The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (119 page)

“MRIs? Are those the things that—?”

“They’re pictures of the body’s soft tissues. Pictures of your brains, in this case. The procedure is completely noninvasive. Completely painless.”

“We’re not lab rats,” I said.

“No, you’re not, Dominick. And I am not a mad scientist. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, is Dr. Weinberger. I’m not suggesting this is something we should pursue right now. Down the road, perhaps. I only mention it to reassure you.”

“Reassure me about
what
?”

“That I’m not twenty years behind the time.
Despite
the fact I am Indian by birth.”

I looked away. “All I’m saying. . . . I just don’t see why you’re spending all this time. . . . If it’s all about brain abnormalities and these MRI things, then what’s all this taping and talking about ancient history supposed to accomplish?”

“I’m not sure, Dominick. I’m merely probing—trying to get a fuller picture. Let me put it this way: when he was nineteen years old, a young man walked into the woods and became lost. I have merely gone to the woods to try to find him. Others may be flying helicopters above, analyzing data—using more state-of-the-art methods. But as for me, I’m on foot. Calling out the young man’s name and listening for some response. I can’t give you any guarantees about what I’ll find. If, indeed, I find anything helpful at all. The process is trial-and-error.”

“Yeah, well, as far as I can see, it’s just a big fat waste of time.”

“Thank you for your opinion.”

I shifted in my chair. Looked up at the clock. “God, where the hell’s Sheffer, anyway? You’d think if she was going to be
this
late, she’d call or something.”

“Perhaps a phone wasn’t available to her. Perhaps she’s on her way back now.”

“Look, I don’t mean to insult you. I know you mean well.”

“You don’t insult me, Dominick. You are merely expressing your opinion. Which is fine. Which is lovely.” She smiled.

I sat back down. “All right, go ahead,” I said. “Play the rest of it then.”

“The tape? You’re sure?”

“Go ahead.”

“
Mr. Birdsey, you said during our last session that your stepfather was abusive not only to your mother but to you and Dominick as well. Let’s explore that a little.
”

“
Let’s not and say we did.
”

Another flick of the cigarette lighter. The sound of Thomas inhaling, exhaling.

“
Did your stepfather hit you, Mr. Birdsey?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Frequently or infrequently?
”

“
Frequently.
”

“Infrequently,” I said, correcting him.

“
He used to take his belt off and hit me with it.
”

“
Where?
”

“
Anywhere he felt like it. In the kitchen. Out in the garage.
”

“
No, I mean where on your person did he strike you? Where on your body?
”

“
My legs, my arms, my behind. . . . One time he hit me across the face with his belt and the buckle chipped my tooth. Here. Right here. See that little chip?
”

I pointed an incriminating finger at the tape recorder, Perry Mason style. “Okay, right there,” I said. “Thomas chipped that tooth during a sledding accident. We were sledding over at Cow Barn Hill and Thomas hit his mouth on a metal runner.”

“
He never hit Dominick the way he hit me.
”

“
No?
”

“
No. He always picked on Thomas Dirt.
”

“
Thomas Dirt? Why do you refer to yourself in that manner, please?
”

“
I’m
not
referring to myself. I’m Mr. Y.
”

I felt the blood rush to my face. Felt Patel watching me. She stopped the tape. “Is that accurate, Dominick?” she asked. “Was Thomas singled out?”

I cleared my throat. “Uh . . . what?”

“When your stepfather abused or bullied your brother, were you usually spared?”

“I don’t know. . . . Sometimes.” I watched the fists on my knees tighten, relax, tighten. “I guess.”

The old guilty relief: being the one
not
screamed at,
not
yanked by the arm or whacked in the head. “The thing is . . . the thing is, I wasn’t always pushing Ray’s buttons like Thomas was. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. You had to be there.”

“Take me there, then, Dominick. Help me to understand.”

“It’s no deep, dark . . . I just knew when to shut up.”

“Yes?”

