THE BENT TWIG
by Sam Douglas
How did we come to this point, I wondered, as I looked down at my son sleeping deeply now - sleeping with the innocence of a baby. He looked so peaceful - like he should, like we all should. How many times had I seen him like this? How many times had I watched him sleeping and dreamed my own dreams for him, my dreams for his future? He would be the things I had not been, had not yet been. I would make him great. I would help him conquer the world. I would prepare him to do the things I had not done. I would protect him from the world so he could conquer the world. How many times had I seen him like this?
The very first time I had seen him like this he was really little, and sort of red, and sort of wrinkled, and sort of bald, and, of course, the most beautiful and wondrous little, red, wrinkled, bald baby in the maternity ward, or in the whole world for that matter. I wasn't too good at dreaming for him then. I was overwhelmed by it all. I could only stand and stare, surrounded by hospital odors I didn't smell and hospital sounds I didn't hear and hospital sights I didn't see. I could only stare at my little miracle, sleeping soundly and peacefully. I felt a tear slide down my cheek. We named him Robert Singleton, Jr. and called him Bobby.
I got better at my dreaming after we brought him home. I got a lot of practice. He didn't always sleep as peacefully as he had in the maternity ward; and when he woke up, he cried. And when he cried, I got up with him. I'd pick him up and feed him and change him and walk him and rock him and dream my dreams for him. He would be a great athlete, a great scholar, a handsome lead in the school play. He would be the strongest, the brightest, the most talented, the best there ever was. After a while, he'd sleep again; but I'd still be awake, holding his little, warm, soft body in my arms, against my chest where it made my heart hurt. Sometimes I felt so good, it brought tears to my eyes.
The first word he said was, "Dada." Now, you may think he was just making a sound, but you're wrong. He was calling me, and I responded. His dada was there, protecting him from the world, preparing him for the world. He said, "Dada"; I said, "I'm here." He took a step; I applauded. He fell; I caught him - before he hit the floor. I was there when he needed me - and even before.
The first time he really had to face the world, he didn't like it very much. It was the first day of school, and it scared him. It scared me, too. We dressed him up. We drove him to the school. We carried him to the classroom. We kissed him and left him there, tears streaming down his face. As we turned our backs and walked away, I felt a tear run down my face, too.
Later, his teacher called. He was still crying, she couldn't get him to stop, he was disrupting the class and upsetting the other children. I went back to the school and brought him home. I held him in my arms, and he stopped crying. I held him close to my
chest and rocked him. He fell asleep, deeply, soundly, peacefully.
But the world still lurked out there, waiting for him, and he had to face it. I talked to him a long time, explaining it to him, telling him why he had to go to school, what it meant to me and to him, assuring him that everyone had to do it and usually ended up liking it. After all that, he said, "I don't want to go back there, Daddy." The next day I took him back to school. I held his hand tightly and walked him to the classroom door. I told him he could not cry and he must stay all day. He looked me straight in the face with a tear forming in the corner of his eye. Then he kicked me in the shin, turned, and walked into the classroom.
He stuck it out this time. He stayed in school, faced the world, and did fine. Sometimes the other kids didn't understand him, or at least that's what I gathered from talking to his teachers. But the teachers didn't understand him either. They thought he was supposed to be like all the other kids. They didn't understand that he was special. Sometimes this misunderstanding showed up in his report cards, and I had to talk to them about that. But they really didn't understand, were incapable of understanding; and I finally realized that we'd have to live with that and compensate so that it didn't do too much damage to Bobby. Deep down inside, I knew he was doing fine now; and I was very proud of him. Sometimes I was so proud it made me feel like crying.
As he grew, so did I. I became more successful in business, made a lot of money, and met some important and influential people. Along with that, the money and the important friends, I achieved a degree of influence and power myself. By the time my son reached high school, I was able to do more for him. I remember feeling really proud when he told me he was going out for the football team. I knew he would do well at it. But a few days later he came home from practice, slammed the front door, went straight to his room, and slammed the door there, too. I went to his room and knocked on the door, but I got no answer. I tried the knob and it turned. I opened the door and went inside. Bobby was sitting on the side of his bed staring out the window.
"What's wrong, son?" I asked.
