"You do."
"Is that true?"
"Yes. And you lock yourself in your room or the basement and talk to yourself."
"I don't talk to myself," I answer with annoyance, and then smile. "I rehearse. I practice a speech and a slide show I know I have to give at the convention."
"That's talking to yourself. Isn't it?"
"I want to make sure I can do it right and that I won't forget any of it when I have to give it."
"I get scared when I have to speak in front of the class."
"So do I. I know you do."
"Does rope climbing scare you?"
"Yes. And I'm never going to climb another one, now that I don't have to."
"Do you like it?"
"Rope climbing?"
"Making speeches?"
"I think so. I like to be asked, anyway. I get nervous too. But I enjoy it. Especially afterward."
"I'm always afraid that I'll forget what I'm supposed to say. Or that I'll get sick and have to vomit while I'm doing it. Do you know why I'm afraid to swim? I think if I ever started to drown, I'd be ashamed to call the lifeguard."
"You'd call him."
"Or that somebody in the class or the teacher won't like me. It. What I say."
"That's why I work so hard and practice so much. And why I get a little angry if one of you interrupts me. To make sure I remember it."
"Do you always remember?"
"Not at the convention. I've never been able to give one. My boss always stops me."
"Green," he guesses with certainty.
"Yes."
"I don't like Green, either," he confides, lowering his eyes. "Because you're afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"You don't like him."
"I like him okay."
"You have to work for him."
"That's part of the trouble. When people have to work for other people, they don't always get along well with the people they have to take orders from. But it doesn't mean I don't like him. Or that I'm afraid of him."
"Do you?"
"No. But I like him more than a lot of the others."
"Why do you have to work in a place where you don't like so many people?"
"Because I like it. I have to."
"Do you know what I'm afraid of?" he asks, looking up at me with interest.
"Lots of things."
"Do you know what else I'm afraid of?"
"Lots more things."
"I'm serious."
"What?"
"That you won't come back."
"I'm surprised. I never thought you thought about that."
"I do."
"All the time? Or only at conventions?"
"All the time. But mostly at conventions. Because you're away so long."
"Sometimes I call. When I get there."
"And other times when you're away long. I don't mind so much if it's just for a day. I start to feel you won't come back."
"I always have. I'm here now, ain't I? I'm going to have to die sometime."
"I don't want you to."
"I'll try not to."
"Sometimes I do."
"Do what?" I am more shocked than offended.
"Want you to."
"To die?"
"I'm not sure. When I'm angry. Or have dreams."
"You're never angry."
"I get angry a lot when you go away," he pushes on intently. "No. I don't want you to die. Ever. I don't want to die either. Are you angry?"
"No. Are you?"
"No. I don't think I would be afraid so much if I were with you and Mommy instead of here. I don't want to be left alone."
"You wouldn't be alone. You'd be with Mommy. A person can't be afraid all the time of all the bad things that might happen to him."
"I can," he snickers mournfully.
I smile back at him in response. "No, you can't. Not even you. I'll bet I can name a lot of things you're afraid of that you don't even have time to be afraid of all the time."
"Don't," he exclaims, with mock alarm.
"I won't," I promise sympathetically. "Something comes along that takes our mind away. Should we talk about things that make you laugh instead? Have some fun? Kid around?"
"All right," he answers, with a momentary smile.
"You begin."
"Can a person's blood turn to water?"
"Huh?"
"That's what somebody told me."
"That's what makes you laugh?"
"No. I keep worrying about it."
"When did he tell you?"
"A few months ago."
"Why didn't you ask me sooner?"
"I wanted to think about it. He said he read it in the paper."
"I don't think so."
"That's what one of the kids at school told me. That a person's blood can turn to water and he dies."
"He was probably talking about leukemia."
"What's that?" he inquires sharply.
"I knew it was a mistake to tell you," I reply, with a regretful click of the tongue. "Even as I was saying it. It's a disease of the blood. Something happens to the white corpuscles."
"Does it turn to water?"
"No. I don't think so. Not water. Something like it happens, though."
"Do people die from it?"
"Sometimes."
"Do kids like me get it?"
"I don't think so," I lie.
"It was a kid he said he read about. He said it was a kid who died from it."
"Maybe they do then. I think that once in a while —»
"Don't tell me about it," he interrupts, putting both hands up in another comical gesture of awestruck horror that is both histrionic and real.
"I already have."
"Don't tell me any more."
"You always do that," I criticize him kindly. "You ask me all the questions you can think of about something terrible and then when I finish answering them you tell me, 'don't tell me about it.»
"Are you angry?"
"Do I look it? No, of course not."
"Sometimes I can't tell."
"Sure, you can. You keep telling me I yell all the time. No, I'm not angry. I want you to talk to me about the things you're thinking about, especially the things you can't figure out."
"Do you? I will."
"I do. Ask me anything."
"Do you fuck Mommy," he asks. "You said I could," he pleads hastily, as he sees me gape at him in surprise.
"Yes, you can," I answer. "Sometimes."
"Why?"
"It feels good, that's why. It's kind of fun. Do you know what it means?"
He shakes his head unsurely. "Is it all right for me to ask you?"
"It's all right to ask if I do. I think it would be better to ask someone else what it is. It would also be a little better if you used a different word."
"I don't know a different word. Screw?"
"That's almost the same. You can use the word you want. It's a little funny, though, to use it with me. Use it. I suppose it's good enough."
"Are you angry with me?"
"No. Why do you keep asking me that? Don't you know when I'm angry or not?"
"Not all the time."
"I thought I yelled so much."
"Not all the time. Sometimes you don't talk at all. Or you talk to yourself."
"I don't talk to myself."
"You bite your nails and don't even listen to any of us."
"Do I? What makes you think I'm angry when I'm like that?"
"We're all afraid."
"That doesn't mean I am. Sometimes I'm just feeling unhappy. Or concentrating. I can be unhappy too, can't I?"
"Would Mommy be angry if I asked her?"
"What?"
"If you fuck her."
"Only because of that word. Maybe not. Don't do it in front of anyone."
"I better not."
"You already asked me. I already told you. If you ask her too, it wouldn't be to find out, would it? It would just be to see if she gets angry."
"Was it all right? To ask you?"
"You already asked me that three times. I'm not angry. Do you want me to be angry?"
"I thought you'd be. I bet other kids' fathers would be."
"Maybe I ought to be. I'm better than other kids' fathers. Is that why you keep asking me? Are you trying to make me angry?"
He shakes his head positively. "No. I don't like it when you're angry. I can tell. You're starting to get angry now, aren't you?"
"I don't like it, either. And I'm not."
"Emphasis?" he remembers.
"Emphasis," I confirm.
"I don't like Derek," he remarks without pause. He wears a troubled, injured look.
"You're not supposed to say that," I instruct him mildly. "You're not supposed to feel that way, either."
"Do you?"