Something Happened

I used to try to observe him closely to detect if there were patterns, to see if there were any categories of personality or experience into which the different kids he gave his pe

"Why?"

(Why not, indeed? Who knows? We didn't. Although we took it for granted we did.) We were unfailingly good-natured and convivial as we took pains to convey to him (it was our responsibility as parents to do so, we made plain), repeatedly, that we loved him as much as ever anyway and were not punishing him by criticizing him and were not really mad; but we did rebuke him diligently in cordial, tolerant tones (ganging up on him, two of us at a time) as we tried to educate him, and we did try, emphatically, tenaciously, maniacally, to elucidate patiently for him why what he was doing was not wise or correct.

And the problem was that we could not explain. (We had no explanation that made sense even to us. It is difficult to be persuasive when the only answer to his Why? is a lame and dogmatic Because. We were worse to him, I feel now, than Forgione has ever been, more cruel and demoralizing than any teacher. I am overwhelmed with remorse. And yet, I know instinctively that I will do it again if he does it again and I catch him, or at least I will feel the urge to. I hope I restrain myself. I know I feel that what he does is wrong. I don't know why it is wrong. I don't know why I feel it is.) I know we were unable to present to him a single truthful and convincing reason why he ought not to give his pe

It crossed my mind whimsically to demand also that he always eat it all up himself right before our eyes (rather than run the risk he might give someone a bite from his Popsicle or candy bar), but I never went quite that far. (I am all heart, ha, ha.)

He was so uncomfortable through all these discussions and inquisitions (he didn't know what to do or where or how to look; no matter how much we joshed and chuckled to put him at ease, he was never at ease. His doubtful smile was always forced and wavering as he strained to joke back cordially with us and asked questions and gave answers to ours in a profound and abortive effort to understand just what in the world it was we had grown so determined to teach him, and why) I suppose he really wanted to give up and cry: when I look back now and recall his delicate, furrowed expression, his lowered, obliging voice, it seems evident (now) that he had come awfully close to tears, but he would not (because we did not want him to) let them flow: he masked it well (but I know him better now): he flashed his doubtful smile often at us instead, from one to the other of us, as we harangued and excoriated him affably and he groped undecidedly, with knitted brow, to catch on to and hold what we felt we had explained so fluently.

"Suppose you want the pe

"Then I'll get another one," he would answer.

"Where?"

"Here."

"From who?"

"From you."

"I won't give you one."

He squinted. "How come?" he asked in puzzlement.

"Because I won't," I said, with a conclusive gloat

"How come?"

I shrugged.

"Then I'll get it from Mommy."

"Will you?"

"I won't give you one either."

"How come?" He draws back a bit and gazes at my wife.

"You just gave one away before, didn't you? That's how little you thought of it."

He sees us watching him in silence, waiting for his next attempt.

"From the boy I gave it to," he says. "I'll get it from him."

"He won't have it."

"He won't give it to you."

"He'll spend it by then. That's why he wanted it."

"Do you think everyone's so generous?"

"Or he won't give it to you. Not everyone is as generous as you are."

"Or as rich."

"Or as well off. We're not rich."

"So you see? Do you?"

"We won't give it to you."

"You won't have one tomorrow."

My boy is befuddled and gapes at us searchingly, still straining to smile and endeavoring to make some sense of the situation, twisting in confusion (and plucking rapidly, distractedly, at his penis) as he waits for a hint, seeks hopefully to detect some beam of light that will illuminate it as some kind of well-intentioned practical joke.

("Don't pull at your penis," I am tempted to reprimand him, but I don't.)

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" my wife does inquire peremptorily. He shakes his head with surprise, wondering why she has asked.

He ca

"How come?" he asks plaintively, and now a note of misery and total resignation perforates his voice. (He is ready to capitulate if he has to.)

"To," I summarize with lofty and deliberate relish, "teach you a lesson."

What a prick I was.

What a selfish, small, obtuse, and insensitive prick. I am glum with shame and repentance now when I remember those smug and tyra