Sourland (36 page)

Tod wasn't alone in the park or lost—the daddy was close by—he wasn't hurt and he wasn't going to cry like some little baby with a runny snot-nose but there was the pinch-faced woman in the glasses right beside him—“Oh! Let me help you, little boy! Did you hurt yourself?” With quick strong hands the woman lifted Tod—steadied Tod—you could tell these were
mommy-hands
by their quickness and deftness—the woman brushed his hair out of Tod's eyes peering at him as if there was some secret in his eyes she had a right to know.

The woman was asking Tod if he'd been left alone in the park—if that had been his father she'd seen with him, a few minutes ago—Tod was too shy to look at the woman or to reply to her except in a near-inaudible mumble that gave the woman an excuse to lean closer to him squatting beside him with the disconcerting intimacy with which adult strangers approach children as if in some way children are common property; she'd lifted the tinted glasses to peer yet more directly into his face so that her eyes were revealed stone-colored and serious like Tod's mother's eyes—the kind of eyes you couldn't look away from. In his confusion Tod was moved to ask the woman if she knew his mother—his mother worked at the University Medical Center over by the river and she
put people to sleep
—did she know his mother? Tod couldn't think of his mother's name, the name that the daddy called her sometimes, the name she was called at the medical center—the woman said she was afraid she didn't know Tod's mother—“Tell me what is your name, little boy?”—Tod mumbled a reply but the woman couldn't hear—asked him to repeat what he'd said—Tod was silent feeling resentful, obstinate—if he'd been a little dog, he'd have bitten this pushy woman right on the nose. Again she was asking where Tod's father had gone—“That man who was walking with you just now on the path—is that man your father?” Tod made a sniggering noise and twisted from the woman's grip—“He's Dad-dy—that's who. Dad-dy. And you're ugly like some nasty old witch.”

This was surprising! The woman was surprised, and Tod was surprised. Like a feisty little dog Tod pushed free of the woman and ran away—ran as the woman called after him—out of the playground and in the direction of the cinder block restroom—he'd sighted a tall man who resembled his father coming out of the restroom—though as he drew nearer he was embarrassed to see that the man wasn't his father but a stranger—for a moment he felt panic thinking the daddy had left him—how close he came to breaking down and bawling like a baby—a silly little snot-nose baby like certain of the children at nursery school—but now the daddy did appear—there was the daddy emerging from the restroom blinking in the light frowning and distracted and his suede jacket unbuttoned, he was tucking his shirt into the beltless waist of his khakis as Tod called, “Dad-dy!” and ran at him headlong.

The way the daddy stared at Tod, the child was made to think
He doesn't remember me! He doesn't know who I am
.

That was silly of course. The daddy knew who Tod was!

“Christ sake your nose is running. Here, c'mon—
blow
.”

Out of a pocket the daddy extracted a fistful of wadded tissue, that looked as if it had been used already. Dutifully Tod blew his nose as bidden.

“This place is depressing. Let's get the hell out of this place.”

The daddy was edgy, alert. The daddy's eyes were alert and dilated and darting-about like a wild animal's eyes. Some change had taken place in the daddy, Tod sensed. Tod was anxious, the pinch-face woman was still watching him, seeing him now with his father, she was the kind to ask a sharp question of Tod's father, that was none of her business. Badly Tod wanted to turn to stick his tongue out at the woman—nasty ugly
witch
—but then the daddy would see the woman and Tod didn't want that. The daddy would discover how Tod had fallen and scraped his hand because the daddy had forgotten Tod's mittens and Tod didn't want the daddy to discover
that
.

“C'mon, li'l dude. Circumstances compel us.”

Often the daddy made such statements, that were utterly mysteri
ous to the child. Like, “D'you recall Ingmar Bergman—that's ‘Ing-mar Bergman'—famed Swedish filmmaker, deceased 2007—
Always keep a project between you and your death
”—which the daddy had made more than once on these urgent park outings.

