Something Happened

"Give the kid away."

That isn't going to happen.

I don't have to poll the members of my family to find out what we want. Even my fair-haired, lovable, good-hearted, sensitive boy, who is appalled by the alternatives, really doesn't mean it when he pleads:

"Don't."

He means:

"Please."

"But please whisk him away too swiftly for the eye to see or the mind to record and remember."

Kagle called from the filling station in town with the lie he just happened to be driving through and would like to say hello to the family. He looked haggard. There were sleepless shadows under his eyes and it was all he could do to force even a nervous smile.

"You hear things," he confided. "This time I'm really worried. Has anyone said anything about me?"

"I hear you've been to Toledo again."

"They aren't even talking to me about the convention. By now they usually give me a theme."

"Maybe they don't have one."

"I have to meet with Horace White. With him and Arthur Baron. I never have anything to do with Horace White."

"Maybe he's got some ideas."

"Two on one," Kagle chirps at me with a wink, as soon as my wife starts back into the house again.

"Coons?"

He misses my irony.

"Not for me. Not in Toledo. I've got good co

"Should I ask him to stay for di

"Don't."

"He looks so unhappy."

"He wants to drive around."

"I don't even care," Kagle says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, drying his lips. "I'm getting tired of doing the same thing anyway. Where's the kids? I'd like to say hello to them before I go."

"Out playing."

"What about the little one? The one with the brain damage?"

"He's resting. He has to."

"You know, you shouldn't blame yourself about your boy," Kagle tells me, twisting himself back into his car. "I don't blame myself about my leg. It was God's will."

"Sure, Andy," I reply with a nasty smile, gritting my teeth. "And you don't worry about your job. If you lose it, it's God's will."

"Heh-heh," he comments hollowly.

"Heh-heh."

"Why didn't you let him stay?" my wife asks.

"I didn't want him."

It is God's will.

I've got Kagle's job.

"You were with Andy Kagle today," my wife says.

"How can you tell?"

"You're walking with a limp. Is his leg getting worse?"

"No, why?"

"His limp is worse than ever. You're almost staggering."

I straighten myself from a position characteristic of one of Kagle's and lean in a slouch of my own against the newel post of the staircase leading to the second floor.

"No. He's the same."

She looks at me askance. She's been drinking wine again while helping the maid prepare di

"Then you must have been with him a long time."

"I got his job."

"Did you?"

"I was promoted today."

"To what?"

"Kagle's job."

"Kagle's?"

"It finally went through."

"Was that the job?"

"Congratulate me."

"Did you know it was his job?"

"No."

"Yes, you did."

"I had a hunch."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing."

"What will? I saw the way he looked."

"He was fired."

"My God."

"I fired him today. He doesn't know that yet. But I think he does."

"You fired him?"

"I had to, God dammit. He won't be fired. He'll be transferred somewhere else until he quits or retires. I can't keep him around. I couldn't use him after he's been in charge. He's embarrassing. He's sloppy. He'll run my work down."

"He's got two children."

"So have I."

"You've got three."

"So?"

"You're forgetting Derek again."

"So?"

"You're always forgetting Derek."

"So?"

"So's your old man." She is drunk and she is defiant.

"What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"I'm better than you," she tells me.

"You want a new house, don't you? You liked the idea that I was getting a better job, didn't you?"

"I used to think I wasn't," she continues. "But I am. You like to think you're better than me. But you're not. I'm the one who's better."

"Yeah? And you'd be even better still if you'd lay off the wine in the afternoon."

"Your mother was right."

"Leave her out of it."

"You're just no good."

"I told you to leave her out of it."

"I never thought I was."

"You're always bothering me about money, aren't you?"

"No, I don't."

"The hell you don't."

"And neither do they. We don't bother you about money that much."

"And you wonder why I don't tell you I love you, don't you?"

"I never thought I was good at anything." There is undisguised scorn, calm, measured contempt that I've never seen in her before. "You don't help much there."

"Kagle isn't sore at me. Why are you?"

"Isn't he?"

"No. In fact, he's the one who recommended me to replace him."

"No, he didn't," she jeers, with a curling lip and a belittling shake of her head. "You knew months ago. He just found out."

"You're getting good at this."

"You taught me."

"At least you got something."

"But now I know I'm better than you are, aren't I?»

"Amn't I. There's no such construction as 'aren't'."

"Puddy poo."

"What'd you say?"

"Puddy poo."

"Where'd you get that from?"

"From you. You say it in your sleep."

"I'm going upstairs. I can't take this."

"Puddy poo. What about di

"Count me out. I'll celebrate upstairs alone. I've got to start working on my speech."

"What speech?"

"The big speech I'm going to have to make to open the convention. I'm head of the department now. That might not mean much at home but it means a hell of a lot there. I run the whole show. I can do what I want."

"Can you get Andy Kagle his job back?"

"Fuck you," I tell her.

"You're just no good, are you?"

"I told you. I warned you. I don't want you ever to say that to me again."

"I'll say anything I want," she shouts back at me heatedly. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Yes, you say that to me often," I remind her. "And then you sober up, and discover that you are."

She shatters. "You bastard." The tears form quickly and are streaming down her face. "You won another argument, didn't you?"

I don't feel I've won. I feel I've lost as I mount the stairs wearily. It's been a harrowing day at the office. The meetings were concluded at five to allow the rumors to spread and percolate through the company overnight. Kagle lingers later than the rest of us to confirm them appreciatively.

"I want you to know I had a big hand in it," he tells me. "I fought for you with Arthur Baron when he asked me to recommend someone who I thought could really handle it. They were thinking of someone like Joh

No, he won't.

"Thanks, Andy. What's that you've got there?"

"It's a perpetual-motion machine Horace White gave me. I'll bet you'd never be able to figure out how it works if you didn't know where the battery was hidden."

(Batteries run down. He'll have about ten days after the convention and then he'll have to take a leave of absence for a few weeks and move. Or retire. I have a plan.)

"What about me?" I maintain to Joh