Authors: Nancy Thayer
Peter recited this passage to himself like a mantra the year that Michael began to hero-worship Chet Elliott, the man who coached the soccer league Michael played in. Chet was a handsome young man and a great coach, and that was all that Michael could see. Only Peter and the other adults in Londonton knew about Chet’s adult life—he was a garage mechanic who at thirty showed no signs of marrying. He spent every evening in local bars, drinking to a loud-mouthed, happy-hearted excess and eventually taking to his apartment whatever local girl wanted to go—and there were plenty who wanted to go, because Chet was handsome. He was easygoing, sauntering, quick to laugh, unambitious, unconcerned. He was also a wonderful, hardworking coach, because he loved games, and without even meaning to, without really thinking about it, he instilled all the best values into the boys he coached. He taught them how to play hard and fair, how to balance competition with sportsmanship, how to demand the most from their growing bodies. Then he went off at night to get drunk and slaphappy, and once about every six months he ended up in the doctor’s office with a venereal disease. But the boys he coached didn’t know what Chet did with his nights, and the fathers could see no sign that Chet’s nights ever affected his coaching, and so they kept him on—it was, after all, a voluntary, non-salaried job. They were grateful to have him. The boys adored him, and Peter liked him very much; everybody did, it was impossible not to. But it was a hard year when Michael had Chet for a soccer coach, because no one had ever before aroused in Michael such openhearted exuberant adoration.
He sang Chet Elliott’s praise morning, noon, and night. When he had free time, he went to the Gulf station and hung around watching Chet fill cars with gas or tinker under the hoods. One night at dinner, Michael stated that when
he
grew up, he was going to be just like Chet Elliott.
“Good, dear,” Patricia had replied, smiling. “I hope you’ll still live in Londonton. Then I won’t have to worry about my car ever again. I’ll just let you take care of it.”
Peter just stared at Michael, then asked Lucy a question about her school field trip. He was trying to put Michael’s claim into perspective. Michael was a child, and his crush was a child’s crush, and it was all part of growing up. But Peter was wounded, for Michael had never once said that he wanted to grow up to be like his father. And Chet Elliott—he wasn’t the sort of man Peter would ever want his son to be. He didn’t even
have children of his own. He had no education, no sense of personal destiny and responsibility. Other than his sex, Chet Elliott had
nothing
in common with Peter.
“You expect too much from Michael,” Patricia said one night.
“I expect him to love me,” Peter replied.
“He does love you, in his own way,” Patricia said.
“When I was his age, I followed my father around like a shadow. I thought my father was God.”
“Michael is different from you. You are different from your father. Peter, you know that Michael has a stubborn streak in him. The more you ask, the less he’ll give.”
“But why? Why?”
Patricia wrapped her arms around Peter as if he were the child. “I don’t know, honey,” she said. “I wish I did know. I know how he hurts your feelings. Oh, children are just the hardest things. I think all we can do is love Michael, and let him be.”
Peter had done his best to do just that: to love Michael, and to let him be. Still, he was always on the alert, hoping for a change, even a slight one, and as the years passed, the burden of his relationship with his son settled on him like a weight on his back. He could not turn easily to any other thing or person: that burden was there, weighing him down, hindering him always just that little bit.
The year Michael turned sixteen was a horror. Michael got his driver’s license and proceeded to smash up his mother’s car, then his father’s, and then a neighbor’s. It was only through the kindness of the neighbor, who refused to press charges against Michael for “borrowing” his car, that Michael avoided being arrested.
Then the Defresnes caught him naked with their naked daughter in their TV room at midnight one night. The Moyers found him with their son and three other boys drinking and smoking pot in the basement underneath their son’s electric-train table. Bartenders called to say they’d done him the favor of kicking him out of their bar because he was obviously underage. Peter had to love his son and
not
let him be; he had to discipline him, punish him, and set down some stringent rules to protect him from himself.
He found Michael a job as a dishwasher in a local restaurant. He drove Michael there at seven o’clock on Friday and Saturday nights and picked him up and drove him home at one in the morning. He let Michael play sports, and he let him attend any school function that others attended, and he let Michael drive to these, but only with Peter seated
in the front seat next to him. He did not let Michael date or even go to movies with friends for several months after the car accidents. Gradually Michael seemed to settle down, although Peter feared the boy was merely hiding his rebelliousness until a future time. And if Michael had been cool toward his father before, he was no longer so. Now he hated his father with a fury, and let him know it. His contempt for his father seemed so deep and strong that it was finally an integral part of his personality and showed in the very stance of his handsome body, in every stare from his cold, judgmental eyes.
God, what a mystery this son was! Peter felt helpless, doomed. Lucy and Will remained loving, tolerant, affectionate children, and their relationship with Peter was full of easy love. He could not understand, he could not think it out—why it should be so different, so difficult between himself and Michael.
At least this summer Michael had calmed down a bit and stopped acting like a hood. He had gotten a job with a local landscape contractor, and the strenuous outdoor work seemed to have a healthy effect. Michael seemed to, in his own jargon, mellow out. He became punctual, reliable, and almost miraculously talkative. At the breakfast or dinner table, he talked voluntarily about the work he did, the people he worked for, or he told jokes he had heard from the contractor and his crew. As Peter watched this son of his, who seemed to grow larger and certainly more tanned every day, it appeared to him that, perhaps for the first time, Michael was happy. And Peter was glad for this happiness, and sorry that it had taken so long in his son’s life to arrive. Because he was afraid that this happiness might be a temporary thing, a delicate china teacup accidentally set down on the hood of an idling car, he was very careful to do nothing that might provoke any changes. It bothered him that almost every night after dinner Michael took off for solitary walks by himself. He told no one where he was going, or rather, they knew, but only vaguely. He always said that he was just going for a walk, around the town, or along the river. They could hardly follow him to see if this was true. And he always returned home at the time they demanded, and he never asked to use the car, and he seemed to spend almost no money. He was never seen with the troublesome bunch Peter was so wary of—so Peter thought that it could be possible that Michael was only walking around the town, enjoying the summer nights, perhaps thinking about his future.… Peter let Michael be. It was the gentlest summer the family had ever had together.
