30 Pieces of a Novel (30 page)

Or his mother would come into the room and say, “Gould, sweetheart”—if the light was off and he was in bed—“are you sleeping soundly, dear?” and if the light was on and he was in bed or at his desk or playing with something on the floor, she'd say, “My darling, could you give me a few minutes? I want to say some things to you, clear up what happened between your dad and me. We both can be hotheaded people unfortunately, your father perhaps more than I, but that's still no excuse for yelling at each other in front of you the way we did, or arguing anytime like that. I apologize for it, we both do, and though I know your dad and I have both said this before, and know that you know it too, I promise we'll both try hard as we can for it never to happen again. You have to believe me, dear. You're everything to us, the light of our lives, and we love you more than we've ever loved anyone or anything. We're heartsick over tonight—I can speak for your father because I know how he feels. We hate it when you get so upset because of something terrible we do, so we want to say nothing like that will happen at the dinner table again. And we also hope never anywhere in front of you either and maybe not even again between your father and me,” and he'd think, Don't I wish, and I won't even say you said the same thing the last time, because I said that a few times already and you both always promise that the argument you just had, where you almost started to fight each other with your fists, was the last you'll have like that, or at least the last I'll ever have to sit through and see. “Gould, do you hear me?” and he'd say yes, and she'd say, “So come on, what do you have to say to it?” and he'd say, “That I heard you, what else?” and she'd say, “Could you maybe say you feel a little bit better now that I've made that promise from us?” and he'd say, “All right,” and she'd say, “And what's that mean?” and he'd say, “What you said: that it's all right,” and she'd say, “Honestly? because I don't see it on your face,” and he'd say, “Honestly,” and she'd smile and kiss his forehead and sit on the bed and hold his hand if he was on it or sit on it even if he was in the desk chair or on the floor and say something like
“Calmly
, that's how Dad and I are going to work out our differences and bigger problems from now on, or at least not so furiously …
judiciously
, that's the word and how we'll do it,” and he'd think, What's that? and she'd say, “And I can only hope and pray you believe what I say is true,” and he'd say, “I already said I do,” and sometimes she'd look sad and sniffle a little and cover her eyes and motion him to her, if he was on the floor or in the desk chair—if he was on the bed she'd just reach over or down and hug him—and he knew he'd have to come to her or she'd say something like “Why aren't you coming over when I'm waving for you to, it's important for me,” and he'd come and she'd sit him down beside her and put her arms around him and cry into the top of his head, and he'd say, “Don't, Mom, don't; it's all right,” and she'd say, “It's just the relief the whole thing is over and won't happen again and I'm sitting here with you like this. A sentimental person, usually, I'm not.”

So they'd fight, never once hitting each other when he was around, almost always at the dinner table; sometimes his father would throw money across it at her and say, “There, take the lousy dough”—or “filthy
gelt”
or “stinking green stuff”—“that's all you're interested in: what I can bring in,” and once she tore some of this money up and threw it back at him, though it flew all around the table—when his father flung it at her he'd bunched up the bills till they were one chunk—and said, “This is what I think of your money,” and Gould said, “Why'd you do that? That's good money; now you'll have to Scotch-tape it and some stores might not even take it,” and his father said, “She's crazy, your mother, that's why she did it,” and he said, “No, she's not. She's angry at you for what you did; it wasn't nice,” and his father laughed and said, “What'd I do? I always get the blame. And who asked you? Mind your business, like a good kid,” and a few minutes later Gould thought that was the first time he ever talked back to him about his actions at the table—the yelling, cursing, throwing—and his father said, “Besides, you don't like it, take a walk,” and Gould said, “Good, I will, you gave me permission,” and got up, and his mother said, “No, it's our fault, not his, he should stay; don't leave, dearest,” and his father said, “Our fault? You mean yours; me, I'm clean,” and she said, “No, both ours, admit it; both!” and he didn't hear what his father said next as he was already in his room, door slammed and, he thinks, his hands over his ears.

