“It’s really quite good for them,” Brian said to me with his Cheshire Cat smile. “Very good exercise, and they develop their motor skills. And,” he added with a shrug, “it’s an awful lot of fun. You should try it, brother.”
I looked at my brother with his huge, phony, mocking smile, and I heard the moon call from the street, promising clean and happy fulfillment, so I turned away from him and saw the children and Rita all wrapped in the joy of this wonderful new experience, and suddenly the box under my arm—Head of the Class, almost twenty dollars with tax—felt as heavy and useless as an old oil drum filled with fish heads. I let it drop to the floor, and into my head popped a brief cartoon picture of Dexter running from the room in tears to flop facedown on the bed and cry away his tattered heart.
And happily for the worldwide image of tough-but-caring fatherhood, the mental picture was so ridiculous that all I did was take a deep breath, say, “Oops,” and bend to pick up the package.
There was no room for me on the couch, so I walked past the cozy group sitting there, watching them twist to see around me so they would not miss a single riveting second of Astor’s epic television battle. I put my game on the floor and sat, uneasy in the easy chair. I could feel Brian’s eyes on me but I did not look back; I simply concentrated on forming and maintaining a facade of polite excitement, and after a few seconds he looked away, back at the TV, and as far as the rest of the room was concerned, I had disappeared as completely as if I had never been.
I watched Cody and Astor take turns with their expensive new game system. Somehow, no matt
er how animated they got, I could not feel any real enthusiasm. They switched to a different game that involved killing things with a sword instead of a gun, and even the use of a blade sparked absolutely no fire in my breast. And of course, they were so thoroughly happy that only a true curmudgeon could possibly object—which merely meant that I could now add “curmudgeon” to my résumé. Dexter Morgan, BS. Blood-spatter Analyst, Reformed Slasher; Currently employed as killjoy. I almost wished Debs could have been here—in the first place, because Brian would leave, but more important, so I could say, “See what you’re missing? Kids, family—Ha!” And I would give a bitter chuckle that underlined the ultimate fickleness of all family.
Astor said, “Ooooooooohhh,” in a very loud and high voice, and Cody jumped up to play. It was clear to me that it wouldn’t matter what I did—they would never truly appreciate me or learn what I had to offer. They were far beyond fickle—they were insensible, like kittens, predatory little things, distracted by the first bit of string or shiny bauble that rolled across the floor, and nothing I could ever say or do could possibly make any kind of dent in their willful ignorance.
And then they grew up—into what? Into murderous dead-eyed pretenders like Brian and me, ready at the drop of a hat to stab each other in the back, literally or figuratively. Where was the point? Because they would clatter through childhood leaving a wake of random chaos and by the time they were old enough to understand what I had to say they would be too old to change. It was enough to make me renounce my new humanity and simply slip outside into the liquid moonlight and find somebody to take apart—no finesse, no careful selection, just sudden and cleansing savagery and release, exactly like Brian did it.
I looked at my brother where he sat—on my couch, with my wife, making my children happier than I seemed able to do. Is that what he wanted to do? Become me, but a better me than I had ever managed to be? Something rose up in me at the thought, something in between bile and anger, and I made up my mind that I would confront him tonight, demand to know what he thought he was doing, and make him stop. And if he would not listen to me—well, there was always Deborah.
So I sat grimly with a polite and completely fake half smile stitched onto my face for another half hour of dragons and magic fists and happy yelling. Even Lily Anne seemed content, which felt like an ultimate betrayal. She blinked and waved her fists in the air when Astor yelled and then snuggled back down onto Rita’s chest, more enthusiasm than I had seen her show before for anything except feeding. And finally, when I didn’t think I could maintain my artificial composure for even a second longer, I cleared my throat and said, “Hey, Rita? Did you have any plans for dinner?”
“What?” she said, without looking at me, still totally engrossed in the game. “Did you have a—Oh, Cody! I’m sorry, Dexter, what did you say?”
