Something Happened

"You're asking me questions, aren't you? Why do you keep asking me questions?"

"Why don't you answer them?"

"I'm going to tell Mommy," he threatens. "I'm going to tell Mommy you drank whiskey."

"She won't believe you. She'll know it's a lie."

"How come?"

"Your nose will grow."

"How come?"

"A person's nose grows when he tells a lie."

"Then your nose is growing," he counters. "Because that's a lie."

"Then why would my nose be growing if it's a lie?"

"I'm going to sock you one, Daddy," he squeals in frustration, as he feels himself outsmarted.

"Why are you twisting around so much? Stand still."

"I think I'm nervous," he guesses.

"Do you have to pee? Then why are you picking at your pecker?"

"I don't like that."

(He stops picking at his pecker. I'm sorry I said it.)

"She'll smell my breath," I resume, to change that subject. "She won't smell whiskey, and that's how she'll know you're lying."

"I'm going to kick you," he says. "I think I'm going to kick you in the shins."

"Why?" I ask in surprise.

"Because," he says. "Because whenever I kick you in the shins or sock you one you begin wrestling with me and we laugh a lot, so I think I'll do it to make you laugh a lot."

"I'll kick your ass."

"I'm going to tell Mommy you said a dirty word to me."

"So what? I say dirty words to her."

"She doesn't like it. She'll fight with you."

"We don't fight."

"You fight a lot. She'll smack you."

"She doesn't smack me."

"She cries."

"No, she doesn't."

"Sometimes she does."

"You talk too much. And notice too much. Sometimes you get them all mixed up."

"I wish I knew somebody who could beat you up," he tells me, kidding.

"Why?"

"I'm going to call a cop."

"Why?"

"To smack you."

"He's not allowed to."

"You smack me."

"I'm allowed to. And I don't smack you."

"You used to."

"I did not. In your whole life I bet I never smacked you once."

"Once you did. When I was little. I remember."

"If I did, I'm sorry. But I don't think I did. I don't smack you now. Do I?"

"You're going to. Aren't you?"

"For what?"

"You know."

"I'm not."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You promise you won't smack me?"

"I promise."

"You really promise you won't smack me?"

"I promise. I won't smack you. Don't you believe me?"

"I believe you," he says.

And wham — he kicks me in the shin!

I leap a mile into the air, howling with surprise, and I know I must look fu

"I win," he jokes.

"Then let me up," I joke back.

"Only if you surrender," he says.

"I surrender," I reply.

"Then I'll let you up," he says.

I let him go and we rise slowly, breathing hard and feeling close to each other.

"You know, Daddy," he starts right in with pious gravity, trying to divert me, assuming an owlish and censorious expression as austerely as a judge, "I really did win, because you threw sand in my eyes and tickled me and that's not allowed."

"I did not," I retort fliply.

"Did you tickle me? You liar."

"That's allowed. You can tickle."

"You don't laugh."

"You don't know how to tickle."

"That's why it's not fair."

"It is fair. And furthermore," I continue, "I didn't throw sand."

"I can say you did."

"And did you know, by the way, that it's a lovely day today because the sun is shining and the bay is calm and blue, and there are nine or seven planets —»

"Nine."

"— of which Mercury is the closest to the sun and.»

"Pluto."

". Pluto is the farthest?"

"Did you hear about the homosexual astronauts?" he asks.

"Yes. They went to Uranus. And if, as they say, there are seven days in each week and fifty-two weeks in each year, how come there are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year instead of three hundred and sixty-four?"

He pauses to calculate. "How come?" he queries. "I never thought about that."

"I don't know. I never thought about it either."

"Is that what you want to talk about now?" he asks disconsolately.

"No. But if you want to stall, I'll stall along with you. You're not fooling me."

"I'm going to tell Mommy," he threatens again. "I'm going to tell Mommy you threw sand in my eyes."

"I'm going to tell her," I rejoin.

"Are you?" His ma

"What?"

"Going to tell her?"

"What?"

"You know."

"What?"

"What I did."

"Did you do something?" I inquire with airy candor.

"You know."

"I can't remember."

"What I gave away."

"Did you give something away?"

"Daddy, you know I gave a nickel away."

"When? You give a lot of nickels away."

"Just before. When you were right here."

"Why?"

"You won't know."

"Tell me why. How do you know?"

"You'll get angry and start yelling or begin to tease me or make fun of me."

"I won't. I promise."

"I wanted to," he states simply.

"That's no answer."

"I knew you'd say that."

"I knew you'd say that."

"I said you wouldn't understand."

"He didn't ask you for it," I argue. "He couldn't believe his eyes when you gave it to him. I don't think you even knew him that long. I'll bet you don't even like him that much. Do you?"