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TEAMWORK
“Hard so that she cries?” I ask him. “No,” he says, turning his little head from side to side, “even harder.” He’s not violent, my son. He’s nearly four and a half, and I can’t remember him ever asking me to hit anyone. He’s also not the kind of kid who goes around asking for things he doesn’t need, like a backpack with a Dora on it or an ice-cream cone. He asks only when he feels he deserves it. Like his father. And if it’s all right to point fingers, then not like his mother. Back in the day, she’d roll into the house with tears in her eyes and some story about a guy who’d cursed her on the highway or ripped her off at the store. I’d ask her to go over the specifics three, four different ways, ask questions, investigate down to the tiniest details. Ninety percent of the time it was clear she was at fault. That the guy in the car was right to curse her, and the one at the store—all he did was add the sales tax to her bill. But my little Roiki isn’t like her. And if he asks his father to hit harder than to make her cry, I know there’s really something going on. “What’d she do to you?” I ask. “Did she hit you?” “No,” Roiki says. “When Mommy goes out, she babysits me. She locks the door with a key. She leaves me in my room in the dark and won’t open it. Even if I cry. Even if I promise to be a good boy.” I hug him tight-tight. “Don’t worry,” I tell him, “Daddy will make it so Grandma stops.” “You’ll hit her harder than hard?” he asks me through tears. It’s plain heartbreaking to see your son cry. Even more when you’re divorced. And it fills me with a deep urge to answer Roi with a yes, to swear that I will. But I don’t tell Roiki a thing. I’m careful. Because the absolute worst is promising something to a child and not seeing it through. An experience like that scars for life. I straightaway change subjects. I say to him, “Do you want to go to the parking lot at Daddy’s work and I’ll put you up on my lap and we’ll drive the car together—teamwork style?” As I say teamwork his eyes light up, shining with excitement, and the tears that remain from before make them shine even brighter. We drive like that for maybe half an hour in the parking lot, him turning the wheel and me working the pedals. I even let him shift the gears. Reverse cracks him up the most. There’s nothing like the laughter of a child. I bring him back fifteen minutes early. I know they’re keeping an eye on us, so I’m extra careful about those things. Before we head up in the elevator I check him twice over to make sure he’s looking polished, that I’m delivering him dirt and stain free. Then I give myself the once-over in the lobby mirror, checking for the same things. “Where were you?” she asks before we’re even through the door. “At Gymboree,” Roiki answers—exactly as we agreed. “We played with children.” “I hope this time Daddy played nice,” Sheyni says, looking all pleased with herself, “and didn’t push any kids around.” “Daddy didn’t push anyone,” I say in a tone that makes it clear I’m not pleased she’s baiting me in front of the boy. “He didn’t,” Roiki says. “We had a lot of fun!” He’s completely forgotten his crying after the playground, and that he asked me to beat Grandma. That’s what’s great about kids. Do with them what you will, an hour later they’ve forgotten all about it and they’ve found something else to think about, something good to be happy with. But I’m not a kid anymore, and when I get back to the car, all I’ve got in my head is a picture of Roiki in his tiny room, banging on the door, and that old sour mother of Sheyni’s on the other side, not opening it. I have to be smart about this. I need to make sure it stops—but without putting myself in danger and jeopardizing my visits with my son. Even these pathetic biweeklies cost me in blood. I’m still paying for that one nonincident in the park. A fat little girl attacked Roi in the rope-bridge section. She was pinching him hard and I was just trying to get her away from him. I gave her what is like the absence of a yank, barely pulling at her with my left hand, and the girl—she falls and bangs herself on the metal frame. Nothing, not a scratch, not even enough to get her clearly hysterical mother making a scene. But when Roiki mentions this to Sheyni by accident, she and Amram are suddenly crawling all over me like locusts. Sheyni says if I have another “violent outburst” in front of the child, the two of them will make sure the agreement we signed finds its way back to court for appeal. “What violence?” I say to her. “Five years we were together, did I ever once raise a hand?” She knows she’s got nothing to say on that front. She had it coming to her a boatload of times, and I was the picture of restraint. A different guy would have kicked her right on over to the emergency