So the walk was resumed. The hike of at least two miles through Terwillinger Park to the river, that was farther than the daddy and Tod had ever hiked before. In his edgy-cheery mood the daddy smiled frequently, or maybe it was just the daddy's mouth that smiled; the daddy's face must have felt itchy for the daddy was rubbing at it vigorously, eyes, nose, mouth as if wanting to erase his features the way a TV cartoon character might erase his face. The daddy had not asked Tod about the playground but Tod was boasting how he'd gone
way high
on the swing—higher than the other children—so high, he'd gone
over the top
—like the child-gymnasts they'd seen on TV, that had won Olympic gold medals. The daddy made no reply to the child's boastfulness not even to chide him or to laugh at him. The daddy was clearly thinking of other things. In his face a look as if the daddy was listening to something in the distance for always in this park on damp chilly days especially there was a background murmur of something like voices—muffled laughter—traffic on the interstate, or wind high in the trees—gusts of wind like knives cutting into the slate-colored river in which human cries were mixed.
Listen closely
the wide-eyed daddy once said
that is the dark under-side of the world you are hearing, son. Souls in Hades.

After a half-mile or so the woodchip path ended. Now the path was mud-rutted and treacherous. This was a hiking trail but only sporadically marked. Or maybe real hikers knew how to use the trail, as the daddy did not. For several times the daddy lost the trail, Tod had to point out to him the little blue triangles on trees that let you know where the trail was. Tod hoped his father would become discouraged and turn back with one of his harassed-daddy jokes but he said only, “Your mother will be damned impressed by us! Taking the back way like Che in the jungle.”

Tod asked who was
Che in the jungle?
but the daddy ignored him.

Ever deeper the daddy and Tod hiked into the woods. Though the air was chilly and the trail overgrown with brambles the daddy walked with his suede jacket open and his face was flushed, ruddy. Still the daddy's eyes were quick-darting like an animal's and Tod wondered if the daddy was looking for someone, or if someone was looking for the daddy. Since he'd passed Tod and his father on the woodchip path the spike-haired boy had not reappeared so far as Tod knew.

The daddy was saying this was a
shortcut.
The daddy was saying
things wear out, wear down.
The daddy was saying that
the human will is a pitiful vessel to withstand the tidal waves of the non-human will.
Tod had no idea what the daddy meant but he was grateful that the daddy's tone wasn't angry or accusing, it was more as if the daddy was reciting facts commonplace and banal and of the sort the daddy might be expected to confer onto the son as in an ancient ritual of enlightenment, erasure. Tod remembered how before his birthday a few weeks ago—before the
downsizing
and before the
change in our schedules
—even the daddy had been restless and distracted watching TV news with the remote control in his hand switching among three or four channels—sometimes too the daddy prowled through the house in the night while the mommy slept and Tod slept and Tod was wakened to see the daddy leaning over his bed—at first thinking it was a scary thing in a dream then it was the daddy's face dark in the shadows—the daddy's face was soft-crinkling with pain so exquisite it couldn't have been named and the daddy whispered
Love you! Whoever you are, whoever sent you to us.

By
us
the child knew that the daddy was referring not just to himself but to the mommy as well. But it was rare, the daddy spoke of
us.

They were passing overturned trash cans. Sad to see here in the woods trash spilled across the trail. Beer cans, Styrofoam containers. There was a single rotted jogging shoe, that scared Tod making him think there was a human foot inside. There was a smell as of something dead and rotted. The daddy must have smelled this smell for he shuddered and laughed saying, “All shortcuts entail risks. Have faith, son!”

The thought came to Tod like a tiny bird pecking at his skull
He will leave you here. He is taking you here to leave you.

 

In the sky—that they could see, for only part of the sky was visible now—clouds had turned heavy and sullen like a face suffused with blood. Steadily the day was becoming colder—it didn't seem like April now. Tod was tired trying to keep up with the daddy pulling him along the path but didn't dare try to pull his hand free. The daddy seemed not to know how hard and how tight he was gripping Tod and in such a way that the child's arm felt as if it might be pulled out of its socket.