When he got to his teens—sixteen, seventeen—he stopped running away from the table when they argued and would say things like, “Why can't you two work it out somewhere else? Why does it always have to be at the dinner table when we're eating? Who do you expect can eat anything when you're snapping at each other like a pair of hyenas? I don't want to get ulcers every night. You get them, if that's what you want, but don't bring them on me. Christ, on and on and on it goes, year after year—it's ridiculous,” and his father would say, “What do you know? Shut your mouth or you'll get it from me,” and he'd say, “Get what? Your fist? You always threatened Mom—a thousand times at this table—but you never once delivered, thank God. That's the best I can say about your arguments here—
both
of you—the best,” and he'd finish his food, or would eat a little more of it, just so they wouldn't think they were chasing him away from the table, and would get up and say, “Excuse me, I'm done,” and leave, but usually go out these times, for a long walk or to a movie or a bar for a beer when he reached eighteen—or with a fake draft card when he was seventeen—and come home, and his parents would be in their room by now, and his mother always left a note on his bed or by the kitchen phone, saying something like
We were both worried about you. You stayed out so late that we didn't know what to think. It can be unsafe on the street, especially when you're alone. Please don't do that again. And even if our room's dark, knock on the door to tell me you're home
, and he'd knock and say, “Mom?” and she'd say, “You're home? Now I can fall asleep. You get some too—it's late,” and he'd say good night and she'd say it. His father was probably asleep—he liked to boast that nothing stopped him from getting his eight hours every night—or who knows what.

Later his father got sick and his mother looked after him and they both mellowed, no more arguments at the dinner table, or just minor disagreements but no shouting or cursing the other. His mother would say, “Do you want some of this?” or, “I can make you some more of that,” and his father would say, “Yes, that looks good, thank you,” or “No, thank you.” The TV news would usually be on during dinner the two or three nights a week Gould ate home, and once he said—he was in his early twenties now—“Do we always have to sit down with the news at dinner?” and his father said, “We don't always. It just happens to be on the same time we sat down tonight, and lots of other nights. What's so wrong with that? It really bother you, or you just want to have something new to complain about?” and he said, “It does bother me. It eliminates all possibility of conversation between us, and I don't like that unctuous TV commentator guy sitting down with us as if he lives here,” and his father said, “He isn't all bad. He has a nice voice and personality, seems bright, and doesn't run at the mouth too long, and they give you lots of interesting newsreels. And the sound's not too high, and we can hold our conversations till after the news. It's only fifteen minutes, thirty minutes total with the local news. And it gives us something more to talk about when it's over,” and he said, “It's repetitive and banal and almost nothing I'm interested in, the local stuff worse than the national and foreign reports, and only touches on a few facts and usually the worst things happening in the city and world, or most sensational, and nothing in depth. And art and culture? Well, out the window with you, little fellas, the public doesn't go for it, so you don't exist. And I hate commercials, smiling actor fakes always trying to sell you something you've no interest in buying or you thought you had no use for till they ran the dumb ads,” and his father said, “Without commercials the economy wouldn't be what it is. It's a capitalistic society, the country's founded on it, the whole making and selling and buying and using things and then throwing them away when they break down or get old and buying some more. You should know that from the economics course you took. But all that means you got to have advertisements—it's imperative if you want to sell and be part of the competition—and what better place than on TV with half the country watching one show or the other at this time? And besides, they're only for a few minutes of the thirty and the news is the rest of the time,” and he said, “But I don't want to know about another bombing or killing or mutilation or massacre or congressional hearing or trial or sports score or tomorrow's weather when I'm eating. I want my stomach to be relaxed. If anything electronic has to be on other than the lights, then good serious soothing music from the record player or radio,” and his mother said, “If your father wants to listen to the news during dinner, it's his privilege. He worked hard long enough in life to warrant at least getting that when he retired,” and Gould said, “But there are other people and other stomachs to be considered also,” and his father said, “Your mother's right. If you don't like it, move out, you're old enough, you don't need our permission,” and he said, “I