“Yes.”
She rolled her eyes, looked back at the television.
“I’m sorry, why did you ask that?”
“Think about it. Maybe it will come to you.”
It was like she spat in my face. I’d categorized Jenny’s family as nice and boring. This had come out of nowhere. I couldn’t think of a single instance when I might have said something to offend her or even an occasion when we’d disagreed about something.
I kept waking up in the middle of the night, thinking about the way she had said: “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” I didn’t mention it to Jenny. Maybe it was shame. Like somebody pointing out that my hairline was receding. Not the type of thing you want to mention to your girlfriend.
Every time we met Susan after that, there would be some barb, a flash of unsheathed claws, usually when Jenny wasn’t there. “You’re a bit of a know-it-all, aren’t you Gabriel?” she said, when I was explaining to Dave the advantages of the computer program FrameMaker over Word.
Or one time in a restaurant when I picked up the bill, “That’s okay Dave, I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” said Dave. “Our turn next time.”
Jenny excused herself to go to the bathroom while I signed the credit card receipt and left money for a tip. I’m sure waiters prefer cash tips, so nobody knows how much they’re getting.
Susan leans over to look at the tip. “Oh, very generous. You’re all generosity tonight, aren’t you Gabriel?”
“Is there some hidden meaning in that? Do you mean because I’m Jewish or something?”
“Jewish? Who said anything about Jewish? I’ve noticed you’re a bit paranoid, Gabriel. Is that a Jewish trait?”
Actually it is, but I wasn’t sure whether Susan would know that or not.
One day, I finally I said to her, “Is there something about me you don’t like?”
“I don’t like or dislike you. You’re Jenny’s boyfriend, one in a string of them. Excuse me if I don’t make an effort.”
“I think you do make an effort — to be unpleasant.”
“You being paranoid again, Gabriel?”
In the beginning, it bothered me a lot. I wracked my brains trying to think what it was about me that turned her off. I tried harder to charm, was hurt and then strived for indifference. Put it down to a chemistry thing.
Now she was ensconced in my house, claws sheathed through necessity. Purring in my direction, but maybe hissing a little in Jenny’s ear?
“Jenny, I know it’s your sister and I will try to be nice, okay? But things can’t be the same as before I came home. For one thing, our room has got to be off limits to April. One room in the house preserved from snot and barf.”
Jenny gives a long sigh. It’s irritating how women lapse into martyrdom when you’re trying to compromise. “All right. I’ll try to explain to her that she can’t come in the bedroom anymore. In return, you be nice to her and compassionate to Susan, who’s going through such a hard time. It’s time to grow up and stop being so egotistical.”
The rest of the day is surreal. In general, I’m a pretty easy-going guy, insofar as cleanliness is concerned. Jenny and I share the work. She directs and I follow. There are little lists outlining my duties pasted on the fridge, and I dutifully check them upon completion. If I don’t check them fast enough, Jenny tends to make little remarks. For instance, if ‘Change bed sheets’ appears on my list, she might jerk upright after lying down beside me and pick an imaginary crumb off the bed, flicking it onto the floor in distaste (but only if ‘Vacuuming’ also appears on my list).
I, on the other hand, never criticize. I don’t even look at her list, still less check to see if she’s completed the task within a reasonable amount of time. Everything seems well run and clean to me, proof positive that I’m easy-going.
But I have never encountered the type of chaos created by April. Every single object that belongs in or on something now resides on the floor. Boxes are overturned, contents of drawers are investigated and discarded wherever, table surfaces are emptied with a sweep of the hand. I keep looking at Jenny or Susan, expecting them to take a pudgy little hand and smack it purple, but they just follow her around like servants after royalty, feebly saying “No, April” on occasion, cleaning up as they go, assuring me that they will tidy everything when April goes down for her nap.
But it’s not so much the surface bedlam. Although the mess makes the home feel like a squat, this is bearable, so long as it’s temporary. It’s the fluids. There’s always something dripping from one orifice or another. Where’s it all going?
I put my cup of tea down on the table and April sidles over and attempts to pick it up with both hands.
“No, April,” I say, prying off her fingers one by one so it doesn’t spill.
“Mine!” she announces.
“No, that’s mine,” I say, removing it from her hot little grasp.
In slow motion, her face transforms into a red, wet caricature, and ungodly sounds jostle out of her expanding mouth. I am fascinated. The women are frantic. I can almost see their blood pressure shooting up.
“Does April want some tea? Here, Mummy will get you some tea of your own. Come with Mummy.”
“I want dat tea!” April demands, pointing to my cup in outrage.
“That’s Uncle Gabriel’s tea, sweetie. Mummy give April tea.”
April pinches my knee with great viciousness. Then she stamps her foot and smacks me. The current piece of snot swings dangerously at the end of her nose. I take her hand in one of mine and tap it, lightly. “Do not hit Uncle Gabriel, that’s not nice.”
I thought she was crying before, but now screams spew out that threaten to rupture my eardrum. Susan rushes over and grabs April, enveloping her in a bear hug and exiting the room.
Jenny comes over to me and grabs my hand. For a minute I think she’s going to smack it like I smacked April’s.