Not-knowing
was the scary thing. At four years of age so much is
not-knowing
like crossing a stream of rushing water on just rocks—this, Tod had seen on TV—a boy only a little older than Tod fleeing a black bear—in Alaska—having to put his trust in these rocks, to save him—a desperate boy—Tod had shut his eyes not wanting to see the boy fall into the stream and the black bear catching and devouring him…Magdalena had quickly switched channels.

“Here! Here we are.”

In triumph the daddy pulled Tod into a clearing—it was a large open space, in the forest—they were entering the open space from the rear—an outdoor amphitheater with a crude stone stage and six rows of stone benches lifting in a semi-circle. The daddy had seemed to know that this was here, he was very pleased to have found it. On the stone benches moss grew in leprous patches and here and there were ugly red graffiti-scrawls like those on the restroom walls. On the stage lay broken tree limbs and other debris. The outdoor theater was in poor repair as if it were centuries old and long abandoned yet still the daddy seemed pleased and excited and in a burst of sudden energy bounded up onto the stage as if his name had been called.

“Hello—hello—hel-
lo
! Thank you
thank you
!”

Quivering with gratitude—unless it was in mockery of gratitude—the daddy smiled out at the (invisible) audience lifting his hands as if to quell a wave of deafening applause.

“I hope I have not made you good people wait impatiently.”

More applause!—the daddy lifted his hands as if overcome with emotion. His expression was both apologetic and eager.

“You say you want—who?
Li'l dude?
My son Tod Falmouth—you're awaiting
him
?”

Tod giggled wildly, this was so silly! Empty stone benches in the ruin of an outdoor theater and the daddy's loud voice echoing. Out of shyness Tod hadn't followed his father out onto the stage. In public places the son did not entirely trust the daddy for the daddy frequently teased the son, exposed him to the eyes of strangers as the butt of jokes the son did not comprehend. Strange and disconcerting to Tod to hear his name uttered in this way. No one in sight—empty stone benches—yet Tod felt embarrassed, the daddy spoke in that bright loud TV voice.

The daddy turned to Tod now, beckoning.

“Son! Come join Daddy onstage! These good people demand it.”

Tod shook his head
no.
How silly this was!—yet a sickish sensation stirred in the pit of his belly as if in the ruin of the old theater there was yet an audience, staring at him. They were not so welcoming as the daddy seemed to think. Their blurred eyes sought him out where he was hiding amid rubble at the foot of the stage.

In his sparkly mood the daddy wasn't at all intimidated by the buzzing audience. As Tod stared in astonishment the daddy began to dance—tap-dance—flailing his arms in a comical fashion. The daddy continued to address the audience in a familiar way as if they were all old friends. The daddy's silky thinning dust-colored hair was disheveled in the wind and his face was unusually warm, ruddy. The daddy looked so eager, and so happy!—as Tod hadn't seen his father in a long time.

After a few minutes the tap-dancing ceased. The daddy stopped to catch his breath—a new mood was summoned. Advancing to the very edge of the stage the daddy clasped his hands to his chest and spoke in a grave voice: “‘Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law / My services are bound;…/I grow. I prosper: / Now, gods, stand up for bastards!”

Tod laughed as if he'd been roughly tickled—
bastard
was one of the bad words. Yet the daddy pronounced
bastard
happily, like the words of a song.

Another time the daddy paused to wait out the applause of the audience. Then with a dramatic flourish the daddy rubbed his face as if erasing its features to begin again, with a look now of grief. His voice thickened as if he were about to cry. “‘All my pretty ones? / Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? / What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, / At one fell swoop?'”

Hearing these utterly perplexing words Tod became frightened. He had no idea why his father was speaking of chickens but by the tone of his father's voice he understood that something very bad had happened to the chickens.

The daddy's voice trailed off. The daddy seemed less pleased with this recitation. Perhaps the applause was less enthusiastic—the daddy waved it away negligently as if brushing away flies.

Now the daddy repositioned himself on the stage, as if beginning again. He kicked aside several broken tree limbs then thought to pick up one of the smaller branches which he broke in two. Across the daddy's flushed face came a look of something furtive and eager.