Chương 9
“Being mad doesn’t mean we get to make you responsible for it.”
Leo sat on the closed toilet lid.
“Mom says you lied.”
Daniel looked at the curtain.
“I did.”
“About that lady?”
“About talking to her again. And other things.”
“What other things?”
“Small things mostly. Where I was. How late I’d be home. Whether I was upset.”
“Why?”
Daniel sat on the edge of the bathtub.
“Because I didn’t like fighting.”
“So you lied.”
“Yes.”
“Then you fought because you lied.”
Daniel nodded.
“That was the stupid part.”
Leo thought about it.
“Why did you talk to the lady?”
Daniel rubbed his palms together.
“Because she was easy to talk to.”
“Mom isn’t?”
“Not then.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked at him.
“This is where I have to be careful.”
“Because I’m eight?”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
Leo swung one foot.
Daniel said, “Your mom and I had gotten into a bad habit. When one of us said something honest, the other person sometimes used it as a weapon later.”
“What does that mean?”
“If I said I was scared about work, maybe during another fight your mom would say I was always afraid of everything.”
“Did she?”
“Once.”
Leo frowned.
“And if your mom told me she was lonely, maybe I’d say later that nothing I did was ever enough for her.”
“Did you?”
“More than once.”
Leo looked down.
Daniel continued.
“So both of us started saying less. Which made everything worse.”
“And you told the lady instead.”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
“Did she love you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Mom think you did?”
“Maybe.”
Leo scratched at a loose thread on the bath mat.
“That’s dumb.”
Daniel gave a tired smile.
“It was.”
The pizza arrived.
They ate at the folding table.
Daniel had forgotten plates, so they used paper towels.
Leo drank water from a coffee mug.
For twenty minutes they talked about whether octopuses dreamed.
Then Leo asked, “Do I have to sleep here?”
Daniel put his slice down.
“Not tonight.”
“Ever?”
“Probably eventually.”
Leo stared at the cheese on his pizza.
“What if I don’t want to?”
Daniel’s first impulse crossed his face before he hid it.
Leo saw.
“Then we talk about why.”
“What if the reason is I don’t want to?”
“That counts as a reason.”
“Then I don’t want to.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“Okay I don’t have to?”
“Okay, I heard you.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
Leo’s eyes narrowed.
Daniel rubbed the back of his neck.
“I don’t want to force you to sleep somewhere you’re scared to sleep.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Okay.”
“I just don’t live here.”
Daniel looked around the apartment.
“You do a little.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
Leo folded his paper towel into smaller and smaller squares.
“When you were a kid, did Grandpa leave?”
Daniel’s face changed.
Leo knew immediately the question mattered.
Daniel’s father was a person mostly contained in photographs. A tall man with gray hair who had died before Leo was born.
“He did,” Daniel said.
“Because of divorce?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten.”
“Did he have an apartment?”
“For a while.”
“Did you sleep there?”
“Not much.”
“Why?”
Daniel looked at the folded paper towel in Leo’s hands.
“Because he moved farther away.”
“How far?”
“About two hours.”
“That’s not that far.”
“When you’re ten, it is.”
Leo looked toward the window.
“My house is six minutes away.”
“Six minutes and eighteen seconds, according to you.”
Leo glanced at him.
Daniel smiled slightly.
“Did Grandpa call you?”
“Not enough.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you mad?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think he left you?”
Daniel did not answer immediately.
“Yes.”
Leo pushed the folded paper towel across the table.
“Then why are you doing this?”
Daniel’s eyes closed for a moment.
When he opened them, he did not reach for an explanation.
“Because staying in the house and staying married are not the same thing as staying your dad.”
“That sounds like something a therapist says.”
“It might.”
“Did yours say it?”
“No.”
“Mom’s articles?”
Daniel almost laughed.
“Possibly one of those.”
Leo leaned back.
“I don’t believe it yet.”
Daniel’s expression did not harden.
“You don’t have to yet.”
That answer stayed with Leo.
Not because it made him feel better.
Because it was the first time an adult allowed him not to feel better.
At eight thirty Daniel drove him home.
Sarah was standing in the kitchen when they came in.
Leo handed her the empty shower-curtain bag.
“It works.”
“Congratulations to all involved.”
“Dad put it upside down first.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“I knew that was coming.”
Leo carried his basket upstairs.
Sarah and Daniel stood in the entryway.
“How was he?” she asked.
“Ask him.”
“I will. I’m asking you.”
“He was Leo.”
“That is not information.”
Daniel put his hands in his coat pockets.
“He asked about my dad.”
Sarah’s expression softened.
“He did?”
Daniel nodded.
“And Elise.”
The softness disappeared.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth he could handle.”
“You decided what that was?”
“Yes.”
Sarah folded her arms.
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
“You said he could ask questions.”
“I said we would answer them.”
“So call me next time?”
“If he asks me why I lied, I’m not calling you for a joint statement.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“He asked if I loved her. I said no.”
Sarah looked away.
Daniel watched her.
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
The answer surprised both of them.
Sarah rubbed the side of her thumb.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Then what?”
“It mattered that you could talk to her.”
“I know.”
“And not to me.”
“I know.”
“And then you lied about ending it.”
“I know.”
Sarah gave him a sharp look.
“Stop saying that.”
Daniel exhaled.
Upstairs a drawer closed.
They both lowered their voices automatically.
Sarah said, “He doesn’t need to hear us relitigate this.”
“Agreed.”
“Tomorrow he stays here.”
“I know.”
May you like
“Friday you’re here at seven-thirty.”
“I know.”