“You must never hit April, Gabriel. Susan doesn’t believe in that form of punishment.”
“I can tell. That kid is spoiled.”
“You can’t judge what it’s like to bring up a child until you have one yourself. I thought that she got away with a lot at the beginning too, but now I realize that she’s not being naughty when she makes a mess. Think of her as a little explorer, investigating the world. It’s a shame to hedge her in with rules just for the sake of cleanliness. Who cares?”
“The world cares. She has to learn to live within the rules of society, in order to be acceptable. If she behaves like this, she won’t have any friends, and nobody will invite her to their houses.”
“The poor little thing will be inundated with rules when she’s older, like us all. But she’s just two, why can’t she be free for a bit longer?”
“Because it will make it harder for her later on. Besides, I think children like to know their boundaries, so long as they are consistent. Hitting and pinching is just as unacceptable now as it will be later on.”
“Of course, we would have reprimanded her for that!”
“Your sister seems incapable of any type of reprimand. She’s as hopeless in the parenting department as she seems to be in all aspects of life.”
“You’ve got to stop being so judgmental all the time! You know nothing about parenting!”
“If we all agree that reprimand is necessary when a child hits, then what’s the problem?”
“Smacking isn’t a suitable reprimand. How can you teach a child that smacking is bad when you yourself are doing it?”
“Easily. Adults are permitted to do lots of things that children can’t, because they are adults. Like this.” I retrieve my cigarettes from the top of the mantel, where they are inconveniently placed to be out of harm’s way. “Children cannot smoke, and adults can. They can’t drink, drive, swear or hit. Adults can do these things because we possess the appropr
iate maturity and discipline to avoid the inherent downfalls.”
Jenny gives me the type of look which is imbued with significance. Women do it all the time. I have practised in front of the mirror without success. “Not all adults avoid the downfalls.”
I think, oh just spit it out and skip the weighty looks. “Right, my father did not. So we find his behaviour reprehensible, while it is natural in April. Natural, but undesirable. To be curbed.”
“Yes, but the point is, because all adults do not ‘hit’ in appropriate ways — with such disastrous consequences — none of us should hit. Just in case.”
“Oh rubbish. That’s like saying none of us should drink, because some people abuse the privilege.”
“Some of us shouldn’t drink, if our backgrounds make us more susceptible to alcoholism.”
It takes me a few minutes to realize what has been said. Then I go rigid with anger so powerful heat shoots up my neck to the tip of my ears. I stub out my cigarette, controlling the trembling of my hand.
“I’m going out for a walk.” I half-expect her to rush after me, apologize. I rehearse a furious rejection. But she doesn’t come.
I stay out for a long time, walking down familiar streets, my head bent against the wind. Springs is so depressing here — rainy weather enduring sometimes into June. In fact, there’s no guarantee regarding the summer either. Perhaps this year it will rain the whole time. No way of stocking up warmth for the coming winter. Just like stocking up relaxation for the coming work week has been denied to me. I feel so rotten. What a homecoming.
That night in bed I say to Jenny, “Don’t ever suggest that I am like my father again. I can’t tell you how offensive it is.”
“I didn’t suggest that. Just that you do have an aggressive streak…”
“What a stupid time to bring this up, when I’ve just come back. Can’t you understand how upsetting it was to re-discover my father’s violence? And now you’re insinuating that I’m violent too!” I can hear my father’s voice coming out of me. He uses phrases like ‘Can’t you understand …’ and ‘What a stupid time….’ Have I always sounded like him, or has his speech rubbed off on me during our two weeks together? It’s like a nightmare.
I stalk off to sleep on the couch. Jenny follows me. “Look, I don’t know your father so how could I be comparing you? You’ve come back full of hatred for your father and see associations behind every criticism. But it’s all in your own head, and you need to work it out.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but I could work on it better if there didn’t seem to be so many criticisms all of a sudden. I don’t think tapping April’s hand was really an aggressive action, and I don’t remember you going on about my aggressive streak all the time before I left. Has Susan said anything about me being aggressive?”
“Now you’re being paranoid.”
“Has Susan said that I’m paranoid?” And I laugh, to show that’s a joke.
I return to bed, mostly out of fear that the couch is steeped in April’s secretions.
It’s not a joke. Jenny isn’t a critical woman, and now it’s “egotistical” and “aggressive” and “paranoid.”
Why?
THIRTY-ONE
The next day I depart for work, deciding to postpone the remaining two weeks’ holiday till later in the year. Luckily, my boss is flexible. The first day back is a dreaded event after a holiday, but for the first time in my life, it is preferable to staying at home. In any case, all the dread is anticipation, while the actuality of ‘the first day back’ is rather nice. I go through my emails in a leisurely fashion, because there are no ‘high priority’ actions writhing for my attention. The coffee machine eavesdrops on several brief run-downs of my holiday that omit everything of importance. A couple of co-workers give me the latest bulletins on our controlling and bitchy boss over smoked meat sandwiches at lunch.