"Nothing. Go away. I don't want to talk to you."
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Why not?" I asked.
He pushed my hand away roughly. "You think you're so great. You think you can do anything. But you can't even get your son on the football team - not even on a lousy little old high school football team."
"What are you talking about, son?"
"Just that I didn't make the team. Coach Matthews told me I wasn't good enough. But I know I'm as good as those other guys. So he must have something against you."
I looked down at him. He still stared out the window. "I know you're good enough, too," I said, "I'll see if I can get the coach to change his mind." I put my hand on his shoulder again.
"I'll believe that when I see it," he said sarcastically, and he flung my hand away violently.
I talked to Coach Matthews, but he didn't seem to realize that Bobby was better than some of the players he'd kept on the team. I tried to reason with him; but when he implied that Bobby's attitude offset his physical abilities, I knew that was not possible. It became obvious that he was woefully unqualified for the job he was supposed to be doing.
So I talked to Principal McAndrews. He was more understanding. He at least recognized the contributions I had made to the school and the favorable influence I could exert on its behalf. He said he'd talk to the coach; but he also said that, if he were unable to change the coach's mind, he'd have to support his decision. I came to the belief that this man was probably not persuasive enough to change anybody's mind.
I had hoped that I wouldn't have to go this far just to see justice done, but I finally realized that I'd have to talk to my friend Roger Elwood, who was serving currently as the President of the School Board. Roger was much more perceptive and receptive than either the coach or the principal had been. When I explained the problem to him, he just said, "Don't worry about it, old buddy. Just leave it to me. Little Bobby deserves his chance just like everybody else, and he's gonna get it."
The following week Coach Matthews called me at my office. "I've been thinking about our conversation the other day," he said. "I think I may have been a little hasty in releasing Bobby from the team. I want him to get his fair chance, so why don't you tell him to come back to practice tomorrow?"
"That's all I wanted, Coach, just a fair chance for Bobby. But I think it would be nice if you called him and told him. He ought to be home now."
When I got home, Bobby was in the yard tossing a football around with a neighbor boy. "Hey, what's new, Son?" I greeted him.
"Nothing much," he said. "Coach Matthews called and told me he wants me back on the team. I guess he figured out he made a mistake. See - I didn't need your help after all."
The rest of the football season went pretty well. Bobby did okay. Once in a while he didn't get as much playing time as he wanted; but I'd mention that to Coach Matthews, and he'd take care of it.
Football became a little less important to Bobby anyway after that. He discovered girls, and they began to take up more of his time. It seemed to me that he was with a different girl every time I saw him. That was good. It wouldn't be wise for him to get too involved too young with any one girl. That might interfere with all the great things he was going to accomplish. But it was good for him to learn to relate to the opposite sex, and he seemed to be doing that well. Of course, he needed money to do it, so I raised his allowance a little. And he needed a car, also, so I bought him one - new but not too flashy.
Things seemed to be going well all around. I even tried to have the old birds-and-the-bees talk with Bobby. "You think I don't already know all that stuff, Dad? Boy, sometimes you can really be dense," he said.
So it came as a minor shock when he came to me shortly after that and told me he had a problem. "There's this girl and she sort of got herself pregnant, you know. She says I'm the father, but I don't know that. It's not my fault anyway, you know. Jeez, a girl shouldn't let herself get knocked up."
It took me only a second to get over that minor shock. My son needed my support now. I said, "You're right, son. It's not your fault. Don't worry about it. A girl who's going to do things like this should take precautions. You say you don't know you're the father. Who else has this girl been messing around with?"
"I don't know, but there must be somebody."
"What does she want from you? Who is this girl anyway?" I asked.
"It's Betty Murphy. I think she just assumes that since she's pregnant, we'll get married."
"Betty Murphy? I didn't think she was that kind of girl," I said. And I was more surprised than my voice revealed. Betty Murphy was a "nice girl," one of those who never causes any problems, never gets into any trouble, obeys the rules and her parents, studies hard, makes good grades, goes to church, respects her elders, etc., etc., etc. She was nice looking in a mousy sort of way, and she was innocent and vulnerable looking. That's probably how she trapped Bobby.
