and they’d always tell me I’m not any good.’
In these few words, Paget saw Carlo’s life. He knelt beside him on the grass. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
For the first time, Carlo spoke in a flippant voice. ‘I hate myself,’ he said. ‘I want to kill myself, that’s all.’
The boy’s expression was so curious, Paget thought; half teasing, half searching. All at once, he felt despairing, at sea. By a kind of instinct, Paget said lightly, ‘If you killed yourself, Carlo Carelli, I’d have to eat the pizza alone.’
The boy watched him for a moment. Then, for the first time, Carlo almost smiled. ‘Then I won’t until later,’ he said.
‘You would appear to have a problem,’ Larry Colvin said to Paget. ‘Or more accurately, Carlo does. At least on the basis of two visits.’
When, Paget wondered, had his college friend Larry become so soft-spoken, his words so measured. And then it occurred to him that he had almost never known a mental health specialist who, at least in a professional mode, did not seem gentle to the point of sedation. Even his office – an upstairs room in his brick town house near Beacon Street – was subdued.
‘I’m no child psychologist,’ Paget answered, ‘but I did take “I hate myself, I want to kill myself” to be some sort of clue.’
Colvin nodded, his fine, sensitive face reflecting sadness and a little curiosity. ‘To speak in shorthand, he’s emotionally deprived – too little warmth, too few stimuli, not many reasons to feel good about who he is. The biggest problem with the conditions in which he lives is that he’s internalized them all. Because he doesn’t get much love, Carlo believes he’s not worth loving.’
Paget shook his head. ‘Short term, I really don’t see that changing.’
‘Can you talk to the grandparents?’
Paget felt a moment’s anger. ‘For God sakes, Larry, these people live in some other world. Mrs Carelli won’t speak a word – for all I know, she’s been autistic for the last seventy-five years. As for the odds of meaningful dialogue between the father and me, one of us would have to the and be reincarnated.’ Paget paused. ‘When I came back to the house and asked if Carlo had report cards from school, Mary’s father wouldn’t answer. I had to threaten him with a court order even to get Carlo here.’
Colvin nodded. ‘Do you think I could talk to them?’
‘You can try. But you’d be talking in Morse code across a cultural Grand Canyon – you’re young, highly educated, and, even worse, believe in insight-oriented therapy. These people are in their mid seventies, pickled in the Catholicism of the late Pope Pius, and members of a generation where even the well-educated believe that asking themselves any questions will destroy the foundation of their lives. It would be like Mozart meeting Genghis Khan for drinks.’
Colvin got up, walked to a shuttered window, and threw it open. Outside, the cobblestoned street looked fresh-minted in the sun of a spring afternoon; the leafy branch of an oak tree, stretching toward the window, rippled with a fitful breeze. Colvin stared out the window.
‘This city,’ Colvin murmured, ‘was a great place to grow up. I still love it, especially on days like this.’
‘But it’s no good for Carlo. Not the way he’s living.’
Colvin nodded. ‘The thing is, he’s really quite a bright boy. And, somewhere inside there, quite a sensitive one. For someone with so little stimuli at home, he follows things, even has something of a capacity for humor.’
‘I can feel that. Even in the little time we’ve had together, I’ve noticed that irony is something he gets and that it’s safe for him. But the Carellis don’t bring any of that out.’
‘How is he with you?’
Paget hesitated. ‘He doesn’t show a lot of emotion – I’m sure that’s true generally. Each time I visit, Carlo seems a little gladder to see me. But he doesn’t like being touched, and I can’t hug him at all. It’s sort of sad.’
‘Everything you say, Chris, is pretty much what I’d expect.’ Colvin paused for a moment. ‘How about the mother?’
‘I finally tracked her down in Rome – you may have seen her on the evening news when the Red Brigades killed Aldo Moro. It’s going well, she says: two more years, and she’ll be back in New York and able to rescue Carlo from her parents.’
Colvin turned to him. ‘That takes him to nine years old, at least.’
‘I know.’ Paget hesitated. ‘I can see the pattern in the report cards I got from school. He’s going downhill.’
‘It’s not just school, Chris. It’s pretty much everything. Self-esteem, ability to relate, even comfort with his own body. The next two years are critical.’ Colvin permitted himself a final note of irritation. ‘Does the mother know what she’s getting into with this boy? I mean, does she have some sort of plan?’
Paget shrugged. ‘To have an au pair, I assume. Preferably someone with a working knowledge of English.’
Colvin sat down again, expression curious and intent.
‘Forgive me, Chris, but I think I’m permitted liberties with a friend that I would never take with a patient. How is it that two bright, obviously sophisticated people like you and the woman I watched during the Lasko hearings ended up with an unwanted child?’
The phrase ‘unwanted child’ pierced Paget’s heart and mind: the image it left was Carlo in front of the television, alone. ‘I can see why you don’t usually take those liberties,’ he answered. ‘People in your business aren’t supposed to make their clients feel guilty.’
‘Guilty? You look miserable.’ Colvin’s voice softened.
‘Which is part of why I ask.’
‘I was a lonely kid – I never wanted to create one.’ Paget paused. ‘Although I’ve been reminding myself for the past four days that I survived.’
Colvin leaned forward. ‘Are you happy with that answer? I mean, for yourself.’
Paget shrugged. ‘Spare me, Larry. Next you’ll have me drawing pictures to see whether I include arms and legs and have smoke coming out the chimney.’
‘Spare me the deflective wit, all right? You can even skip Carlo for the moment. What I’m saying, pal, is that this is important to you.’
Paget smiled faintly. ‘My God, you’re sounding like a human being again. I should have “unwanted children” more often.’
Colvin gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘Cut the shit, Chris.’
‘All right,’ Paget said. ‘The cold truth is that had it been my decision, Carlo would never have been born. I feel terrible about that, and even worse about how he’s living.’ He paused, adding quietly, ‘As for Mary, she wanted him for reasons of her own. In that way, Carlo may already have served his purpose.’
Colvin looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Paget paused. ‘It’s a personal thing. Really.’
Colvin searched his face. ‘All right,’ he finally said. ‘We’ll stick to current events. Have you told your wife – Andrea, is it?’
‘Not much about the last few days – she’s touring Europe right now.’ Paget hesitated. ‘As a general matter, Andrea treats the fact of Carlo like something that happened in another world, perhaps because she finds it painful. Denial, I think they call it.’
Colvin seemed poised to ask a question, then did not. At last, he asked, ‘Do you think Mary has a clear impression of how Carlo’s living now?’
How, Paget wondered, to explain Mary as fairly as he could, yet leave out those things that Colvin did not need to know. ‘Mary has a clear impression,’ he answered. ‘She just doesn’t feel it the way you and I might feel it.’