it has been committed by either my father or me. The wrongdoer, in other words, is one of the two members of the family who owns a penis. Okay. So far so good. Now: did he fuck between those luscious legs the gentile cashier from the office, or have I eaten my sister’s chocolate pudding? You see, she
didn’t
want it at dinner, but apparently
did
want it saved so she could have it before she went to bed. Well, good Christ, how was I supposed to know all that, Hannah? Who looks into the fine points when he’s hungry? I’m eight years old and chocolate pudding happens to get me hot. All I have to do is see that deep chocolatey surface gleaming out at me from the refrigerator, and my life isn’t my own. Furthermore, I
thought
it was
left over!
And that’s the truth! Jesus Christ, is that what this screaming and
shrying
is all about, that I ate that sad sack’s chocolate pudding? Even if I did, I didn’t mean it! I thought it was something else! I swear, I swear, I didn’t mean to do it! … But
is
that me—or my father hollering out his defense before the jury? Sure, that’s him—he did it, okay, okay, Sophie, leave me alone already, I did it,
but I didn’t mean it!
Shit, the next thing he’ll tell her is why he should be forgiven is because he didn’t
like
it either. What do you mean, you didn’t
mean
it, schmuck—you stuck it in there, didn’t you? Then stick up for yourself now, like a man! Tell her, tell her: “That’s right, Sophie, I slipped it to the
shikse
, and what you think and don’t think on the subject don’t mean shit to me. Because the way it works, in case you ain’t heard, is that I am the man around here,
and I call the shots!
” And slug her if you have to! Deck her, Jake! Surely that’s what a
goy
would do, would he not? Do you think one of those big-shot deer hunters with a gun collapses in a chair when he gets caught committing the seventh and starts weeping and begging his wife to be
forgiven?
—forgiven for
what?
What after all does it consist of? You put your dick some place and moved it back and forth and stuff came out the front. So, Jake, what’s the big deal? How long did the whole thing last that you should suffer such damnation from her mouth—such guilt, such recrimination and self-loathing! Poppa, why do we have to have such guilt) deference to women, you and me—when we don’t! We mustn’t! Who should run the show, Poppa, is
us!
“Daddy has done a terrible terrible thing,” cries my mother—or is that my imagination? Isn’t what she is saying more like, “Oh, little Alex has done a terrible thing again, Daddy—” Whatever, she lifts Hannah (of all people, Hannah!), who until that moment I had never really taken seriously as a genuine object of anybody’s love, takes her up into her arms and starts kissing her all over her sad and unloved face, saying that her little girl is the only one in the whole wide world she can really trust … But if I am eight, Hannah is twelve, and nobody is picking her up, I assure you, because the poor kid’s problem is that she is overweight, “and how,” my mother says. She’s not even supposed to
eat
chocolate pudding. Yeah,
that’s
why I took it! Tough shit, Hannah, it’s what the
doctor
ordered, not me. I can’t help it if you’re fat and “sluggish” and I’m skinny and brilliant. I can’t help it that I’m so beautiful they stop Mother when she is wheeling me in my carriage so as to get a good look at my gorgeous
punim
—you hear her tell that story, it’s something I myself had nothing to do with, it’s a simple fact of nature, that I was born beautiful and you were born, if not ugly, certainly not something people wanted to take special looks at. And is that my fault, too? How you were born, four whole years before I even entered the world? Apparently this is the way God wants it to be, Hannah! In the big book!
But the fact of the matter is, she doesn’t seem to hold me responsible for anything: she
didn’t
want it at dinner, but apparently
did
want it saved so she could have it before she went to bed. Well, good Christ, how was I supposed to know all that, Hannah? Who looks into the fine points when he’s hungry? I’m eight years old and chocolate pudding happens to get me hot. All I have to do is see that deep chocolatey surface gleaming out at me from the refrigerator, and my life isn’t my own. Furthermore, I
thought
it was
left over!
And that’s the truth! Jesus Christ, is that what this screaming and
shrying
is all about, that I ate that sad sack’s chocolate pudding? Even if I did, I didn’t mean it! I thought it was something else! I swear, I swear, I didn’t mean to do it! … But
is
that me—or my father hollering out his defense before the jury? Sure, that’s him—he did it, okay, okay, Sophie, leave me alone already, I did it,
but I didn’t mean it!
Shit, the next thing he’ll tell her is why he should be forgiven is because he didn’t
like
it either. What do you mean, you didn’t
mean
it, schmuck—you stuck it in there, didn’t you? Then stick up for yourself now, like a man! Tell her, tell her: “That’s right, Sophie, I slipped it to the
shikse
, and what you think and don’t think on the subject don’t mean shit to me. Because the way it works, in case you ain’t heard, is that I am the man around here,
and I call the shots!
” And slug her if you have to! Deck her, Jake! Surely that’s what a
goy
would do, would he not? Do you think one of those big-shot deer hunters with a gun collapses in a chair when he gets caught committing the seventh and starts weeping and begging his wife to be
forgiven?
—forgiven for
what?
What after all does it consist of? You put your dick some place and moved it back and forth and stuff came out the front. So, Jake, what’s the big deal? How long did the whole thing last that you should suffer such damnation from her mouth—such guilt, such recrimination and self-loathing! Poppa, why do we have to have such guilt) deference to women, you and me—when we don’t! We mustn’t! Who should run the show, Poppa, is
us!
“Daddy has done a terrible terrible thing,” cries my mother—or is that my imagination? Isn’t what she is saying more like, “Oh, little Alex has done a terrible thing again, Daddy—” Whatever, she lifts Hannah (of all people, Hannah!), who until that moment I had never really taken seriously as a genuine object of anybody’s love, takes her up into her arms and starts kissing her all over her sad and unloved face, saying that her little girl is the only one in the whole wide world she can really trust … But if I am eight, Hannah is twelve, and nobody is picking her up, I assure you, because the poor kid’s problem is that she is overweight, “and how,” my mother says. She’s not even supposed to
eat
chocolate pudding. Yeah,
that’s
why I took it! Tough shit, Hannah, it’s what the
doctor
ordered, not me. I can’t help it if you’re fat and “sluggish” and I’m skinny and brilliant. I can’t help it that I’m so beautiful they stop Mother when she is wheeling me in my carriage so as to get a good look at my gorgeous
punim
—you hear her tell that story, it’s something I myself had nothing to do with, it’s a simple fact of nature, that I was born beautiful and you were born, if not ugly, certainly not something people wanted to take special looks at. And is that my fault, too? How you were born, four whole years before I even entered the world? Apparently this is the way God wants it to be, Hannah! In the big book!
But the fact of the matter is, she doesn’t seem to hold me responsible for anything: she
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