But the important thing at that point in his life was to insure that this thing didn't upset Bobby, that it didn't distract him from his future. So I called Sam Murphy and asked him to stop by my office. I didn't know if he knew about his daughter's problem, and I didn't tell him what I wanted to talk to him about. I just told him it was important.
He came, dressed in the coveralls he wore in his work. He was a pretty good mechanic down at Tom Cranston's garage. Tom paid him good wages because he didn't want to lose Sam to another company, but the only way to make any real money in that line is to have your own business. Most people who knew him said that Sam ought to go into business for himself, but he knew better and so did I. He was talented with his hands
but he had no head for business. He was a plodder, a good man who would never be more than he was already. He knew who he was, and he knew his place.
He entered my office, at my secretary's direction, a little hesitantly, a little timidly. "Hello, Sam," I said. "Glad you could make it. Could I have my secretary bring you some coffee?"
"No, thanks, Mr. Singleton," he said. "I've been real curious about what you wanted me for."
"Well, then, let's get right to it. Did you know our kids have been seeing each other?"
"Sure, I know. My Betty really likes Bobby. She told us all about him." That's strange, I thought, Bobby hadn't told me anything about Betty until he told me she was pregnant.
"I don't think she told you everything, Sam," I said. "Did she tell you she's pregnant?"
He turned completely white. He stared at me. He swallowed. He sat still for a long time. His mouth moved but no sound came out.
Finally he managed to murmur in a small, weak voice, "No, she didn't tell us that." He didn't presume to dispute the statement. "This ain't a very good thing, but I guess if the kids really like each other, it might not be all bad."
"Well, unfortunately, Sam, Bobby isn't absolutely sure that he's the father."
Again he found it hard to speak. In a smaller, weaker voice, he said, "I don't know who else it could be. I don't know any other boy she's been seeing."
"Well, don't worry about it, Sam. Bobby's perfectly willing to accept the responsibility for the situation. Thing is, though, that he can't afford to get bogged down right now with a wife and kid; so we've got to find some other solution."
"What kind of solution, Mr. Singleton?"
I looked straight into his eyes but he lowered his face. "Whatever you think best, Sam. We'll foot the bill for whatever has to be done. But frankly, I think Betty is too young and has too bright a future to be bogged down with a child herself. There are safe, sure ways to correct these things; and like I said, we'll pay for everything. I'll even make the arrangements if you want me to."
"I'll have to talk to Betty and think about it some, Mr. Singleton."
"Of course, you will, Sam. But you don't want to wait too long. It's best to take care of these kinds of things as soon as possible. It gets harder and more dangerous the longer you wait. We wouldn't want anything to happen to Betty." I paused and looked at him. He raised his face, and I saw fear in his eyes. "I tell you what, Sam. I'll go ahead and make the arrangements, and you go ahead and talk to Betty. We both know deep down inside that it's the best thing to do. Just get Betty prepared for it, and I'll call you in a day or two and let you know where to take her."
"Yeah, okay, Mr. Singleton," he rose and walked slowly toward the door. When he reached it, he turned and faced me, "I'll do just what you say, Mr. Singleton." And he thanked me as he left.
A few discreet questions located a doctor, in an adjacent state, who had a reputation for handling these situations with care and discretion. A few discreet dollars bought some time on his schedule. I called Sam Murphy and told him about the appointment. He said Betty was pretty upset, but he'd convinced her that this was the best way. And he thanked me again.
It was a long time before I saw Sam Murphy again. I don't remember seeing Betty again at all. But we didn't really travel in the same circles.
Luckily the incident didn't appear to have any lasting effect on Bobby. He was his old self immediately. I thought the incident sort of made it advisable that I make another try at the birds-and-the-bees routine. Bobby laughed it off again. "Hey," I said, "After what you just went through, I'd think you'd take this subject a little more seriously."
"What I just went through wasn't my fault, Dad. You said so yourself. Besides you fixed it without any big sweat, so I don't think you should make such a big deal out of it. Why don't you just let me enjoy my life? Why do you find it necessary to try to put a guilt trip on me?"
"I don't want you to feel guilty. I just want you to be careful. Now's the time you need to be thinking ahead to college and your future. You don't need any distractions from that."
