"So it wasn't the boys at all?" asked Dr. Davidson.
"No," I admitted. "Not for me. It was ... I was afraid I was going to lose him again."
"So you were angry at your father?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Yeah, I was."
"Did you tell him how you felt?"
"No, I never did. I mean, there wasn't any point. Once he'd made up his mind, that was it. Oh, I tried-I did tell him. I said we shouldn't go down yet, but he said we had to. I didn't want to, but you couldn't argue with him, so I didn't. I just figured he was going to have his way, so I started putting up the walls again. You know, I'd let them down for a while, but now that he was making plans to come back, I had to protect myself again and-" I stopped to take a sip of water.
"Did he notice it? Did he see a change in your behavior?"
"I don't see how he could have missed it. I was a real asshole there for a while."
"I see."
There was silence. While I realized. It wasn't just Maggie's anger. Or Mom's pity. It was me too. My resentment. Was that what he'd been trying to tell me that last day at the depot? Did I drive him away too?
"What are you thinking about now?"
"Nothing," I said. "I'm just wondering who I should be angry at. My dad? Or me? He was there when I needed him. But I wasn't there when he needed me. I abandoned him because ... because. . ." My face was getting hot. This was the hard part to admit. I could feel my throat tightening up. ". . . I thought he was going to shut me out again and I wanted to shut him out first-to show him what it felt like, to show him he couldn't jerk me around like that! I mean, everybody else does it, but not my dad! It wasn't fair!" I started coughing then, and my eyes were blurry. I rubbed my palms against them, realized I was starting to cry-and then broke down and bawled like a baby.
Dr. Davidson waited patiently. Finally he said, "Are you all right?"
"No," I said, but I was. I was relieved to have finally spoken it aloud. It was as if I had released a great pressure that I hadn't even known was there until the words had given it form.
"Yes," I said. "I'm all right. Well-a little better, anyway. I hadn't realized I was living with such ... guilt."
"Not just guilt, Jim. Anger too. You've been carrying your anger for such a long time, Jim, it's become a habit. It's part of you. My job is to assist you in giving it up. If that's what you want."
I thought about that. "I don't know. Sometimes I think my anger is all that keeps me going."
"Maybe that's because you haven't experienced anything else as intense. Have you ever been in love?"
I shook my head.
"Perhaps you ought to think about that-consider what it is you expect a lover to be. We could talk about that next time."
"Next time?"
"If you wish. You can call on me any time you want. That's what I'm here for."
"Oh. I thought this was only a one-time interview."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Oh," I said. Then, "Thank you."
TWENTY-NINE
DINNER WAS a thick steak (medium rare), real mashed potatoes, green peas (with melted butter on them), fresh salad (bleu cheese dressing) and a chocolate soda. All of my favorite foods. Even an army commissary couldn't do too much damage to a T-bone steak. Although they tried.
I wondered about Ted. I wondered where he was and what he was up to now. Or who.
I'd never been able to keep up with him. And I knew why. Paul Jastrow said it to me once-I didn't remember the argument, but I did remember the insult: "Hey, McCarthy-there are human beings and there are ducks. You're a duck. Stop pretending to be a human being. You're not fooling anyone." Some of the people around him laughed, so after that, whenever Paul wanted to get a laugh, he'd turn to me and start quacking, then he'd turn to his friends and explain, "You have to talk to them in their own language if you want them to understand anything." I never understood why he'd picked me out for the honor of that particular humiliation-not until much later when I saw some comedian on TV do the exact same routine to an unsuspecting member of the audience. It wasn't personal; he was just using the fellow-he was someone to hit with the rubber chicken. That's when the nickle dropped. Paul had been imitating this comic. Maybe he hadn't even meant it personally-it was just a cheap way to get a laugh. But nobody had let me in on the joke. So I didn't get to laugh too. And even though I understood it now, in retrospect, it still didn't lessen the hurt. I could still feel it, could still hear the laughter.
I think it hurt the most because I was afraid it might be true. I was looking at my half-finished steak. I was wishing I had someone to share the meal with. It's no fun eating alone.
I pushed myself away from the table. I wasn't hungry anymore. I hated to waste food, but
-and then I had to stop myself, or I would have laughed out loud. There weren't any children starving in Africa anymore-or India, or Pakistan, or anywhere else! Nobody was starving anymore. If there was one good thing the plagues had accomplished, they had ended world hunger. It didn't matter if I wasted this steak or not. There was steak enough for everybody now. There was steak to waste! It was an eerie realization.
But I still felt guilty about not finishing. Old habits die hard. If you train yourself to think a certain way, will you keep on thinking that way, even after it's no longer a valid way to think? Hm.
Did I think like a duck? Was that it? Did I keep on doing ducklike things because I didn't know how to do anything else? Was it that obvious to the people around me?
Maybe I should stop being me for a while and start being someone else-someone who didn't have so much trouble being me.
I wasn't hungry anymore. I got up, took my tray to the bus window and left the commissary.
I wondered if I walked funny. I mean, I was short and a little pudgy around the bottom. Did I look like a duck? Maybe I could learn to walk differently-if I stood a little taller and carried my weight in my chest instead of in my gut-"Oof! I'm sorry." I had been so busy walking, I hadn't been looking, and had plowed straight into a young woman. Quack. Old synapses never die, they just fire away. "I'm really sorry-oh!"
It was Marcie. The thin girl with the large dark eyes. From the bus. Colonel Buffoon.
"Hi-" I flustered for words. "Uh, what are you doing here?"
"Feeding my dog-they give me the scraps." She showed me the package she was carrying.
I held the door for her. She stepped through, but didn't say thanks. I followed after.
She stopped on the sidewalk. "Are you following me?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Well, then, go away."
"You're very rude, you know." She stared at me blankly.
"You don't even give people a chance."
She blinked. "I'm sorry. Am I supposed to know you?"
"Uh-we were on the bus together, remember? Last night?" She shook her head. "I don't remember anything from last night. Were you one of the boys I screwed?"
"Huh? No ... I mean . . . what?"
"He doesn't use me at all. I know that's what people think, but he's never touched me. But he likes to watch me do it with the young men he picks out. And then he likes to-well, you know."