The Work Is Innocent

by Rafael Yglesias

  “You’re just throwing words at me. I’m not arguing semantics!”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Because I’m talking about words you think it’s meaningless.”

  She looked contemptuously angry. “This is silly.”

  “That’s a lot like Dad, you know. To dismiss an argument when losing it.”

  Naomi grabbed the chair in front of her and lifted it up. Her head jerked away from him and then back. She slammed the chair down. “This isn’t a game!” she yelled, tears coming without delay. “I’m not playing. People don’t win and lose, Richard.”

  She had the capacity, as did all the members of his family, to make him feel he was crude and unsympathetic. He fought the feeling on instinct, but he feared it was true that he preferred to be right rather than to be kind. “Don’t pull that shit on me. I’m not scared by that fucking chair shit.”

  “I’M NOT TRYING TO SCARE YOU,” she screamed, and frightened him into silence.

  “Hey, hey.” John came running in. “Nana’s asleep. Just be cool in here, huh?”

  Naomi stamped her bare foot on the floor, her eyes red with rageful tears. “Damn it,” she said, and walked inside to her room.

  Richard felt the pressure and embarrassment of the sudden silence. He trembled trying to light a cigarette: his fury was liquid in his body and it pumped with dangerous force. He was angry about so many things. His lack of control, the refusal of anyone in his family to listen to his opinions, Naomi’s stupidity, his father’s egotism. There was no way to organize the emotional contradictions behind them. How could he be angry over a failure in his family to have a consistent line on intellectuals? It was absurd to care.

  But they browbeat him with their stupid distinctions.

  He had heard everything they believed. His father’s love of manners and the proper use of English while he attacked capitalism and doctrinaire Communism; his insistence that American writing was vital and interesting, though he attacked most American writers. His brother, Leo, called American intellectuals pigs and ghouls, though he devoted much of his time to reading them; Leo had an extraordinary background of reading in black history, and he used it to abort any opinions Richard might venture on politics. Richard was shut up because he misused a word, or because he based his judgments on racist history books. Whenever he read a book they recommended and he wished to discuss a judgment of theirs, back came this response: “Oh, wait until you read so and so. Then you’ll see what I mean.”

  He loved them and had listened to every idea, great and foolish, they told him. He wanted to be respected in turn. He expected to achieve that with his novel. So he used it as an outlet for the tremendous rage that his argument with Naomi had left with him. He worked until early morning and had forgotten the roots of his inspiration when he fell asleep.

  On Monday morning it was snowing. While driving to the airport he hoped the flight would be canceled. Brother and sister, who had casually apologized to each other for their quarrel, were tired and not talkative. John was cheerful. He handled the four-wheel-drive truck easily, Richard fascinated by his competence. The sight was familiar: John’s ski boot pumping the brakes, his hand appearing at the end of his overlarge white knit sweater, reaching into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes, emerging and tipping the pack so that he could catch one with his lips. There was never any desperation or awkwardness in the movement; sharp curves never disturbed it.

  Richard openly admired John’s physical confidence. He had studied him carefully and guessed that they were learned, not intuitive, gestures. Richard had told him his suspicion and John had laughed, delighted. He admitted that as an adolescent he had worked on such things and it had become habitual. “But now you pay no attention to it?” Richard had asked.

  But John wasn’t sure. “Well, I don’t have to work at the movements, like when I was a teen-ager. But I’m always aware of what I’m doing.”

  “Everybody is aware of their movements, right?”

  “I don’t think so. Lots of people don’t go through that stuff. They just breeze through life. They do their number and there’s no problem with it.”

  It sounded so pleasant just to breeze through life. It was a squalling storm for Richard, every gesture a mortal decision. “You know, John, I don’t think that’s true. I think it’s like everything else. Everybody thinks they’re the only person who masturbates or talks to themselves, et cetera. Right?”

  “I don’t think so,” he insisted. “It’s special.”

  John’s physical grace was certainly rare, and Richard appreciated its refinements as if it were a grand ballet. So he was well entertained during the drive.

  John and Naomi were staying at the house his parents had bought and planned to move into. During the winter John was supposed to make a bedroom out of the unfinished attic, and their only conversation was caused by Richard’s question about it. “Should I tell Mom and Dad what you’ve done so far, or would you rather it be a surprise?”

  “Either way.”

  “Richard,” Naomi said with alarming seriousness, “what are you going to do if they make you go to school?”

  “I’m going to run away.”

  John said mildly, “You will do that, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  Naomi looked incredulously at them. “What’s going on? How come this is so casual? ‘I’m going to run away. Oh, really?’ ” Her imitation was good humored.

  “We’ve talked about it,” John said.

  “And you weren’t going to mention it to me?” Naomi asked Richard.

  “I was afraid you were going to tell me to get a job.”

  They laughed. Naomi said, “You can’t run away to us, you know.”

  Richard was hurt. “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Naomi said quickly. She patted him on the shoulder. “I mean I’d be happy to have you stay with us. I just mean we can’t because of Aaron and Betty.”