“And Thomas . . . he just never knew how to play
defense,
you know? I mean, you should have seen him at contact sports. He just didn’t
get
it. And, in a way, it was . . . it was the same with Ray.”

“Can you explain what you mean, Dominick?”

“You had to play
defense
with Ray. Know when to bluff, when to get out of his way. . . .”

“Yes, go on. This is helpful.”

“When to stand up to him, too. Ray respected that: when you drew the line, fought back. When you showed him you had the balls to . . . the nerve . . . I just . . . God, why is this so
hard
?”

“Why is what so hard?”

I couldn’t answer her. If I answered her, I might start to cry.

“Dominick, what are you feeling right now?”

“What am I
feeling
? I don’t know. Nothing. I’m just . . .”

“Are you afraid?”

“No!”

“Angry?”

“I just . . . that’s just the way it was with Ray. You just had to play
defense.
”

I suddenly saw and heard Ray—red-faced, goading, an inch or two from my face. Driving against me toward the basket he and I had bolted over the garage one Saturday morning. “
De-
fense!
De-
fense! What’s the matter, sissy girl? You want to play basketball or go inside and play with your paper dollies?”

“
Mr. Birdsey, why do you think your stepfather was more harsh with you than he was with your brother?
”

“
I don’t
think
why. I
know
why. He was jealous of me.
”

“
Yes? What made him jealous?
”

“
Because he realized that God had special plans for me.
”

I rolled my eyes. Shifted in my seat.

They were
Thomas’s
paper dolls, not mine! He’d seen them at the five-and-ten—had begged Ma until she’d finally given in and bought them for him, and when Ray found them, all
three
of us were in trouble: Thomas, Ma, and me. Guilt by association. Guilty because I was his spitting image. Ray had gone bullshit when he saw those things. Ripped their heads off, their arms and legs. . . . And that hoop over the garage: it was supposed to be for both of us, but
Thomas would never come out and play. And when he had to—when Ray
made
him come out—he was always missing a pass or something. Taking a ball in the face. Running back inside to Ma, crying, chased back indoors by Ray’s ridicule.

“
And you feel that may have made your stepfather envious? Your special relationship with God?
”

“
Yes!
”

“
Would you say Ray was a religious man?
”

“
Not half as religious as he thinks he is.
”

“
Could you explain that, please?
”

“
PEACE BE WITH YOU! THE BODY OF CHRIST! MAY PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON YOU! Just because you’re the loudest person in church, it doesn’t mean you’re the most holy. . . . He never even used to go to church at all when we were kids. Not until he turned Catholic.
”

“
Yes? He converted?
”

“
To please my mother. They were having problems.
”

“
Marital problems? How do you know this, Mr. Birdsey?
”

“
I’m Mr. Y.
”

“
Excuse me. I stand corrected. But how did you know they were having problems?
”

“
Because she used to tell me. I was her best friend. She was thinking about getting a divorce. Nobody got divorces back then, but she was thinking about it.
”

“No, she wasn’t,” I said.

“No? Could she, perhaps, have been confiding in your brother about such things and you were possibly unaware? Is it possible that—”

“No.”

“No?”

“
She started going to see the priest for help. Then he started going, too. Then he decided to turn Catholic.
”

“This is true, Dominick?” the doc asked
.
“He converted?”

“Yes.”

“How old were you and your brother at the time, please?”

“Nine, maybe? Ten? I doubt very much that she was confiding in him about—”

“
That’s when he started going to Mass every morning. After work. He worked third shift, and he’d get off and go right to early Mass. He was buddy-buddy with the priests. He used to do all their yard work free of charge. Change the oil in their cars. . . . As if acting like their slave was going to get him into Heaven. As if THAT was going to erase the way he treated us. He used to make Dominick and me shovel snow over at the rectory and the convent and we could never take any money for it. One time, the nuns gave us a box of ribbon candy—my brother and me—and when we got home, Ray made us turn right around and go down to the convent and give it back to them.
”

“That is accurate, Dominick?” Dr. Patel asked.