"Okay, Dad, okay, okay, okay! I'll be careful. Just don't ruin my life trying to plan my life. Give me a little room to breathe. I'll let you know when I need you. Okay?"
So I backed off a little, but I watched a little closer. The next girl might not be as reasonable as Betty Murphy. Her father might not be as understanding as Sam Murphy.
With all his extracurricular activities, Bobby's grades were not exceptional. But
the other activities were important, too, of course. Academics and grades have their place, but a young person needs other experiences to be well rounded, fully developed. Still the grades presented a minor problem in getting Bobby into the university he wanted to attend. But universities have their priorities, too, and I was finally able to match theirs with ours. Bobby was accepted. That was a happy day in my life. I felt it really started Bobby on his way. This school would certainly prepare him for life, give him all the tools for success, provide him with contacts that would come in handy forever. Bobby, of course, took it in stride, accepted it as his due. "I knew I'd get in," he said. "You just don't have enough faith in me, Dad. You're always either putting me down or holding me back." Strangely enough, I liked that attitude. It showed a confidence he'd also need to succeed in the world.
Things seemed to go well for a while. Bobby called pretty often, usually asked me to send him a little money. Sometimes his definition of little didn't exactly coincide with mine; but what the hell, I thought, all college kids call home for money. I sent him what he wanted. I was just subsidizing his future, I told myself.
After a while he started telling us about a girl he met there, a Jennifer Bruce. I'd never heard him so enthusiastic about a girl before. He told us about how she looked, what she did, what they did together; and he told us in such a way that told us he'd finally met a girl he could really care for. He asked for more money, and I sent it.
Later on, some evidence of his old academic problems crept into his telephone calls. It started out with things like, "I didn't do so good on that test last week" and "I'm having a little trouble in psych." And it ended up with, "I'm afraid you're going to have
to do something about my grades, Dad."
But the university had its priorities; and as it turned out, Bobby's confidence and my influence couldn't overcome this school's insistence that students achieve minimum academic standards. Bobby was suspended and came home, but not with his tail between his legs. "I knew right away that place wasn't all it was cracked up to be," he said. "The whole faculty, the administration, even the students were a bunch of stuffed shirts. Man, it was nerd heaven up there. But they did teach me a couple of things. One is you don't need college to succeed in life. And the other is you can't always count on your dad."
That hurt, but I didn't want to upset him any more than he was already, so I let it pass. "Yeah, well, what are you going to do now?" I asked.
"I'd like to just take a little time off and look around some before I decide. You shouldn't mind that. You owe it to me. And I want to go back up there and talk to Jennifer. We've got to decide where we want to go from here."
He talked her into quitting school and brought her back home with him. He told me they wanted to get married, but Jennifer was afraid to tell her folks. I called them and broke the news. They were not pleased. It was not difficult to figure out that they didn't think too much of Bobby. I think Jennifer had told them just enough about him for them to decide he was not good for her. I got them to realize that it was too late to oppose the marriage and invited them to the wedding.
It was a beautiful wedding. Most of the town came - all the people who owed me favors or wanted to. The bride was radiant, like all brides I guess, dressed in a lovely flowing white gown with a lacy veil covering her virginal face. She glowed. Bobby was
handsome as usual in a pale blue tuxedo. Together they looked like the beautiful beginning of a happy ending. I thought this was perhaps the minute that made everything before worthwhile. I looked at them and felt a tear slide down my cheek.
Jennifer's parents were salt-of-the-earth types. Her mother was demure and prim looking, much plainer than her daughter. Her father was a big, raw-boned man who seemed uncomfortable and out of place in his suit. He owned a small construction company upstate, which he'd built himself from the ground up. He reminded me a lot of Sam Murphy.
We sent the kids on a honeymoon cruise through the Caribbean. They returned looking tanned and fit, just as they'd looked when they left. Little did we realize that Jennifer was already pregnant. We presented them with the keys to their new house, and I told Bobby that I'd made an appointment for him with Mack Reynolds. Mack was an old friend of mine who owned a small, but growing, advertising agency. He had a vacancy for a junior executive and had agreed to talk to Bobby about the job.