I arrive home late, not because I have anything to do at work but because it’s pleasant to talk to my colleagues, not a single one of whom I’d keep in contact with if I left my job. But it’s amazing how large a common denominator work supplies — mutual acquaintances and aggravations, endless conversations about how to do what and when as far as work is concerned.
There is a dinner of sweet and sour chicken, rice and Caesar salad waiting for me. April is in bed, the two women sit across from me, one smiling and doting and the other coiled and sheathed. I direct the conversation at Jenny until Susan excuses herself and leaves. Jenny does not chide. She continues to smile and ply me with more Caesar salad and wine.
We settle into a routine, the four of us. During the week it’s not too bad. In the mornings, April is installed in the sitting room after her breakfast with the door closed, so I can eat in the kitchen in peace with my newspaper, as is my wont. Sometimes I hear April bang on the door and scream to be released, which makes me smile.
In the evenings she’s in bed. We all eat dinner together, but Jenny and I do most of the talking. Susan keeps her head down and remains silent, unlike her usual bossy self. Maybe she cannot talk to me without her hackles rising, so she chooses not to talk at all. She disappears soon after dinner, usually around the time I pull out the first cigarette, and Jenny and I chat, drink and smoke into the evening. We are careful to avoid unpleasant subjects, like the length of Susan’s stay and my father.
At one point after a congenial conversation Jenny puts her hand in mine, to show she loves me, and asks, “Are you going to leave it like this, when he’s dying?”
“Of course. I have nothing to say to him. He beat my mother. The loss of his relationship with me is a fitting punishment.”
“Of course I understand your feelings. Yet it’s so hard to judge other people’s lives. It would be awful if you felt differently about your father in the future, when it was too late.”
“I don’t make a habit of judging other people’s lives, Jenny. Certain deeds merit societal denouncement and domestic violence is one of them.”
She lets it drop.
The weekends are different. Jenny strives to keep Sunday mornings intact, but she pops in and out of bed as though the sheets are itchy.
“Can’t you lie down and read a book like you used to?”
“I’m helping to entertain April so she’ll be nice and quiet. I’m doing it for you really, Gab.”
“Let Susan deal with it. It’s not like they’re on holiday or something, they might be here for weeks. You’ll wear yourself out — stay in bed and I’ll give you a massage. I’d rather have you here with me, even if the kid screams the place down.”
“No. Don’t be selfish.” And she disappears.
Selfish? I was thinking of her, wanting her to relax. I don’t think Jenny has ever called me selfish. Paranoia again?
Sex becomes a timed affair, like it probably is for couples with young kids. Except we’re not supposed to have any young kids. Jenny hurries my kisses along, edging to the next step in our familiar sex routine. If I start to move downwards, she grabs my head.
“It’s okay, Gabriel. I don’t feel like it today.”
“You don’t want to come?”
“I’m not in the right mood. Come back up and enter me.”
“You’re not in the mood for an orgasm but you’re wet enough for me to enter?”
“Sure, your kisses are enough. Come on then.”
I interpret that as ‘get a move on’ and debate whether to be offended. She would be offended if the positions were reversed. Also I like us both to come — it feels more like a mutual act. Maybe I should appreciate the fact that she is making an effort, despite the fact that her thoughts are obviously elsewhere.
I cannot stay in bed all weekend. Eventually, we are obliged to meet.
April never ceases to repulse. I try to see the interesting aspects of her developing mind. I strive to view her as an explorer.
�
��Hello April!” I say in a hearty uncle-like fashion. She is standing on the sofa, eating a boiled egg. Who the fuck gives a toddler boiled eggs unless they’re tied in a chair?
Little pieces of hard yolk crumble in her hands and disappear into crevices. Those lucky enough to fall on a flat surface are mashed into the fabric by her feet, which pummel like a kitten massaging its mother’s belly. She peels the white off and shoves it in her mouth, dropping the yolk by mistake, inexpertly retrieving bits of it and crushing them in her hand, glaring at me the whole time. Don’t worry, I don’t want any.
Susan comes in and plops beside her daughter, oblivious to the egg yolk avalanche threatening her white pants.
“Good Morning Gabriel.”
“Morning. Listen, I don’t want to go on and on all the time but would it be possible to limit her feeding activities to the kitchen? Look at the couch, for God’s sakes. Boiled eggs reek after a few days.”
“Of course. I’ll clean it up.”
“Of course you will. And I’m sure you’d remove the sofa covers and wash them too, but wouldn’t it be easier to avoid all this work by feeding April in the kitchen?”
“I don’t mind…” Susan begins, watching me.
“I do. There’s no need for it. She can explore her egg just as well in the kitchen.” I grapple for my cigarettes on the mantelpiece and inhale.
Susan turns to April, an ingratiating smile hovering around her lips. “Let’s go to the kitchen and get April a nice juicy to go with her eggy.”
I hope she’ll acquiesce. It is not pleasant to be the obvious source of all high blood pressure. But April has deduced that the kitchen is some type of issue and reckons no hot-blooded two-year-old would capitulate to they know not what.
“NO!” she yells.
Instead of further sweet persuasions Susan manhandles her (and the three cushions she is clutching) off the couch and exits in accompaniment to the sound of multiple police car sirens out of harmony.
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