his intense blue eyes caught Marsha’s. There was no warmth, no feeling, just a brilliant turquoise light that made Marsha feel as if she were under a microscope. “Thank you for the dinner,” VJ said mechanically.
Marsha listened to the sound of VJ’s footsteps as he ran up the back stairs. Outside the wind suddenly whistled, and she looked out the window. In the beam of light from over the garage she could see that the rain had changed to snow. She shivered, but it wasn’t from the wintry landscape.
“I guess I’m not too hungry tonight,” Victor offered. As far as Marsha remembered, it was the first time he’d initiated conversation since she’d gotten home from making her hospital rounds.
“Something troubling you?” Marsha asked. “Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t need you to play psychiatrist,” Victor said harshly.
Marsha knew that she could have taken offense. She wasn’t playing psychiatrist. But she thought that she’d play the adult, and not push things. Victor would tell her soon enough what was on his mind.
“Well, something is troubling me,” Marsha said. She decided that at least she’d be honest. Victor looked at her.
Knowing him as well as she did, she imagined that he already felt guilty at having spoken so harshly.
“I read a series of articles today,” Marsha continued.
“They talked about some of the possible effects of parental deprivation on children being reared by nannies and/or spending inordinate amounts of time in day care. Some of the findings may apply to VJ. I’m concerned that maybe I should have taken time off when VJ was an infant to spend more time with him.”
Victor’s face immediately reflected irritation. “Hold it,”
he said just as harshly, holding up both hands. “I don’t think I want to hear the rest of this. As far as I’m concerned, VJ is just fine and I don’t want to listen to a bunch of psychiatric nonsense to the contrary.”
“Well, isn’t that inappropriate,” Marsha stated, losing some of her patience.
“Oh, save me!” Victor intoned, picking up his unfinished dinner and discarding it in the trash. “I’m in no mood for this.”
“Well, what are you in the mood for?” Marsha questioned.
Victor took a deep breath, looking out the kitchen window.
“I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“In this weather?” Marsha questioned. “Wet snow, soggy ground. I think something is troubling you and you’re unable to talk about it.”
Victor turned to his wife. “Am I that obvious?”
Marsha laughed. “It’s painful to watch you struggle.
Please tell me what’s on your mind. I’m your wife.”
Victor shrugged and came back to the table. He sat down and intertwined his fingers, resting his elbows on his place mat. “There is something on my mind,” he admitted.
“I’m glad my patients don’t have this much trouble talking,” Marsha said. She reached across to lovingly touch Victor’s arm.
Victor got up and went to the bottom of the back stairs.
He listened for a moment, then closed the door and returned to the table. He sat down, and he leaned toward Marsha: “I want VJ to have a full neuro-medical work-up just like he did seven years ago when his intelligence fell.”
Marsha didn’t respond. Worrying about VJ’s personality development was one thing, but worrying about his general health was something else entirely. The mere suggestion of such a work-up was a shock, as was the reference to VJ’s change in intelligence.
“You remember when his IQ fell so dramatically around age three and a half?” Victor said.
“Of course I remember,” Marsha said. She studied Victor intently. Why was he doing this to her? He had to know this would only make her concerns worse.
“I want the same kind of work-up as we did then,” Victor repeated.
“You know something that you are keeping from me,” Marsha said with alarm. “What is it? Is there something wrong with VJ?”
“No!” Victor said. “VJ is fine, like I said before. I just want to be sure and I’d feel sure if he had a repeat work-up.
That’s all there is to it.”
“I want to know why you suddenly want a work-up now,”
Marsha demanded.
“I told you why,” Victor said, his voice rising with anger.
“You want me to agree to allow our son to have a full neuro-medical work-up without telling me the indications?”
Marsha questioned. “No way! I’m not going to let the boy have all those X-rays etcetera without some explanation.”
“Damn it, Marsha!” Victor said gritting his teeth.
“Damn it yourself,” Marsha returned. “You’re keeping something from me, Victor, and I don’t like it. You’re trying to bulldoze right over my feelings. Unless you tell me what this is all about, VJ is not having any tests, and believe me, I have something to say about it. So either you tell me what’s on your mind or we just drop it.”
Marsha leaned back in her chair and inhaled deeply, holding her breath for a moment before letting it out.
Victor, obviously irritated, stared at Marsha, but her strength began to wear him down. Her position was clear, and by experience he knew she’d not be apt to change her mind.
After sixty seconds of silence, his stare began to waver.
Finally he looked down at his hands. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed eight times.
“All right,” he said finally as if exhausted. “I’ll tell you the whole story.” He sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. He established eye contact with Marsha for a second, then looked up at the ceiling like a young boy caught in a forbidden act.
Marsha felt a growing sense of impatience and concern about what she was about to hear.
“The trouble is I don’t know where to begin,” Victor said.
“How about at the beginning,” Marsha suggested, her impatience showing again.
Victor’s eyes met hers. He’d kept the secret surrounding VJ’s conception for over ten years. Looking at Marsha’s open, honest face, he wondered if she would ever forgive him when she learned the truth.
“Please,” Marsha said. “Why can’t you just tell me?”
Victor lowered his eyes. “Lots of reasons,” he said. “One is you might not believe me. In fact, for me to tell you we have to go to my lab.”
“Right now?” questioned Marsha. “Are you serious?”
“If you want to hear.”
There was a pause. Kissa surprised Marsha by jumping up on her lap. She’d forgotten to feed him. “All right,” she said.
“Let me feed the cat and say something to VJ. I can be ready in fifteen minutes.”
VJ heard footsteps coming down the hall toward his bedroom. Without hurrying, he closed the cover of his Scott stamp album and slipped it onto the shelf. His parents knew nothing about philately, so they wouldn’t know what they were looking at. But there was no reason to take any chances. He didn’t want them to discover just how large and valuable his collection had become. They had thought his request for a bank vault more childish conceit than anything else and VJ
saw no reason to make them think otherwise.
“What are you doing, dear?” Marsha asked as she appeared in his doorway.
VJ pursed his lips. “Nothing really.” He knew she was upset, but there was nothing he could do about it. Ever since he was a baby he realized there was something she wanted from him, something other mothers got from their children that he couldn’t give her. Sometimes, like now, he felt sorry.