I nodded. Closed my eyes. “Neither of us even
liked
ribbon candy. You’d think that by this time, the statute of limitations—”

“
It was my favorite kind of candy, too. Ribbon candy. . . . You know what it was? Why he had it in for me? Because it began to dawn on him that it was
me
God had chosen. Not
him
. Not Mr. Mass Every Day. It made him nervous, too: that the one person he had picked on all his life was a prophet of the Lord Jesus Christ.
”

“
Did that make him jealous? Knowing that you had been singled out by God for something special?
”

“Extremely
jealous. The thing he doesn’t realize—that nobody realizes—is that it’s a terrible burden.
”

“
What is, Mr. Birdsey? Would you explain what the burden is?
”

“
Knowing! Seeing things!
”

“
Seeing what, Mr. Birdsey?
”

“
What God wants. And what He doesn’t want.
” Deep sigh
.
“
He doesn’t WANT us to go to war against Iraq. He wants us to love one other. To honor HIM, not the almighty dollar. This country, right from the very beginning, has . . . Look at our
history
! Look at Wounded Knee! Look at slavery!
” He began to sob. “
He wants me to lead the way. To show people that their greed is . . . But how am I supposed to do that when they’ve got me under house arrest?
”

“
When
who
has you under house arrest, Mr. Birdsey?
”

“
I just want to wake people
up
! That’s all. I’m just trying to do God’s bidding. That’s why I did
this
.
”

“Did what?” I said. “What’s he talking about there?”

Dr. Patel tapped a finger against her wrist.

“
But nobody understands that it was a
sacrifice
. Not even Dominick. He says he understands, but he doesn’t. He’s so mad at me.
”

“
I’ve talked to your brother several times now, Mr. Birdsey. He’s concerned about you, but he’s not angry.
”

“
Then why hasn’t he come to visit me?
”

I closed my eyes, as if not seeing the tape recorder in front of me would make his voice go away.

“
You don’t remember? He can’t visit you until his security clearance comes through. It’s a policy here. Your brother wants very much to see you, and he will as soon as he can.
”

“
Oh.
”

“
You remember now?
”

“
I forgot.
”

“
Mr. Birdsey?
”

“
What?
”

“
Did your stepfather ever abuse you in other ways?
”

Long pause
.
“
Yes.
”

“
Would you tell me about that, please?
”

Deep sigh
.
“
One time he made me walk on glass.
”

“
Yes? Continue, please.
”

“
He broke glass all over the floor—the kitchen floor—and then he made me walk across the room. I had to get stitches. Had to walk on crutches. You should have seen the bottoms of my feet.
”

I held my hand up for her to stop the tape. “That was an
accident,
” I said. “I remember the exact time he’s talking about. Ray had one of his little temper tantrums and he threw a jar on the floor—a canning jar—and then later on Thomas accidentally stepped on one of the pieces and cut his foot. But it was an
accident
!”

“I see. How often did Ray have these ‘temper tantrums’?”

“What? I don’t know. Not that often. But don’t you see how he’s
twisting it around? Thomas? Same as the sled thing. He’s taking these
accidents
and—”

“You sound protective, Dominick. Do you feel protective of your stepfather?”

“No!”

“Of your family’s privacy then?”

“I’m not ‘protective’ of anything. I’m just saying that Ray didn’t bust glass all over the floor and then say, ‘Okay, Thomas! Walk on this because you’re Jesus’ right-hand man.’ I thought you
wanted
my insight. I thought that’s what this was all about.”

“It is.”

“Then what are you accusing me for?”

“Accusing you?”

“Or . . . psychoanalyzing
me
or whatever.
I’m
not the patient.”

“
He used to open up my closet and urinate all over my clothes. My shoes, too. He was always doing that—pissing into my shoes. . . . Nobody else knew about it. He said he’d kill me if I told anyone.
”

“
Mr. Birdsey, why did your stepfather urinate on your clothes?
”

A pause. “
That was nothing. That was the least of it.
”

“
He did worse things?
”