Bobby protested, "Dad, I don't know if I'm ready for that. I don't know if I want that. I've been thinking I'd be better off taking a little time, looking things over very carefully, and making sure of what I want before I jump into something."
Poor kid, I thought, he really wasn't accustomed to feelings of uncertainty. "There are a couple of things you ought to consider, though, Bobby," I said. "First of all, this is an excellent opportunity that may not be there later on. Secondly, it seems like it might be just the kind of work you're cut out for. And finally, you've got an inside track because Mack Reynolds knows you. I hate to throw tired old cliches at you, but you've
got more responsibilities now and you've got to consider that. You can't afford to pass up a chance like this." I hoped I sounded paternal, responsible, and convincing. I felt good having this kind of talk with my son.
But he looked pressured and resentful, "Okay, Dad, okay. I'll talk to him. But if I get bogged down in something that turns out to be a mistake, it'll be your fault."
Mack Reynolds called me after the interview. He didn't mince any words, he got right to what was on his mind. "Rob," he said, "I don't think it would be such a good idea to bring Bobby into my company."
"Why not?" I asked. "He's a bright young kid. He has always been articulate. He has always been able to get things done. He has always been able to convince people. I would think those would be just the qualities you're looking for in a young executive." I felt good that I could give such an objective appraisal of my own son. It was all true. He really had all those qualities - even if he was my son.
"Yeah, those are the qualities I need all right. But the biggest thing that concerns me about Bobby is that he really doesn't want to come into my business. I talked to him a long time. I wanted to give him a fair chance, but I never did really figure out what he wants. I don't think he knows himself. Maybe he doesn't want anything. Maybe he just wants to drift along through life."
"Now, come on, Mack, that isn't true," I said. "The kid just got married. He just took on the responsibility of a family. He wants to settle down. He needs stability. He just doesn't know how to project that yet. Soon as he settles into your routine over there, things will fall into place. You admitted he has the qualities you need in the job. Give
him a chance to show you what he can do. I know a guy like you can bring out the best of his qualities."
"First of all, Rob, I never admitted that Bobby has the qualities I need. I'm not at all sure that he does - not even the raw talent. And I'm certainly not sure he could channel the talent in the right direction even if he had it. Frankly, I'm not sure I could get anything out of him."
"Sure, you can, Mack. He's my son, you're my friend, you'll make a great team." There went the old objectivity, I thought, but it was Mack's fault. He just wasn't perceptive enough to see and appreciate Bobby's potential.
"I really don't know, Rob. This is business. This is serious. I can't afford to be wrong. I can't afford to take a chance."
"What? You're not taking any chance. You can't go wrong. This would be a good move for you and your company. Come on, Mack. Remember me - I'm Rob. You and I have come a long way together, much too long for us to be talking this way now."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I didn't break it. I didn't want to interfere with his chain of thought, with his talking himself into doing what I wanted. Finally, he said, "Okay, Rob. Tell Bobby to be in my office at nine Monday morning ready to go to work." He didn't sound as happy as a man should when he'd just made a wise business decision.
"Great, Mack. I'll do that. You won't regret this. And if I can do anything for you, let me know." There, I thought, as I hung up the phone, the first step to bigger and better things. Bobby was on his way.
But he wasn't so sure about that. "I told you before, Dad, that I'm not sure what I
want. Maybe this isn't it. Mr. Reynolds didn't seem to think so either."
"I've already talked to him about that, Bobby. His only reservation was that maybe you weren't fired up enough about the job. He thinks you have the qualifications to do real well at it, and he really wants you. He told me the job is yours if you want it."
"But I don't want it!"
"Sure, you do. Really. Just look at the facts. You're perfect for this job. You've got all the talent and qualities to do great at it. And that would be just the beginning. A job like this would make you all kinds of contacts. There's no telling where it could lead. You're not dumb enough to pass up an opportunity like this. Besides that you've still got to remember your responsibilities. You need a job, and this is certainly the best one around right now."
His expression had changed slightly when I'd said "contacts," and now he seemed more receptive. "Yeah, well, I guess you're right, Dad. I'll give it a try."