“I said,” I said in overdistinct syllables, “Did You Have Any Plans for Dinner?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, still without looking away from the TV. “I just have to—Oh!” she said with real alarm, and this time it was not from something in the game but because she glanced up and saw the clock. “Oh, my God, it’s after eight! I didn’t even—Astor, set the table! Oh, my God, and it’s a school night!”
I watched with mild satisfaction as Rita leaped up off the couch at last and, thrusting Lily Anne at me, ran into the kitchen still talking. “For the love of—Oh, I know it’s burned, what was I—Cody, get the silverware out! I’ve never been such a—Astor, don’t forget to set a place for Uncle Brian!” And then a nonstop clatter for several minutes as she opened the oven, slammed pots and pans around, and set normal life back on the tracks.
Cody and Astor glanced at each other, clearly reluctant to leave their new TV world even to eat, and then, still wordless, they looked in unison at Uncle Brian. “Well, come on,” he said with his awful fake cheeriness, “you have to do what your mother says.”
“I wanna play some more,” Cody said, which was several more syllables than I had heard him say together in a very long time.
“Of course you do,” Brian said. “But right now you can’t.” He gave them his big smile, and I could see that he was trying very hard to look sympathetic, but it was truly not all that convincing, nowhere near as good as I did it. But Cody and Astor apparently accepted it at face value; they just looked at each other, nodded, and trundled off to the kitchen to help get ready for dinner.
Brian watched them go and then turned to look at me, his eyebrows raised in artificially polite anticipation. Naturally enough, he could not hope to anticipate any of the things I wanted to say to him, but as I took a deep breath to start, it occurred to me that I really couldn’t, either. I felt that I had to accuse him of something—but of what? Buying an expensive toy when I had bought one so much cheaper? Of taking the kids for Chinese food and probably something slightly more sinister? Of trying to be me when I was too busy to play the part? I suppose the old, dead-inside Dexter would simply say, “Whatever you’re doing, stop.” But the new me simply could not wrap his tongue around all the many complicated things—feelings—that swirled through me. And to make matters even worse, as I sat there with my brain idling and my mouth open, Lily Anne made a burbling noise and my shirt was suddenly covered with a sour milk pudding of baby blarp.
“Oh, my,” Brian said with a sympathy that was every bit as real as all his other emotions.
I got to my feet and went down the hall, holding Lily Anne at a kind of port-arms position. In the bedroom there was a changing table that had a stack of towels for the purpose stored on a shelf underneath. I grabbed two of them—one to mop up the mess, and the second to place under the baby to preserve whatever might remain of my shirt.
I went back to the easy chair and sat, draping the second towel over my shoulder and arranging Lily Anne facedown on top of it, gently patting her on the back. Brian looked at me again, and I opened my mouth to speak.
“Dinner,” Rita said, roaring into the room with a platter held between two large oven mitts. “I’m afraid it’s not—I mean, it isn’t actually burned, but I didn’t—It’s just a little too dry and, Astor, get the rice into the blue bowl. Sit down, Cody.”
Dinner was a cheerful affair, at least as far as the video warriors were concerned. Rita kept apologizing for the Orange Juice Chicken—which indeed, she really should have. It was one of her signature dishes, and she had let it overcook to the point of dryness. But Cody and Astor found it very funny that she was embarrassed, and began to play her with just a touch of cruelty. “It’s dry,” Cody said after Rita’s third apology. “Not like usual.” And he smirked at Brian.
“Yes, I know, but—I really am sorry, Brian,” Rita said.
“Oh, it’s delicious; think nothing of it, dear lady,” Brian said.
“Think nothing at all, dear Mom,” Astor echoed loftily, and she and Brian laughed. And so it went until dinner was over and the kids jumped up to clear the table, goaded on by the promise of fifteen more minutes of Wii before bed. Rita took Lily Anne down the hall for a diaper change, and for just a moment, Brian and I faced each other across the table. This was the moment to speak, to bring things out in the open between us, and I leaned forward to seize it.
“Brian,” I said.
“Yes?” he said, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
“Why have you come back?” I said, trying very hard not to sound like I was accusing him of something.
He gave me a look of cartoon astonishment. “Why, to be with my family, of course,” he said. “Why else?”