"I guess that was when Dad and I finally got to know each other. And I know this sounds strange, but those days up at the cabin were probably the happiest time of my life. It was a vacation from reality, and for a little while, we were a real family. It was nice. For a while. . . ."
After a while, Dr. Davidson prompted, "Go on, Jim."
"Huh?"
"What happened?"
I shrugged. "We came down from the mountains too soon. And we got caught in the last wave of the plagues. And the boys died. And-um, Dad never forgave himself. My sister never forgave him. And my mother-well, she never stopped pitying him because she knew what private hell he was living with. I guess he couldn't take that."
"Jim-"
"Huh?"
"You didn't say how you felt."
"Yes, I did. I said I loved him."
"How did you feel about coming down from the mountain too soon?"
"Uh ... it was a mistake, but it was an honest one. I mean, anyone could have ... I mean, it wasn't his fault-"
"Jim," Dr. Davidson said very quietly, "you're not being honest with me."
I jerked my hands back from the arms of the chair.
"Yes," he admitted. "There are sensors in the chair-but that isn't how I know you're lying. I can hear the stress in your voice." I felt suddenly flustered-and angry. I jumped up out of the chair
"How did you feel, Jim?"
"None of your damn business! I'm tired of people telling me who I am, who I have to be. I'm tired of people lying to me! Everybody lies. Obama lied. Duke lied. You're lying now, I'll bet. I'm tired of it-tired of being used and manipulated. It isn't fair! It wasn't fair when my father did it!" The words were tumbling out now. I knew what I was saying, but I couldn't stop myselfI didn't even know if I meant any of it. "He didn't listen to me either! I wanted to stay up in the mountains longer! We were happy there!" The words caught in my throat and I choked. I started coughing.
After a polite pause, Dr. Davidson said, "There's water on the table."
I stepped over to it and poured myself a glass. I drank it, then poured another and downed half of it too. My throat still felt dry. I carried it back to the chair with me. I sat down again. I tried to perch on the edge of the seat, but the chair wasn't designed for it; I had to lean back.
"You said you were happy there, in the mountains," Dr. Davidson prompted.
"Yes," I admitted, glad to finally have it out. "I was. I wasn't competing with the computer anymore. We were involved with living. Surviving. I mean, it wasn't easy; we had to chop our own wood and do a lot of maintenance on the solar panels, but we were involved with what we were doing-and with each other. We talked to each other about what we had to do. We shared our experiences. We cooperated. Oh, there were fights, a lot of arguments-especially at first-but we were a family finally. And it wasn't fair to end it. We could have stayed up there longer. We should have waited. I didn't want to come back. I wanted us to stay up there-"
"So it wasn't the boys at all?" asked Dr. Davidson.
"No," I admitted. "Not for me. It was ... I was afraid I was going to lose him again."
"So you were angry at your father?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Yeah, I was."
"Did you tell him how you felt?"
"No, I never did. I mean, there wasn't any point. Once he'd made up his mind, that was it. Oh, I tried-I did tell him. I said we shouldn't go down yet, but he said we had to. I didn't want to, but you couldn't argue with him, so I didn't. I just figured he was going to have his way, so I started putting up the walls again. You know, I'd let them down for a while, but now that he was making plans to come back, I had to protect myself again and-" I stopped to take a sip of water.
"Did he notice it? Did he see a change in your behavior?"
"I don't see how he could have missed it. I was a real asshole there for a while."
"I see."
There was silence. While I realized. It wasn't just Maggie's anger. Or Mom's pity. It was me too. My resentment. Was that what he'd been trying to tell me that last day at the depot? Did I drive him away too?
"What are you thinking about now?"
"Nothing," I said. "I'm just wondering who I should be angry at. My dad? Or me? He was there when I needed him. But I wasn't there when he needed me. I abandoned him because ... because. . ." My face was getting hot. This was the hard part to admit. I could feel my throat tightening up. ". . . I thought he was going to shut me out again and I wanted to shut him out first-to show him what it felt like, to show him he couldn't jerk me around like that! I mean, everybody else does it, but not my dad! It wasn't fair!" I started coughing then, and my eyes were blurry. I rubbed my palms against them, realized I was starting to cry-and then broke down and bawled like a baby.
Dr. Davidson waited patiently. Finally he said, "Are you all right?"
"No," I said, but I was. I was relieved to have finally spoken it aloud. It was as if I had released a great pressure that I hadn't even known was there until the words had given it form.
"Yes," I said. "I'm all right. Well-a little better, anyway. I hadn't realized I was living with such ... guilt."
"Not just guilt, Jim. Anger too. You've been carrying your anger for such a long time, Jim, it's become a habit. It's part of you. My job is to assist you in giving it up. If that's what you want."
I thought about that. "I don't know. Sometimes I think my anger is all that keeps me going."
"Maybe that's because you haven't experienced anything else as intense. Have you ever been in love?"
I shook my head.
"Perhaps you ought to think about that-consider what it is you expect a lover to be. We could talk about that next time."
"Next time?"
"If you wish. You can call on me any time you want. That's what I'm here for."
"Oh. I thought this was only a one-time interview."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Oh," I said. Then, "Thank you."
TWENTY-NINE
DINNER WAS a thick steak (medium rare), real mashed potatoes, green peas (with melted butter on them), fresh salad (bleu cheese dressing) and a chocolate soda. All of my favorite foods. Even an army commissary couldn't do too much damage to a T-bone steak. Although they tried.
I wondered about Ted. I wondered where he was and what he was up to now. Or who.
I'd never been able to keep up with him. And I knew why. Paul Jastrow said it to me once-I didn't remember the argument, but I did remember the insult: "Hey, McCarthy-there are human beings and there are ducks. You're a duck. Stop pretending to be a human being. You're not fooling anyone." Some of the people around him laughed, so after that, whenever Paul wanted to get a laugh, he'd turn to me and start quacking, then he'd turn to his friends and explain, "You have to talk to them in their own language if you want them to understand anything." I never understood why he'd picked me out for the honor of that particular humiliation-not until much later when I saw some comedian on TV do the exact same routine to an unsuspecting member of the audience. It wasn't personal; he was just using the fellow-he was someone to hit with the rubber chicken. That's when the nickle dropped. Paul had been imitating this comic. Maybe he hadn't even meant it personally-it was just a cheap way to get a laugh. But nobody had let me in on the joke. So I didn't get to laugh too. And even though I understood it now, in retrospect, it still didn't lessen the hurt. I could still feel it, could still hear the laughter.
I think it hurt the most because I was afraid it might be true. I was looking at my half-finished steak. I was wishing I had someone to share the meal with. It's no fun eating alone.
I pushed myself away from the table. I wasn't hungry anymore. I hated to waste food, but
-and then I had to stop myself, or I would have laughed out loud. There weren't any children starving in Africa anymore-or India, or Pakistan, or anywhere else! Nobody was starving anymore. If there was one good thing the plagues had accomplished, they had ended world hunger. It didn't matter if I wasted this steak or not. There was steak enough for everybody now. There was steak to waste! It was an eerie realization.