After that, things settled down into somewhat of a routine. For a while, Bobby and Jennifer came over to see us occasionally in the evenings or on weekends, and we went to see them. Jennifer fixed the house up nice, and they were looking forward to the birth of the baby.
But after a while, they didn't come over much; and when we went to their place, as often as not, Jennifer would be there alone. She said Bobby was working late a lot. "With the baby coming and all, he really needs to do well on the job," she said. "So I don't mind so much. I just hope he'll be able to spend more time at home after the baby comes." As she got bigger, Jennifer didn't feel like having company; so we saw them
even less.
Then one night around 2 a. m., our phone rang. I was sound asleep, so it took a few rings before I realized it was the phone; I kept trying to shut off the alarm. When I finally did pick up the phone, I didn't recognize the voice; so at first, I didn't realize it was Jennifer. She finally screamed, "Dad, it's Jennifer. I need help." It took a few seconds more for me to understand that she was in labor and Bobby was not at home. That brought me fully awake. I rushed into my clothes, into my car, to their house, and to the hospital just before the birth of their son. It all happened so fast I didn't even get a chance to try to find Bobby.
They let me talk to Jennifer for a few minutes after the birth. I asked her why she hadn't called me sooner. "I didn't want to bother you, Dad," she said. "I tried to find Bobby, but he wasn't in the office. I called Mr. Reynolds at home to see if he knew where Bobby was, but he didn't. Then I waited a little while to see if he would come home before I decided that I had to call you."
"Well, things turned out okay this time; but if you ever need me again, don't hesitate to call. Did you ever figure out where Bobby is? Isn't it kind of late for him to be working?"
"Yes, but sometimes he has to work really late both in the office and entertaining clients and such. The first few times he had to stay this late I was worried, but I sort of got used to it. I'm just sorry he missed the birth of his son."
"Well, I'll call your house and see if he's home yet. If not, I'll find him and get him here to see you. You'd better get some rest now. You've put in enough time for one
day."
"Okay, Dad, and thanks." Her eyes closed as she said it.
I still thought it strange that Bobby should be working this late. It was even stranger that, if he were working, Mack Reynolds didn't know where he was. I called Bobby's home, and after several rings, he answered sleepily. "Bobby, where have you been? Jennifer's in the hospital. She already had the baby. It's a boy."
"Yeah, well, that's good."
"Where've you been?" I asked again.
"Uh, well, Dad, I was with this client. We got to talking about the account and having a few drinks and time just got away from us. Is Jennifer okay?" I had the uneasy feeling that he asked about her more to change the subject than out of any real concern.
"She's okay. She just got to sleep, so you probably shouldn't go down there till tomorrow." Hell, it was already tomorrow. "Let her get some rest, but be there when she wakes up."
"Okay, Dad. I'll call Mr. Reynolds after a while and tell him I won't be in today."
"If I can do anything, let me know. Oh, and congratulations, Daddy."
For a while after that, we visited back and forth again like in the early days of their marriage. We heard little Bobby say his first word and saw him take his first step, both of which we considered rare treats for the grandparents. He grew into a handsome little toddler before our relationship with Bobby and Jennifer eased off again. He began working too hard again, and she was forced to spend too much time alone again. Several
times we went over in the evening to find just her and little Bobby there. Each time she said Bobby was working and she wished he had more time to spend with his son. "Little Bobby doesn't even know his father," she said.
I called Mack Reynolds. "What are you doing, Mack," I asked, "working my boy to death?"
"What are you talking about, Rob?"
"Way I'm hearing it is that Bobby's working a lot of hours lately, nights and everything. Seems like he doesn't have any time at all for his wife and baby."
"Well, Rob, I don't know what you're hearing, but Bobby's not working a lot of hours for me. And he sure isn't working any nights. As a matter of fact, I'm kind of glad you called. I wanted to talk to you about this. Bobby's not pulling his weight in the office. I've been on the verge of firing him several times. The only reason I haven't is because of you and Jennifer and the baby. But I really can't put up with it much longer."
Why wasn't I more surprised? "I guess I was sort of afraid of that, Mack. Let me talk to the boy and see if I can straighten him out."
"Okay, Rob. But like I said, I can't put up with it much longer."
"Yeah, I know, Mack. Thanks."
