two are not incompatible. I cared about people and about making the world a better place. That’s what I
did
care about. I was extremely young. Do you know the origins of Velcro?”
He doesn’t. I tell him. “Is that true?” he says.
“How come, at the police station, you called your dad and not me?”
He hesitates. Then: “Your job is more important.”
And he’s right, though I can’t say so. “Walk,” I instruct. We’re back in the streets, approaching home. “Do you worry about people liking you?”
“Dad says Jason is sick,” he says instead of answering. “Is that what you think too?”
“As a doctor, you mean?” He nods. “What do you think I’m going to say?”
“You’d need to examine him?”
“Well, that,” I say. “What do you think?”
He presses his thumb several times against the side of his index finger, as though pointing a remote at my head, and says, “Click. Click.” This is family code for when someone changes the subject.
“I don’t understand what he did,” I say to placate him. “I don’t want to judge him before I’ve tried to understand. I don’t think calling someone sick is a good excuse for ignoring his behaviour or dismissing it. Maybe there are some categories of people who are just hopeless, but the thing is, it’s really difficult to know for sure who they are. It’s not, you know, printed on their faces, usually. Sometimes you have to give people the benefit of the doubt.”
We’re standing in the front yard, vaguely stretching. I stand on one leg and grab my ankle behind me, pulling to work my quad. Ty says softly, “Is that why you believe me?”
“Who doesn’t believe you?” I say sharply.
He shrugs and for the second time in years I see him bite hard, trying not to crumple. “I don’t know.”
“Dad believes you.”
“Okay.”
“Ty, he does.”
“Okay.”
“He gets mad when he gets surprised, that’s all.” When he doesn’t say anything I touch his arm. “What are you thinking?”
Really, really quietly he says, “I’m so hungry right now.”
We’re in the kitchen grating low-fat cheese on multi-grain toast when Liam comes to tell us the police charged someone this afternoon with the beating, but they can’t release the accused’s name because he’s underage. So far he’s the only suspect.
“So,” I say. “Jesus. I guess they phoned?”
Liam tells Ty, “Just now, on the TV news.”
Later, after we’ve both showered and Ty’s gone to bed, I find Liam in the garage breaking his new coffee box down for the recycling. We keep a neat garage, generally – lit, swept, lawn chairs hung up on nails, stainless-steel garden tools arrayed on the funky-functional storage modules, space to walk entirely around each car, just like in a magazine – but Liam is struggling, making a mess. There are Styrofoam chips in a spray on the floor around him, and the box he’s simultaneously pushing and pulling at will just not give. The box’s guts – more foam moulding and assorted plastic, snow-white twist-ties, a booklet or two – are strewn in widening disorder as he shuffles around, kicking at them, trying different tactics with the box. He tries holding it down by his knees for leverage, then up by his chest for power. He pulls and pulls. He stops, takes a deep breath, and wings the box at my car with a shout of frustration. It bounces off and lands on its side, back by his feet. The passing breeze of it has sent a few more of the foam peanuts skittling away under the car. He stands with his eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nose.
I turn to go silently back into the house but my foot dings against one of three or four rustic-style aluminum pails I use to store my spring bulbs in. He turns to look at me.
“You have to pop the tape,” I say.
He looks like he’s afraid to move, like whatever action he intends will be expressed as violence, which he can only prevent by standing absolutely still. I make
did
care about. I was extremely young. Do you know the origins of Velcro?”
He doesn’t. I tell him. “Is that true?” he says.
“How come, at the police station, you called your dad and not me?”
He hesitates. Then: “Your job is more important.”
And he’s right, though I can’t say so. “Walk,” I instruct. We’re back in the streets, approaching home. “Do you worry about people liking you?”
“Dad says Jason is sick,” he says instead of answering. “Is that what you think too?”
“As a doctor, you mean?” He nods. “What do you think I’m going to say?”
“You’d need to examine him?”
“Well, that,” I say. “What do you think?”
He presses his thumb several times against the side of his index finger, as though pointing a remote at my head, and says, “Click. Click.” This is family code for when someone changes the subject.
“I don’t understand what he did,” I say to placate him. “I don’t want to judge him before I’ve tried to understand. I don’t think calling someone sick is a good excuse for ignoring his behaviour or dismissing it. Maybe there are some categories of people who are just hopeless, but the thing is, it’s really difficult to know for sure who they are. It’s not, you know, printed on their faces, usually. Sometimes you have to give people the benefit of the doubt.”
We’re standing in the front yard, vaguely stretching. I stand on one leg and grab my ankle behind me, pulling to work my quad. Ty says softly, “Is that why you believe me?”
“Who doesn’t believe you?” I say sharply.
He shrugs and for the second time in years I see him bite hard, trying not to crumple. “I don’t know.”
“Dad believes you.”
“Okay.”
“Ty, he does.”
“Okay.”
“He gets mad when he gets surprised, that’s all.” When he doesn’t say anything I touch his arm. “What are you thinking?”
Really, really quietly he says, “I’m so hungry right now.”
We’re in the kitchen grating low-fat cheese on multi-grain toast when Liam comes to tell us the police charged someone this afternoon with the beating, but they can’t release the accused’s name because he’s underage. So far he’s the only suspect.
“So,” I say. “Jesus. I guess they phoned?”
Liam tells Ty, “Just now, on the TV news.”
Later, after we’ve both showered and Ty’s gone to bed, I find Liam in the garage breaking his new coffee box down for the recycling. We keep a neat garage, generally – lit, swept, lawn chairs hung up on nails, stainless-steel garden tools arrayed on the funky-functional storage modules, space to walk entirely around each car, just like in a magazine – but Liam is struggling, making a mess. There are Styrofoam chips in a spray on the floor around him, and the box he’s simultaneously pushing and pulling at will just not give. The box’s guts – more foam moulding and assorted plastic, snow-white twist-ties, a booklet or two – are strewn in widening disorder as he shuffles around, kicking at them, trying different tactics with the box. He tries holding it down by his knees for leverage, then up by his chest for power. He pulls and pulls. He stops, takes a deep breath, and wings the box at my car with a shout of frustration. It bounces off and lands on its side, back by his feet. The passing breeze of it has sent a few more of the foam peanuts skittling away under the car. He stands with his eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nose.
I turn to go silently back into the house but my foot dings against one of three or four rustic-style aluminum pails I use to store my spring bulbs in. He turns to look at me.
“You have to pop the tape,” I say.
He looks like he’s afraid to move, like whatever action he intends will be expressed as violence, which he can only prevent by standing absolutely still. I make
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