“Victor,” I said, and I kept my voice icy. “Victor.”
Naturally, he did not look up.
“Victor!”
There was no response. But by now a sort of murmuring, wondering disapproval was wending its way through the room. The adults, some of whom were not familiar with the battle that had been fought (and surrendered) over Victor’s name change, scowled openly at him. “Answer Papa when he talks to you, Victor,” I heard someone say, and a tiny voice, a girl’s, responding, “It’s Vi now.”
Then I was walking over to him. “Stand up,” I commanded him. “Stand up.” He looked down, his mouth disobedient and wide and flat and ugly as a sand dab’s, and would not. I grabbed him by his arm and brought him to his feet. He was only a few inches shorter than I, but scrawny, and I could feel the sharp, complicated bones of his elbow underneath my hands. And then I hit him, in the face, as hard as I could. His head jerked backward, then snapped forward. I hit him again. Both times I used the flat of my palm, and after, my hand stung in the same needley way it had when I had been slapping the glass, yelling after him. “How dare you?” I asked him, keeping my voice low and awful. “How dare you, you beastly insect, you thing, you nothing. How dare you come down here, partake in my kindness, my generosity. How dare you open the gifts you’ve done nothing to deserve but that I bought you — I bought you — out of kindness?
“Do you know,” I heard myself continue, “why I took you in? I took you in because I pitied you. Because you were less than a human, less than a child. Your father would have sold you to me for a piece of rotting fruit. I could have done to you anything I wished. I could have taken you with me and kept you chained in the basement and no one would have known or cared. I could have sold you to a man who would first have mutilated you and then chopped you into bits for pigs’ feed. There are people who would have done this, too, and your father was perfectly willing to sell you to any of them. It only happened that he sold you to me first.
“You are nothing. I gave you meaning. I gave you a life. And this is how you behave?” I slapped him again. A thin rivulet of dark blood began to creep from his nostril.
Around me the room had of course gone utterly silent. I knew that if I looked, I would see them as still as marble, their mouths slightly open, their arms full of the gifts I had given them.
I bent, still holding his arm, and picked up his toy car, his stocking heavy with candy, and flung them at the nearest child, who was too stunned to squeal in delight. “Toys are not for animals,” I told him. “And you are less than one. Now go. Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you. I dropped his arm then, and he stood, slightly swaying, before turning and walking toward the staircase.
“No,” I called after him. “Animals stay in the basement. Downstairs.”
He turned again, still rocking a bit, and looked at me, directly at me. For a second a strange smile seemed to move over his mouth, but then I realized that it was one of confusion and fear, not triumph, and allowed myself to relax. And then, without a word, he turned again, and we watched him walk out of the living room, and through the kitchen, and then down the stairs to the basement, the door latching shut quietly behind him. I walked over, locked the door after him, and slipped the key into my bathrobe pocket. Behind me the room was still, as toneless and suspended as a scene in a picture.
The day was ruined, of course. The older children left soon after, waving vaguely in my direction and thanking me with a carefulness that I found embarrassing. The younger children cleaned up the living room without my having to ask and sneaked upstairs with their new toys and clothes. We usually ate together on Christmas, but that day I went instead to my study, and then to my bedroom, where I slept. When I woke, late that afternoon, I could hear the children creeping about downstairs, fixing themselves plates of food.
I stayed in my room all night long. Around me the house settled into a fur-thick silence. It occurred to me late that night, as I lay awake, that Victor had meant for me to die outside, to freeze against my own door at my own house.
Oh, I thought, and shivered. I had had children who had despised me before, had loathed me in fact, whose eyes were animated and had shone with hatred. But I had never had one who had tried to kill me, who had detested me so much that he would try to facilitate my end. Realizing this was somewhat perversely reassuring, for I was now aware what he was capable of, and it would be my new task to sort out how best to control him. I would not, I decided, be frightened of my own child. I could not.
The next morning, before the sun rose, I went downstairs to the kitchen and prepared two plates of food. On each I folded slices of turkey, a few sharp triangles of cheese, rolls crunchy with nuts, a spoonful of olives glistening with oil, and a mound of buttery lettuce. I set one of the plates in front of my seat at the kitchen table. Then I unlocked the door to the basement and placed the other at the top of the stairs.
I had half expected to find him sitting there, ready to spring into my face like a feral cat, but instead the basement was dark, the stairs vanishing into the black, and completely silent. Indeed, I could hear nothing, no breath, no sound. “Victor,” I called into the dark silence, “I have left you some food.” I paused, uncertain how to continue. “I will leave you more later today,” I finally announced. I wanted to say something else, something declarative, but could not think of what it might be. And so in the end I simply closed the door behind me, locked it, and sat down to enjoy my meal.
At the end of the day, before I went to bed, I unlocked the door again to leave him another plate. But the one I had left him that morning was still there, its contents untouched, the edges of the turkey browning and curling like old parchment paper. I said nothing, though, merely placed the new plate down next to the first.
When, three days later, I opened the door for good, there were eight plates, each full of moldering food, completely undisturbed but for a single fly that moved dozily from one plate to another, complacent in the face of such unspoiled variety. “Victor,” I called into the blackness, “I am leaving for work now. Please clean this up after you leave.” Once again I hesitated, unsure what else to say. And then I left, leaving the door ajar behind me.
That day at work I found it difficult to concentrate: What would greet me that night? Whenever the phone rang, I flinched, certain that this would be the time one of the techs would come and fetch me, his eyes wide, to tell me that the police, the fire department, the hospital, was on the line for me. I had a vision of driving home, the sky above me dark with swirling clouds, and then I would realize that it was not clouds I saw but smoke, and I would follow it home to see my house burned to cinders, the lawn transformed into a volcanic sprawl, the children standing on the edge of the curb in a weeping clutch, Victor nowhere to be found.
But when I went home that evening, although the door to the basement remained open, the plates were gone. Later, I saw them cleaned and stacked in a neat pile on the counter, almost glowing in the white pool made by the overhead light.82
After that, the situation with Victor became, if not easier, then at least more predictable. Indeed, there is hardly anything more worth saying on the matter. He never became what I suppose one would call an exemplary, or even a good, child, but neither did he slide into delinquency, as I was certain he would. Instead, he spent the next five years in my house merely existing, at once both present and not. During the children’s monthly movie nights, he would lie on his stomach, slightly separate from the group, and eat popcorn in the same distracted, vacant way he now did everything, staring at the screen without reacting. Sometimes after the rest of the children had laughed at something he might chuckle too, but it would always be a beat too late, and no one would understand why he was laughing. Nor, I think, would he. He became a set of social reflexes, many of them misapplied just enough to make him sometimes seem very strange, a person for whom time was measured on a different scale. He would look at me with those flat eyes, but where once had been challenge and obstinance now there was nothing, just a dull black like a shallow puddle of oily water.