I went over to Bobby's house early the following Sunday morning, so I'd catch him before he disappeared for the day. He was still asleep, but Jennifer was up. She said Bobby didn't usually go "to work" until after noon on Sunday. Little Bobby was building a fort with blocks on the floor. He looked scrubbed and healthy. When his father stumbled sleepily into the room a little while later, little Bobby didn't seem to notice him at all.
Jennifer poured coffee for Bobby and a second cup for me, and I asked him to go out on the porch with me. I wanted to talk where nobody else would hear. I told Bobby about my conversation with Mack Reynolds, ending with, "I don't know where you're spending your time, Son, but I do know that you're jeopardizing your job and probably your family. You've got to straighten up, really spend more time on the job and with your wife and baby. Don't ruin your whole life, Bobby."
His face had grown harder and harder as I spoke and his eyes colder and colder. Suddenly, he exploded. "Look, old man," he shouted, "Where I spend my time is none of your business, and how I ruin my life is none of your business. Everything has been going fine as far as I'm concerned and I don't need your interference. As for Mack Reynolds and his lousy job, they're history. I quit that rat race yesterday when he tried to have one of those fatherly talks with me. If you remember correctly, I didn't want that stinking job in the first place. You conned me into taking it, so this is all your fault anyway. Now I'll find the job I want, and I'll thank you to stay out of my life."
"Oh, come on, Bobby," I said and reached out my hand toward him. He lashed out with a closed fist and hit me solidly on the side of my face. I fell backwards off the porch; and as I fell, I saw Jennifer's face at the door. I didn't know how much she had heard, but she wore a strange, shocked, sad expression. I got up and touched my cheek. There was blood. I walked to my car and drove away.
I didn't hear from Bobby for several months. Then one day the phone rang, and he was on the line. "Hi, Dad," he said. "How're things going?" Strangely enough, I was glad to hear his voice.
"Not too bad," I said, "How are things with you and Jennifer?"
"Not too good, really. Jennifer's gone, took little Bobby with her not long after the last time I saw you. I wasn't at home when it happened, but one of my neighbors told me that her folks came and took her away."
"That's too bad. Jennifer was a real nice girl. You should have tried harder to keep her."
"Well, she wasn't really as nice as everybody thought, but I'm sorta sorry she's gone."
I didn't want to pursue that line of talk further, so I just said, "Yeah, well, what else is new with you? What are you doing with yourself nowadays?"
"I've been looking around, making some good contacts, you know, but I haven't found the right thing yet. I don't want to jump into anything prematurely."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "But you can't afford to wait too long. I don't expect your money can last much longer."
"That's for sure. As a matter of fact, the bills are mounting up a little right now. You know, Dad, I don't really need this big house now that Jennifer and little Bobby are gone. It costs money to keep it, so I was wondering if you could take it off my hands or get rid of it for me. You're good at things like that."
"I guess I could," I said, "but where will you stay?"
"Frankly, Dad, I was kinda hoping I could move back into my old room there for a little while till I get settled down again."
I hesitated for a second - but only a second. He was my son. I gave him life, I
raised him, I loved him. "Okay, Bobby," I said, "Come on home till you get your feet back on the ground."
I hung up the phone and stared at it for a long time. The air was heavy and oppressive. I had an uneasy feeling that I couldn't put an origin on. I picked up the phone again and dialed Jennifer's folks. Her mother answered the phone. "Hello, Mrs. Bruce," I said. We had never gotten on a first name basis with them. "This is Rob Singleton. Is Jennifer there?"
"Why do you want her? Haven't you done enough harm already? You almost killed her the last time you beat her. You're lucky you're not in jail right now - if it had been up to me you would be. Leave Jennifer alone. I begged her not to marry you in the first place. Now leave her alone. You've hurt her enough physically, psychologically, and mentally. You've hurt her enough." This all came out in a rush, a tirade, in a single breath.
"This is Rob Singleton, Mrs. Bruce, not Bobby," I said and put the phone back down.
Bobby moved back into his old room. Over a period of several months, our routine changed itself almost imperceptibly until it revolved almost entirely around him, just like the old days. For a while he put on a great show of getting himself ready to go out to look for work. He never found it, I don't know if he ever actually looked. After a while, he gave up the pretense and just went out. I never knew where. He didn't say and I didn't ask.