room at Ichilov. But me, on my life I’d never raise my hand against a woman. And somehow, before I know it, Amram’s gone and got himself involved. “Even now, right this minute, you’re violent,” is what he throws out at me. “You—you’ve got a crazy look in your eyes.” “It’s not a crazy look,” I say, and I smile at him. “It’s a touch of the human soul. It’s what we call feeling. Just because you have no trace of it in you doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing.” In the end, springing from the abundance of his nonviolence, it’s Amram who starts with the shouting, and the threats, telling me I’ll never see my own son again. It’s a shame I didn’t record him. What a mouth that guy cracked open, filthy as a sewer. But I keep smiling and acting all relaxed just to wind him up. We ended up settling the matter with me promising not to do anything like that ever again. As if it was just exactly what I had scheduled for the next day, to go find myself another five-year-old girl to knock down in the park. Next time I pick up Roiki from the playground, I go straight for the subject of his grandma. I could wait him out, let him bring it up himself, but children will sit on those kinds of things for a long time, and that’s time I don’t have. “Since our last talk,” I say, “has Grandma come by to babysit you?” Roiki licks the watermelon ice I bought him and shakes his head. “If she does it again,” he asks, “are you going to make Grandma hurt?” I breathe in. I want more than anything in the world to say yes, but I just can’t risk it. If they make it so I can’t see him anymore, I’ll die. “I want to—more than anything,” I tell him. “More than anything in the world, I want to hurt her. To hit her harder than hard. And not just Grandma. The same for anyone who hurts you.” “Like that girl in ice-cream-cone park?” he says, his eyes sparkling. “Like with the girl from the park.” I nod. “But Mommy doesn’t like it when Daddy hits. And if Daddy hits Grandma or anyone else, they won’t let me come by to play with you anymore. To do all the things we do. Understand?” Roiki doesn’t answer. His Artik drips on his pants. He lets it melt down on purpose, waiting for me to intervene. But I don’t. After a long silence, he says, “It’s not nice for me alone in the room.” “I know,” I tell him, “but I can’t make it stop. Only you can. And Daddy wants to teach you how.” I explain to Roiki exactly what to do if his granny locks him in again. Which part of the head he needs to butt against the wall if he wants to leave a solid mark without really injuring himself. “And it’ll hurt?” he asks. I tell him that it will. I’ll never once in this life lie to him. Not like Sheyni. When we were still together, we took Roi to the pediatrician for his vaccinations. The whole way there she was messing with his brain, talking about stings and bees and special treats for good boys, right up until I cut her off mid-sentence and said, “There’s going to be a lady there with a needle who’s going to cause you pain—but there’s nothing we can do about it. There are some things in this world we just have to get on with.” And Roiki, who was then barely two, looked at me with that intelligent gaze of his and understood. When we got into the room you could see his whole being wanted to draw back. But he didn’t protest and didn’t make for the door. He took it like a little man. Together, we go over every step of the plan. We run through the things he needs to tell Sheyni afterward. How he annoyed Grandma. How she gave him a good shove into the wall. In short, how he got himself that bruise. “And it’ll hurt?” he asks again at the end. “It’ll hurt,” I tell him. “Just this once. But afterward, she’ll never, not ever, shut you up in that room alone.” Roiki gets quiet. He thinks. The popsicle is already finished. He’s licking the stick. “And Mommy won’t say that I’m just making it up?” I stroke his forehead. “If there’s a big enough bruise on your head, then, no, she won’t say that.” After that, we take the car back to the parking lot. Roiki steers, and I press on the gas and the brakes. Teamwork. I teach Roiki how to honk the horn while we drive, and he goes crazy with it. He honks and honks and honks until the parking attendant comes over and asks us to stop. It’s this old Arab guy that does the night shift. “Let it slide,” I say, winking and holding out a twenty. “The kid’s playing. A few more minutes and we’re gone.” The Arab doesn’t say anything. He takes his twenty and starts back toward his booth. “What’d the man want?” Roiki asks. “Nothing,” I tell him. “He didn’t understand where the noise was coming from.” “And I can beep again?” “Of course you can, angel.” I give him a kiss. “More than once. Again and again. Honk until your heart’s content.” Äàòà äîáàâëåíèÿ: 2015-09-27 | Ïðîñìîòðû: 571 | Íàðóøåíèå àâòîðñêèõ ïðàâ |