on me.
According to that splendid education I received out at the U., it was Rousseau who began in Western culture the worship of the child, innocent and perfect in nature. Anyone who has raised a human from scratch knows this is a lie. Children are savages --egocentric little brutes who by the age of three master every form of human misconduct, including violence, fraud, and bribery, in order to get what they want. The one who lived in my house never improved. Last fall it turned out that the community college, for which I'd dutifully given him a tuition check at the beginning of each quarter, did not have the bastard registered. A month ago I took him out to dinner and caught him trying to pocket the waitress's tip.
About three times a week I threaten to throw him out, but his mother has told him the divorce decree provides that I will support him until he's twenty-one--Brushy and I had assumed that meant paying for college--and Nora, who thinks the boy needs understanding, especially since she doesn't have to provide much, would doubtless find this an occasion for yet another principled disagreement and probably seek an order requiring Lyle and me to get some counseling--another five hundred bucks a month. Thus, the thought often stabs me with the ugly starkness of a rusty knife: I am afraid of him now too.
Believe me, I am not as cheerful as I sound.
Rising for another bowl of cereal, my son asked where I had been.
"I was dealing with uncomfortable aspects of my past," I told him.
"Like Mom, you mean?" He thought he was funny. "I ran into a cop I used to know. Over at U Inn."
"Really?" Lyle thinks it's neat that I was a policeman, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity for role reversal. "You aren't in trouble are you, Dad?"
"If I ever need to be bailed out, chum, I know where I can find an expert." I gave him a meaningful look, which sent Lyle at once across the kitchen.
It had killed Pigeyes to let me go. He and Dewey had talked it over for about fifteen minutes and apparently decided that they had better check out my story about Bert. Gino gave me back the credit card and told me to hold on to it because I'd hear from him soon. It didn't sound like he'd be bringing a bouquet.
Slurping up my dinner now, I wished I hadn't been so hasty with Bert's name. The problem, slowly dawning on me, was that when Pigeyes and Dewey open Bert's refrigerator, the next stop would be G &G. They'd want to know everything about Kamin. At that point--probably within the next week--it would be hard to keep the missing money out of our answers. And once this was a police matter, everybody would be posturing. Even if Krzysinski kept his cool now when Jake gave him the lowdown, there'd be no hush-hush after the cops arrived, no diplomatic solutions. It'd be sayonara, G &G. I needed to get going. Still, the news that there is a living breathing human named Kam Roberts has left one feeling like an astronomer who just discovered that there's a second planet in our orbit, also called Earth. If he wasn't Bert--and Bert wasn't twenty-seven, black, or losing his hair when I last saw him twelve days ago--then why is Kam Roberts using Bert's name upside down and getting his mail at Bert's house?
I'd been carrying the note that Lena had copied off Infomode in my shirt pocket. I studied it for a second and in total desperation even showed it to Lyle. I told him it seemed like Bert had written it.
"That dude? One who took us to a couple Trappers games? Got to be sports with him, man."
"Thank you, Sherlock. What sport in particular? Safecracking?"
Lyle was blank. I might as well have asked him about Buddhism. The kid had left a pack of cigarettes on the table and I took one as a garnish.
"Hey." He pointed. "Buy your own."
"I'm saving you," I said. "I'm conserving your health and future."
The kid didn't think I was funny. He never did. If I start counting the endeavors in this life at which I have failed, I'll burn out the batteries on this
According to that splendid education I received out at the U., it was Rousseau who began in Western culture the worship of the child, innocent and perfect in nature. Anyone who has raised a human from scratch knows this is a lie. Children are savages --egocentric little brutes who by the age of three master every form of human misconduct, including violence, fraud, and bribery, in order to get what they want. The one who lived in my house never improved. Last fall it turned out that the community college, for which I'd dutifully given him a tuition check at the beginning of each quarter, did not have the bastard registered. A month ago I took him out to dinner and caught him trying to pocket the waitress's tip.
About three times a week I threaten to throw him out, but his mother has told him the divorce decree provides that I will support him until he's twenty-one--Brushy and I had assumed that meant paying for college--and Nora, who thinks the boy needs understanding, especially since she doesn't have to provide much, would doubtless find this an occasion for yet another principled disagreement and probably seek an order requiring Lyle and me to get some counseling--another five hundred bucks a month. Thus, the thought often stabs me with the ugly starkness of a rusty knife: I am afraid of him now too.
Believe me, I am not as cheerful as I sound.
Rising for another bowl of cereal, my son asked where I had been.
"I was dealing with uncomfortable aspects of my past," I told him.
"Like Mom, you mean?" He thought he was funny. "I ran into a cop I used to know. Over at U Inn."
"Really?" Lyle thinks it's neat that I was a policeman, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity for role reversal. "You aren't in trouble are you, Dad?"
"If I ever need to be bailed out, chum, I know where I can find an expert." I gave him a meaningful look, which sent Lyle at once across the kitchen.
It had killed Pigeyes to let me go. He and Dewey had talked it over for about fifteen minutes and apparently decided that they had better check out my story about Bert. Gino gave me back the credit card and told me to hold on to it because I'd hear from him soon. It didn't sound like he'd be bringing a bouquet.
Slurping up my dinner now, I wished I hadn't been so hasty with Bert's name. The problem, slowly dawning on me, was that when Pigeyes and Dewey open Bert's refrigerator, the next stop would be G &G. They'd want to know everything about Kamin. At that point--probably within the next week--it would be hard to keep the missing money out of our answers. And once this was a police matter, everybody would be posturing. Even if Krzysinski kept his cool now when Jake gave him the lowdown, there'd be no hush-hush after the cops arrived, no diplomatic solutions. It'd be sayonara, G &G. I needed to get going. Still, the news that there is a living breathing human named Kam Roberts has left one feeling like an astronomer who just discovered that there's a second planet in our orbit, also called Earth. If he wasn't Bert--and Bert wasn't twenty-seven, black, or losing his hair when I last saw him twelve days ago--then why is Kam Roberts using Bert's name upside down and getting his mail at Bert's house?
I'd been carrying the note that Lena had copied off Infomode in my shirt pocket. I studied it for a second and in total desperation even showed it to Lyle. I told him it seemed like Bert had written it.
"That dude? One who took us to a couple Trappers games? Got to be sports with him, man."
"Thank you, Sherlock. What sport in particular? Safecracking?"
Lyle was blank. I might as well have asked him about Buddhism. The kid had left a pack of cigarettes on the table and I took one as a garnish.
"Hey." He pointed. "Buy your own."
"I'm saving you," I said. "I'm conserving your health and future."
The kid didn't think I was funny. He never did. If I start counting the endeavors in this life at which I have failed, I'll burn out the batteries on this
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