will and I had planned to, just as soon as I finish school and turn in the poor-paying part-time job I have now for a good full-time one,” and his father said, “Oh, boy, oh, yeah. You were always too sensitive as a kid. And now as an adult I thought you'd've stopped, but you're still the same, and no letup either on being a big complainer,” and he said, “Sensitive to what when I was a kid? And are we supposed to argue with the television going? Okay, let's just eat and watch it,” and his father said, “No, go on, big shot, get it out, you can do it over the TV sound. What were you saying—you were sensitive to what when you were a kid?” and he said, “Your yelling, I was saying; your cursing and throwing money at Mom, as if ‘Here, here's your weekly allowance, though you don't deserve it,' and threatening her too with your fists and sometimes worse for most of my life at this miserable stupid table,” and his father said, “Huh? What left field is that out of? Tell me, where?” and his mother said, “Gould, stop. This isn't nice or right, and you should apologize,” and he said, “Apologize, just like both of you did a thousand times to me for upsetting a thousand of my dinners here plus hundreds of Sunday breakfasts, when they could have been nice dinners, good breakfasts,” and his father said, “When? A few times? So what are you making a big stink for? And don't start blaming your mother all of a sudden just because she stuck up for me, not that I need any protection from you, when before it was only me, your target, and you know it's still me you only want to blame. You're a little meshugge, that's how I see it, always shooting your mouth off before you know what you're talking about. Well, get lost, will ya, because it's my house and my TV and I'm the boss in it, or made the dough to pay all the bills since you were born, and if I want to watch the news while I eat, I will. That's all I got to say to you,” and Gould said, “Then watch it yourself or together but never again with me at dinner,” and his father said, “You already made that threat, if I heard right before. Now we'll find out how serious a one it is, if it means no eating for you, since you were always a guy who liked his food. But fine, any way you want it,” and took a bite of food and looked at the television set, and his mother said, “All I'll say on the matter, because of course I want Gould to sit with us at dinner for as long as he wants, even when he's peeved at us, is that his behavior has been totally uncalled-for,” and Gould said, “Oh, you two, you're really something. But I'm glad about it: at least things are quieter between you now,” and his father said to him, “Believe me, if I had the strength I'd send you and your luggage packing, and tonight, not tomorrow, so are you going to apologize as your mother asked you to? If not to me, then just her, because you
were
insulting,” and he said, “I don't see why I should,” and left the table, and his father yelled, “That's not enough, what you said,” and he went to his room, shut the door, and lay on his bed, and said, “What a joke, what a joke they are: so lovey-dovey kissy-horseshit. It's bullshit!” he yelled. “That's what this shit is, goddamn bullshit, do you hear?” and his mother knocked on his door and he said nothing and she came in and said, “Gould, please, I hate to see you like this, so put a stop to it. Your father isn't well and you're making me feel awful,” and he said, “Just think what I had to put up with you both over the years. Ready to kill each other a few hundred times, and all that screaming,” and she said, “You already told us. And as Dad said, it was only a few times over more than twenty years—something no other married couple's done? And not kill each other, just very angry sometimes, but what's that got to do with your behavior at the table tonight?” and he said, “Nothing, I guess, right?” and she said, “I'll put it this way: much less than you think. Now come in and apologize and finish your dinner,” and he said, “I told you, Mom—” and she said, “For the peace of the house, please, and for my sake too. And if you don't feel like eating, then just apologize, and make your excuses for not sitting down with us, and leave,” and he said, “Oh, what's the difference,” and went to the table—she stood behind him; his father was chewing some food and watching the news—and he said, “Dad,” and his father didn't seem to hear him, and he said, “Dad, I want to say something,” and his father still stared at the news, and he went to the set and turned the sound low and his father said, “What the hell you doing?” and he said, “I'm turning it low for a few seconds so I can apologize to you for my behavior before. I was wrong and I'm sorry,” and his father said, “Okay”—didn't smile—“now turn the sound up; that was an important story they were doing, something on China,” and Gould turned it up and his father said, “You said you were sorry to your mother too?” and he said, “Yes. Or maybe I didn't, not formally. But she knows the apology's for her too,” and his father said, “Good, okay, I accept it also,” and went back to watching the news, which was already on another subject.