  “Don’t you think I’d realize that? What kind of fool do you think I am?”

  “Okay, listen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She began to cry, and Richard was suddenly full of feeling for her. “Let’s make up,” she said. He mumbled, sure, and kissed her on a red cheek.

  “Your nose is so cold,” he said, and they laughed to be rid of their embarrassment.

  “Really a sick relationship,” John said.

  “You just don’t understand,” Naomi said.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “So, Richard,” Naomi asked tentatively, “where would you go?”

  “Well, remember when Mac called me? He’s at college in Boston and he invited me to stay with him.”

  “For free?”

  “No,” Richard said, his tone sarcastic. “I have to get a job.”

  “Oh boy,” John said, laughing.

  “Okay.” Naomi was still afraid of the conversation. “I don’t mean about getting a job or anything. I just mean about breaking with Mom and Dad. Are you really able to do that?”

  He wished she hadn’t forced him to think about it. “I don’t know. Probably not. But I’m not ready to submit either.” He looked at her significantly. “Get it?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Richard got off his plane, prepared to greet his parents, and was unpleasantly surprised to see his brother, Leo, waving to him from the top of the escalator that came out onto the main lobby of La Guardia Airport. His brother looked down at him casually and, once noticed, turned aside to drag on the butt of his cigarette in the Bogart manner. Richard’s surprise was overcome in watching his brother’s movements, and when he reached the end of the escalator, it had changed to amazed scorn for the naïveté of his parents. Could they really still be unaware of his contempt for Leo?

  The baggage was late in coming and concern over it—his novel!—delayed conversation. Richard nearly gave away its existence because of anxiety, and if he was that careless, he wondered if he could conceal his desire to run away. Once in the cab, Leo asked, “So how
was the flight?”

  “Shabby. Very shabby. The jets go up like helicopters. Straight up. I really thought I was going to vomit.”

  “Do you usually get sick on planes?”

  “No. For some reason this was incredibly bad. It’s one of those small jets and it kicked around like a motherfucker.”

  Leo grunted and looked out his window. Richard followed suit but for him it had real interest. From the grace and bounty of the countryside to the decay of New York. They were nearing home, and seeing the bloodthirsty streets of his neighborhood so frightened him that it seemed impossible he had ever walked them without terror.

  “How do you feel about coming back?” Leo asked.

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Richard laughed. “I feel it is disastrous. I cannot imagine anything more loathsome.”

  “You really feel that way?”

  “Uh, yeah. You havin’ trouble believing me?”

  “No. You said it—I thought you were kidding.” Leo had cut his hair short, and his friendly, startled eyes were even more so. “You know Brandeis isn’t so bad.”

  “What’s Brandeis?”

  “The high school you’re going to go to.”

  “I didn’t know I was going to one.”

  “Are you kidding, man?” Richard had convinced himself of his power, so this coup was a shock. He wasn’t able to conceal his disappointment, and Leo looked at him sadly. “It’s good there. There are dyno blacks, and you can do some really good organizing.”

  Richard retreated into contempt. “If I wanted to get into organizing, I’d prefer to do it outside of school.”

  “Yeah, sure, but it’s better to be going to that kind of a school than to some kind of white bullshit like Cabot. Or to something so unreal like the school in Vermont.”

  Richard wanted to jeer at Leo for his pitiful adulation of blacks, for the absurd conclusions it led him into—but they had arrived. His mother had made a good lunch, and the talk was lively. His situation wasn’t mentioned, but he enjoyed himself so much that his resolve to run away was weakened.

  His mother showed him to his room, proud of how neat she had made it. Richard, though pleased, was uneasy that his things had been gone through.

  “It’s lovely,” he told her. “But you didn’t have to. I would have enjoyed doing it.”

  “Oh, it was a lot of fun. Richard, I can’t tell you how it broke my mother’s heart, going through your drawers.”

  Richard flashed silence with his eyes so expressively that Betty almost jumped. Her smile disappeared and her tone changed. “You know. All the broken ashtrays.”

  He quieted and said that he had no other way of disposing of them, since he shouldn’t have been smoking.

  “You could have sneaked them into the garbage.”

  “Yeah I guess so. Listen, I want to change.”

  She turned to leave but asked instead, “How are Naomi and John?”

  “Like I said. Fine.”

  Betty narrowed her eyes at him. Richard smiled. He felt uncomfortable. “Is there some reason, something you think is wrong between them?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I was just looking at my son.” Richard laughed and she smiled. “How’s my little girl Nana?”

  “As cute as ever.”

  “Is she walking all over the place?”

  “All over the place.”

  “Good. Oh, I want to see her!”

  “You will pretty soon.”

  “Do you need any help unpacking?”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Did Leo tell you about Brandeis?”

  “That I’ll be going there? Yes, he did.”

  “We have to go on Thursday to sign you up.”

  “When does school start?”

  “A week from today. So you have a little vacation.”