He usually got back late, smelling of alcohol or perfume or both and wanting
dinner no matter how late it was. At first his mother treated him like the long lost son, put his dinner on the table, and served him while he ate. But after a while, she resisted somewhat, asking if he couldn't try to get home in time for dinner. He became defensive, whiny, abusive, and she relented. In the end, she dropped whatever she was doing, sometimes even getting out of bed, to give him dinner. Sometimes he ate it, sometimes he fell asleep in it, sometimes it just got cold.
And where was I while all this was going on? At first I protested his hours and his demands on his mother. But he always took the offensive, telling me how hard it was for him in his circumstances and how I had ruined his life. After a while, I capitulated and left the late night "dinners" as a matter between Bobby and his mother. But that sore left to fester became an infection that had to be treated. It finally became the focal point of a power struggle between Bobby and his mother and eventually between him and me.
One night his mother and I had already gone to bed when Bobby came home. He pounded on our bedroom door and shouted, "Mama, I'm hungry. Come on out and make me some dinner."
Almost instinctively, my wife started to get up. I caught her arm and stopped her, "I think it's about time we cut this off," I said. "Stay in bed."
Bobby pounded on the door again and shouted louder, "Come on, Mama!"
She lay quietly, not moving. I couldn't hear her breathing. I held my breath.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash in the living room. "Oops, there goes the mirror," Bobby's voice said through our door. "Better come on out and get my dinner before something else gets accidentally broken."
My wife had jolted upright at the sound of the crash. Now she started to get out of bed again, and again I restrained her. There was silence for a minute, and then our bedroom door burst open and Bobby charged into the room. He ran to the bed, grasped his mother's arm, and pulled her from the bed. She sprawled headlong with her hands on the floor and her feet still on the bed as Bobby shouted, "Get up now and fix my dinner, Mama."
I ran around the bed, wanting to get to my wife, to help her up. But before I got to her, Bobby flung his arm and clenched fist backward hitting me full in the mouth. I fell backward, stunned and with blood gushing from both my lips. I hit the wall behind me and slid down to the floor. I could see my wife's horrified expression, slightly out of focus, and I could see Bobby moving toward me fists still clenched. "Bobby," my wife caught his arm. "Come on and get your dinner." He looked down at me for a second and then turned and left the room with his mother. She glanced back at me from the doorway, and I saw a look of despair in her eyes that never again left them.
That was a long time ago. Many years have passed, but that night set the pattern for them all. Bobby didn't spend much time at home; and when he was there, he just ate, drank, and slept. If anything interfered with his eating or drinking or sleeping, he reacted violently. Sometimes his violence was directed only toward the house or furnishings, but more often it was directed toward his mother or me. I watched the despair and fear in my wife's eyes ebb and flow with his comings and goings, but it never left them completely until she died. We had never talked about the situation. I guess we were ashamed to admit it existed or were afraid to confront it. We certainly didn't feel there were any realistic ways for us to correct it, so we tried to pretend it wasn't happening. But as my wife lay dying, she looked at me and whispered, "Don't let him kill you, too."
That was a long time ago, too. And now I stood in the dark thinking back on it and gingerly touched the sensitive spot under my eye. I hadn't looked in a mirror, and I casually wondered if it had bruised yet. From many previous experiences, I knew that it would. Perhaps the eye would blacken. I still had the taste of blood in my mouth. God, I thought, I need a little Listerine - or a shot of Scotch. I looked down again at my sleeping son. How could he sleep so soundly? I couldn't sleep, I hadn't slept soundly for a long time. He looked so calm, so content, so peaceful. Even now, even at his age, he still looked angelic.
How did we come to this point, I wondered again. The weight in my hand tugged at my shoulder. It ached, too. I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I raised my hand slowly and gently squeezed the trigger.
THE END
Jennifer says:
About a third of the way through the story it's clear where it's going, and nothing interrupts that flow. Good mechanics, but I wanted more of a surprise.
Plot - 18
Characters - 18
Mechanics - 23
Enjoyment - 17
TOTAL - 76
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