But when Michael started back to school, things changed. Peter and Patricia were not aware of it right away, because on the surface things remained fine. They let Michael
drive the car on weekend nights, and he always returned home at an early hour, with the car undamaged. Some weekend nights he didn’t go out at all, but stayed home watching television with the family, or reading by the fire. His happiness, though, had disappeared; he seemed to have lost it. But he was as calm and cooperative as he had been that summer. They had had no reason to worry about him until, just this week, the principal of the high school had called and asked them to come in.
Michael had been in school only six weeks, but the principal said that it was already apparent that if he continued as he was, he would fail every class. He was innately intelligent enough, there was no doubt about that. He had scored very high on the IQ tests, and there was probably no limit to what he could do if he put his mind to it. And he was no longer the discipline problem he had been in his junior year in high school. He didn’t instigate minor classroom rebellions or smoke pot in the restrooms or act in an insubordinate manner. He was always polite, even courteous. But he did not do his work. He did not pay attention. He would not care.
The principal of the school, Dan Ford, was a friend of the Taylors—he attended the Episcopal church, but he had lived in Londonton as long as the Taylors, and they knew one another from parties and community functions. They had goodwill toward one another, and because of this, Dan was taking special pains to present the information carefully to the Taylors.
“I have to tell you, Peter,” Dan said, “this kind of behavior often indicates that the child is not getting enough attention from his parents. That the parents are not spending enough time with the child.”
“If we spend any more time with him,” Peter said drily, “we’d have to sleep in bed with him at night.”
“I know,” Dan said, laughing. “I know. You and Patricia couldn’t be better parents. That’s why I feel at a loss as to what to suggest to do. Perhaps Michael should see a psychiatrist. But you certainly do need to do something.”
Peter and Patricia drove home from the meeting in stunned silence. During the past six weeks, while Michael had been so politely failing his courses at school, he had shown almost exemplary behavior at home. He had, it was obvious, learned the necessary behaviors that kept the surface of the family life smooth: he was courteous, civil, obedient; he helped with the dishes and housework when asked, carried in the groceries, carried out the trash. Now they would have to probe beneath this accommodating surface,
and they were afraid of what lurked below. They were afraid of the process of investigation, as if cutting through to the truth would wound their son, or set off some delicate mechanism that would cause him to explode.
But it was not Michael who exploded.
As soon as they got home, they called Michael into the living room and told him what the principal had told them. They told him that if he continued this way, he would not only lose all chances of getting into a decent college, he would also not even graduate from high school.
“That’s okay,” Michael had said calmly. “I don’t want to go to college. The only reason I’ve been going to school is to keep you guys from freaking out.”
“But, Michael,” Patricia said, “you
have
to go to college.”
“No, I don’t,” Michael said, with that cool, controlled tone that always made Peter want to shake his teeth out. “I don’t
have
to go to college. I don’t even have to graduate from high school. In Massachusetts, as soon as you’re seventeen, you can quit school without your parents’ permission.”
Peter rose and walked out of the room.
Now he stood at the pulpit of the church, staring out at the congregation, and at his elder son, who had his hymnal raised dutifully before him, but who did not sing. Five days had passed since Michael had made his announcement, and Peter had still not decided what to do about it. His instinct was to do nothing, for he feared that anything he did or said at this point would be wrong. Peter felt explosive with righteous indignation, and he knew in his mind that he was right to feel this way. But he also knew that he could not face his son with his emotions, not when Michael was so cool and Peter was so hot. They might break and lose each other, like hot liquid poured into a cold glass.
Each night for the past five nights, Peter had waited until everyone else in the house was asleep, then he had pulled on his old corduroy robe and padded barefoot down the carpeted stairs, through the hall, and into the privacy of his study. He could not sleep, and he could not think while lying down, but he did not want to inflict his insomnia on anyone else, so he did not turn the light on in his study, but merely paced about the room in the dark. There was enough light coming in the windows from the moon and the streetlight to illuminate the room sufficiently so that as he walked he did not bump into any furniture—but he had nothing to illuminate the problem which drove him to this pacing. He came to the conclusion that his failure toward his son was not one of
commitment or devotion or love, but simply of imagination. He could not imagine his son.
If Peter believed anything, it was that a person as privileged by life as he was, and in turn as Michael was, should use his God-given capabilities to help the world along. It didn’t matter how—Peter honestly didn’t care if Michael became a doctor, philosopher, naturalist, actor, scientist, or poet. But he should become
something
. Peter thought that any child who had been raised in such a loving home, with such an affluent life with so many advantages, owed the world—owed
Fate
—a debt. What made life worth living if not helping the world? Man must look past himself to live. If he serves only himself, his soul shrivels and dies. Peter believed this as firmly as he believed in God, and if there was any one value he had tried to pass on to his children, this was it. In fact, for Peter this belief was not an intellectual one that could be instilled, but an integral way of life, as natural and necessary as breathing air. Yet his elder son did not in any way seem to live or believe this. He did not want an education; he did not want to discipline and train himself in order to go out in aid of the world. Peter truly could not imagine what kind of person this boy was, who had flourished so perversely in his house, as odd and inexplicable as a solitary penguin thriving in a hot jungle.
When all was said and done, it appeared to Peter that he and Patricia had accomplished nothing more, with all their best efforts, than to keep Michael’s body alive. There were no signs that they had in any way touched his mind and soul.