every minute, every day. We all did. Ask Don. Ask Margie.”
She was astounded. The sudden attack, the injustice, the sense that it was absurd to argue—all this kept her silent. Twenty-five years ago when Don was a baby, she and Ken had pledged to each other that they would never live vicariously through their children, had promised never even to suggest that a child follow in their footsteps, in the smallest thing or the largest. Never would Don feel prodded to go to Dartmouth because his father and grandfather had gone to Dartmouth; never would any daughter feel slated for Radcliffe because her mother had gone to Radcliffe. Consistently through the years, they had each checked up on every impulse of “guidance,” in their wariness over “parentship” they had often been too self-conscious about visible control or discipline, also worrying about being too permissive long before the word became the tag for any kind of parental abdication.
“That’s not fair,” she said again. “We felt pride or worry but we were never on your back. Nor on Don’s. Nor on Margie’s. You’re lashing out with accusations, and that’s not fair either.”
His voice rose to a shout. “Fuck fair. What’s fair anyway?” He shoved all his dishes violently from him, toward the center of the table. The glass toppled; milk poured forth. Instinctively she slapped her napkin down to blot it up, only to have him tear the napkin up from the table.
“Leave it alone,” he shouted. “Leave me alone. I’ll fix it. I’m not a baby you’ve got to clean up after.”
She stood up waiting for a moment for some change in him. Then she took up the morning paper and left the room. Behind her he yelled, “You running out too, like him? Can’t stand it unless I kowtow to you every minute, can you?”
She sat on her bed behind a closed door. She could not stanch her tears, tears she hated. He was lashing out because he was lashed. Soon she heard inexplicable hangings and pullings from his room, as if he were moving furniture there. She considered going in to him, but she did not. Once this stage was reached, there was nothing for it but separateness and waiting. She turned on her bedside radio for music but she could not sustain three notes in sequence. She twirled the dial for news, but the words held no meaning. She picked up the one manuscript still unread of the three that had been there a fortnight ago, but she gazed at it as if in a stupor.
At last silence descended upon the apartment. Tentatively she opened her door an inch. Jeff’s door was closed, but from behind it there was no sound. She left her own door open, and sat down in a small swivel chair by the window, where by craning a little she could see the dusty yellows and golds of the trees in Central Park. Fall in the city was never the clear flaming of the country; it was as if the dust of August had lingered on through the turning of the leaves, to mute their flare of crimson and gold. Muted, the way she felt now.
The silence remained. A sense of emptiness now came to her from the entire house; this stillness was too complete to be merely stillness. Jeff too had gone out. With a rising dread she went back to the living room. Beyond it she could see the small dining room, its table cleared and put to order. In the kitchen all was tidy, the dishes out of sight in the dishwasher. Taped to one of the cupboard doors was a note.
“I’ve gone back to school. Sorry. J.”
He couldn’t look me in the face, Jeff thought, damn it, I’ll show him. All the way back on the train he felt the hate hammering at him, pounding at him, hotter and bigger all the time. He’d never go home at all if the old man was going to give him that. The business. The silent treatment. The cheapest trick in the world.
There was no train direct to Placquette on Sunday afternoon; he had caught this one to New Haven. In Grand Central, he had actually gone to a phone booth to call Dr. Dudley and ask for a
She was astounded. The sudden attack, the injustice, the sense that it was absurd to argue—all this kept her silent. Twenty-five years ago when Don was a baby, she and Ken had pledged to each other that they would never live vicariously through their children, had promised never even to suggest that a child follow in their footsteps, in the smallest thing or the largest. Never would Don feel prodded to go to Dartmouth because his father and grandfather had gone to Dartmouth; never would any daughter feel slated for Radcliffe because her mother had gone to Radcliffe. Consistently through the years, they had each checked up on every impulse of “guidance,” in their wariness over “parentship” they had often been too self-conscious about visible control or discipline, also worrying about being too permissive long before the word became the tag for any kind of parental abdication.
“That’s not fair,” she said again. “We felt pride or worry but we were never on your back. Nor on Don’s. Nor on Margie’s. You’re lashing out with accusations, and that’s not fair either.”
His voice rose to a shout. “Fuck fair. What’s fair anyway?” He shoved all his dishes violently from him, toward the center of the table. The glass toppled; milk poured forth. Instinctively she slapped her napkin down to blot it up, only to have him tear the napkin up from the table.
“Leave it alone,” he shouted. “Leave me alone. I’ll fix it. I’m not a baby you’ve got to clean up after.”
She stood up waiting for a moment for some change in him. Then she took up the morning paper and left the room. Behind her he yelled, “You running out too, like him? Can’t stand it unless I kowtow to you every minute, can you?”
She sat on her bed behind a closed door. She could not stanch her tears, tears she hated. He was lashing out because he was lashed. Soon she heard inexplicable hangings and pullings from his room, as if he were moving furniture there. She considered going in to him, but she did not. Once this stage was reached, there was nothing for it but separateness and waiting. She turned on her bedside radio for music but she could not sustain three notes in sequence. She twirled the dial for news, but the words held no meaning. She picked up the one manuscript still unread of the three that had been there a fortnight ago, but she gazed at it as if in a stupor.
At last silence descended upon the apartment. Tentatively she opened her door an inch. Jeff’s door was closed, but from behind it there was no sound. She left her own door open, and sat down in a small swivel chair by the window, where by craning a little she could see the dusty yellows and golds of the trees in Central Park. Fall in the city was never the clear flaming of the country; it was as if the dust of August had lingered on through the turning of the leaves, to mute their flare of crimson and gold. Muted, the way she felt now.
The silence remained. A sense of emptiness now came to her from the entire house; this stillness was too complete to be merely stillness. Jeff too had gone out. With a rising dread she went back to the living room. Beyond it she could see the small dining room, its table cleared and put to order. In the kitchen all was tidy, the dishes out of sight in the dishwasher. Taped to one of the cupboard doors was a note.
“I’ve gone back to school. Sorry. J.”
He couldn’t look me in the face, Jeff thought, damn it, I’ll show him. All the way back on the train he felt the hate hammering at him, pounding at him, hotter and bigger all the time. He’d never go home at all if the old man was going to give him that. The business. The silent treatment. The cheapest trick in the world.
There was no train direct to Placquette on Sunday afternoon; he had caught this one to New Haven. In Grand Central, he had actually gone to a phone booth to call Dr. Dudley and ask for a
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