“Oh, I forgot,” and I put out my arms. His are now still and I go into them. His arms go around my body and now he’s hugging me. I feel good in his arms. I close my eyes. He’s patting my back with both hands as he hugs me. I feel so small in his arms. My face against his cheek. Cheek to cheek, that’s what we are. I’ve seen him dance with my mother that way. Once when Robert turned the radio on to music and my father said “Here, I’ll show you kids how to cut a rug,” and he grabbed my mother’s hands. She said No but they danced. If spinning around a lot and dipping as he called it till her head almost hit the floor sometimes is dancing. Cheek to cheek. She didn’t close her eyes but he did. “You’ll get well,” he says. “You’re not so contagious and you’ll get well.”
“I know.”
He releases me, then holds me by my shoulders far as his arms can reach and says “You’re a good boy. Some of my patients wouldn’t be as brave as you in the same situation.”
“I’m scared of dentists though.”
“No you’re not.” He stands. “What you do today?”
“Played by myself. This car.” I hold it up. “Slept a lot. Drank lots of fluids because I’m supposed to.”
“That’s smart. You’re taking good care of yourself. Want to know what I did today? Something special.”
“What?”
“Pulled out a tooth as big as — let me see your car again.” I show him it. “Half as big as that. Even bigger than half when you include the roots. It’s all in the wrist. I love pulling teeth and hope one day you will too. But you got to stay healthy so you can strengthen your wrists. And I’ll look in on you after supper. Maybe read you a story.”
“I’d like that.”
“Find yourself a good book. Don’t get out of bed finding it. Just think of all the books you have and when I come back tell me which one you want and I’ll read as much of it as I can before I get tired. I’m not a good reader.”
“I can already think of one.”
“Keep it in your head. Don’t lose it.” He kisses two fingers and presses them to my cheek. “What am I doing?” Bends over, kisses my cheek, steps back. “Don’t rub it off. You do, it’ll mean the kiss never took place.”
“I won’t.”
He leaves. I rub it off. I don’t want to. It was wet. Now I’m sorry I did. But it felt uncomfortable wet. The wet’s on the back of my hand now. Maybe I should put it back on my cheek. But I don’t want my cheek wet again. I know it’ll dry in a little while on my hand but I don’t want it there either. I wipe my hand on the covers. Now my hand’s dry but I bet it smells from spit. I smell it. Spit. That smell. I’d like to wash my hand now but I’m not supposed to get out of bed. I look for the wet stain on the covers where I rubbed my hand. None there. Maybe I should rub the covers where I rubbed my hand on it against my cheek. That’s silly. Why would I want to do that? No reason. Just thought of it. I pick up the car and hold it a ways in front of my face. I slowly bring it closer to my face till its front is right up against my nose. Now it looks very real. I can see through the car’s windows to the other side of the room. No people in the car but so what? They’re lying on the floor and I can’t see them. Then how’d the car drive up to my nose? It stopped. Then they ducked down. No, nobody’s inside. If the car doors opened I’d make little people out of clay and put them in all the seats. If the trunk opened I’d make little square suitcases or try to and put them in too.
Later I hear my father say “He must be asleep. I better take the car out of his hand or he’ll hurt himself when he rolls over.”
“Put it on the night table,” my mother says. “He might look for it when he awakes.”
I must have been asleep and now pretend to be asleep. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m tired. And I like to hear what people say about me when they don’t know I’m listening. My mother puts her hand on my forehead. She’s feeling for temperature. I know it’s my mother’s hand because it’s so smooth. I’ve seen her at nights creaming her hands. I hate the sound of the cream squishing in her hands. My father feels my cheek. His hand is rougher but still smooth. Almost as smooth as my mother’s. All that washing up in his office before and after each patient. He has a special pink liquid soap. He lets me use it whenever I’m there even when my hands aren’t dirty. My hands can just reach under the faucet but I can’t, as he does, step on the water pedal and keep my hands under the faucet at the same time. His hand smells different than my mother’s too. From soap. Hers from that cream. “He feels warm,” my father says.
“A little temperature. I should take it now but I don’t want to wake him.”
He puts his hand up my pajama top and feels my back. “He’s warm. Maybe we should take it, just to see what it is.”
“I’m sure he’s no more than a hundred.”
“Still, let’s take it. A hundred’s bad enough, and if it is that, shouldn’t we give him an aspirin?”
“What are you talking? A hundred at night is just about normal for a child his age, and giving him an aspirin will definitely wake him.”
“Still, if it’s more than a hundred, which it feels like, I’d chance waking him. I’ll give it if you don’t want to.”
“Turn him over, but gently, gently.”
I’m turned over on my stomach. I hate having my temperature taken this way. Maybe if they knew I was awake they’d take it orally, but my mother thinks the rectal thermometer is more accurate by a degree. I’d like to say I’m awake now but I don’t know how. They’ll think I’ve been lying. They’ll think I was lying all the other times I pretended to be asleep when they spoke to me or pretended not to be listening when they talked about personal things. I can pretend to be asleep or concentrating but just can’t pretend to come out of sleep. It’d mean rubbing my eyes, yawning, maybe shaking my head and mumbling something, but which of those comes first and what’s the order of the rest? The covers are pulled down to my feet.
“What are you doing?” Robert says.
“Shh,” my mother says. “Taking Will’s temperature. Get out of the room, Robert.”
“Can’t I watch?”
“Do what your mother says,” my father says.
“How my ever going to be a doctor if I can’t watch?”
“Okay, watch,” my father says, “—but from the door.”
My pants bottoms are pulled down. The thermometer’s put in.
It’s warm when I was ready for it to be cold. I’m always afraid it will break inside me. But it’ll only take two minutes or so, faster than it would in my mouth, which is at least one good thing.
“I can’t see,” Robert says.
“By the way,” my father says, “I forgot to tell you — Lucille called today.” Lucille’s my aunt. “She’s having her problems with Arnie again. I didn’t know what to advise her.”
“Leaving him, what else?” my mother says.
“Where will she go? He makes a good living. She has everything she wants. Without him — well he says he won’t provide her with a nickel, and then she and Eugene will have to—”