  “Great,” he said, drawling the word sarcastically. He watched her exit, and when the door closed behind her, the flush of embarrassment he had repressed overwhelmed him. He went over to the drawers and looked through them. His collection of Playboys and photogenic women had been uncovered and carefully rearranged. It had been his garbage heap: typing paper covering broken ashtrays, covering pornography, covering grass. He had left none of the last in the drawer, his only consolation. He felt he had risen above the meanness of this past suddenly and laughed at its revelation, only to relapse again into a little boy’s shame. Work, he said to himself, work and you’ll forget it.

  During the next few days, his parents must have wondered at the serenity of his schedule. He rose early, had breakfast, retired to his room, and began typing. Aaron joked that he must be working on a novel. When Richard admitted it matter-of- factly, Aaron opened his eyes wide and looked serious. “Writing is less profitable than acting, if such a thing is possible. Have you given that up?”

  “I didn’t know that I had it to give up,” Richard said.

  Aaron looked playfully at his wife. “I think our son’s becoming a wit. Are we going to get a chance to read it?”

  “I was going to ask Mom.”

  “Quite right,” Aaron said, bowing his head, which showed his longish, graying hair to advantage. “The editor first.”

  Richard didn’t think of his mother the way the world did: the magazine for which she was the literary editor was small and printed on rough, ugly paper; its grandiose name, The Union, struck him as laughable. Betty had worked there for some years before Richard found out from others that its prestige was great. But he respected her opinion for intimate reasons. He thought of both his parents as extraordinary minds whose literary judgments were particularly formidable.

  He knew she was a quick reader, and when he heard her making warning coughs as she approached his room only a half hour after he gave her the manuscript, he expected the worst. He rushed to his desk, lit a cigarette, and in an attempt to seem carefree, tilted his chair back so violently that he had to leap up to avoid splitting his head open. Betty found him like that. “Did I startle you?”

  “No. I just nearly killed myself on that chair.” Richard became very absorbed in moving the chair about and pressing down on it as if the floor might give way.

  “You were leaning back?”

  “Yes, yes. I know. You’ve always warned me. But, uh, my work.” Richard despaired of the chair being any more of a distraction, so he resigned himself to sitting in it. He looked at his mother standing solemnly in front of him, holding the manuscript. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and said, “Well, Richard—”

  “Oh, God,” he mumbled.

  She tilted her head up questioningly. She looked old.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Go on.” He lunged for his cigarette in the ashtray and burst out with, “What did you think?”

  “It’s great,” she said so simply that he was tempted to take it as an insult. “It’s lovely. I’m very impressed.”

  “Is that it?”

  She relaxed and laughed. “Isn’t that enough?”

  He followed her movements to the bed where she sat down. “No, I didn’t mean that. I mean wasn’t anything wrong with it?”

  “Not really. It needs some polishing.”

  “Well, it’s a first draft.”

  “Of course. That’s the kind of work it needs. Silly things. You’ve misspelled some words in such a funny way.”

  “Okay. I don’t want to hear that.”

  “It’s fine. This is only half the novel. So I don’t know what you’re going to do with it.” She tapped her foot thoughtfully and looked around the room dully. “It’s very strong and surprising. Reminds one of the real way it felt to be young. That’s very unusual.”

  Her tone was full of the shock of recognition, and it acted like a strong purgative on the awkward and insecure feelings he had for his work.

  “So,” she said, turning her eyes on him and narrowing them. “You mean to publish this?”
r />   “You make it sound like it’s up to me. I hope to.”

  “If the rest is as good, then I think you have a real chance. But,” she said, laughing while she repeated a family joke, “don’t get your hopes up.”

  He smiled but held her eyes and put force in his tone. “Good enough to get me out of school?”

  Betty looked at the large poster of Che on the wall opposite the bed. A cigar was comfortably tucked into the corner of his mouth and his eyes glittered with mischief. She was not surprised by his question. There was a silence. Richard felt a mad compulsion to wink at Che.

  “You want to finish this, get it published, and then what?”

  Richard frowned, leaped for his cigarette, dragged on it, and hastily pressed it out. “Write more.”

  “Come on, Richard. You’re fifteen. It’s just crazy to settle down at that age to a life of writing.”

  “I’m sick of going over this. I’m willing to do other things, but not go to high school. I’m willing to get a job, anything but that.”

  “Okay. Okay. What about college?”

  “College means high school first. So forget it.”

  “I mean that if we sent this manuscript to some people at Columbia to see if they can get you in.”

  “Are you kidding? That would be great.”

  “We can try,” she said, getting up and approaching the desk slowly. “I can’t imagine what else they might want.”

  “Then do you think it’s really good?”

  She smiled and lowered his manuscript to the desk. “You’re as bad as your father. You don’t even want to go to school until you’re sixteen?”

  “Mom, truancy is a joke in New York. Leo can tell you that.”

  “Some recommendation.”

  “Well, you can forget about trying to get me to go to high school. I just won’t do it.”

  “Richie, you don’t have to threaten me. I want your father to read this and then we’ll talk about it.”