and then the boy reappeared bearing The New York Times.
Poor kid thinks I’m going to read it and get off his case, Becker thought. No such luck.
“This is a famous trick,” Becker said. “Performed originally by the wazir of Baghdad. Using the Baghdad News, I believe.”
Becker separated the sections of newspaper and laid them so they overlapped. He then rolled them diagonally into a long tube and proceeded to tear it halfway down from the top. The boy was watching, almost despite himself.
“A lot of your magicians will make coins disappear, but there’s no trick to making money vanish. We all do it every day. And then where are we? Poorer.” Drum roll, please, Becker thought. “Or they’ll pull a rabbit out of a hat. You’ve seen them do that. I imagine.” Jack nodded. He seemed uncertain whether he wanted to participate in this affair or not. Becker kept tearing the paper into thin shreds, alternating each rip with a flourish of the hands as if every motion were special and magical.
“But what are you going to do with the rabbit when he’s done? Did you ever have a rabbit as a pet. Jack?”
“No.”
“A good thing, too. All they do is eat and poop.”
Jack laughed.
“Eat and poop, eat and poop, eat and poop,” Becker said. Jack’s shoulders shook and explosive sounds burst forth in his throat, where he tried to hold them.
Scatology, Becker thought. Works every time. Nothing funnier than bodily processes.
“And you know who would get stuck with the job of cleaning that rabbit’s cage, don’t you? You would. Jack. The rabbit would poop and you would scoop. Poop and scoop, poop and scoop. You know what that would make you, don’t you?”
“What?”
“The pooper scooper. You be the pooper scooper.”
“No, you be the pooper scooper,” Jack said, grinning.
“Thanks very much, but not to worry. This is not going to turn into a rabbit.”
Becker held the tube to his eye and looked through it at Jack.
“You know what it looks like to me?”
“What?”
“A fart tunnel.”
Jack clamped his hand to his mouth, his eyes jumping gleefully. He looked to Becker like someone about to explode.
“Does your mother ever fart. Jack?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, when she does, you could look through this and say, ‘I spy.’ ”
“Or… ”
“Or what?”
Jack took the newspaper tube from Becker’s hand. He held it to his nose.
“You could smell her,” he said, sniffing loudly.
“What a fine idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Jack shifted the tube to his ear. “Or you could listen to her fart,” he said happily.
“That’s a good idea. Seek her out wherever she goes, listening, listening.”
“You could hear her if she farts in the other room,” Jack said, turning the tube toward the kitchen.
“Or under the covers,” Becker said.
“You could hear her when she does it under the covers!” Jack agreed gleefully. “Or in the car, or in the kitchen, or…” His imagination flagging, he looked to Becker for help.
“Or in the garage?” Becker offered.
Jack grunted, clearly disappointed.
Becker tried again. “Or when she farts in the soup.”
Jack liked that one. “Or when she farts in the milk,” he added.
“Now how is she going to fart in the milk?”
“She has to sit on the cow.” Jack said, delighting himself with the sudden burst of inspiration.
Becker laughed aloud in appreciation, then looked up to see Karen standing in the living room, glowering at them like naughty children. Jack saw her, too, and continued to laugh. Becker took the tube from Jack and put it to his ear and pointed it at Karen. Jack laughed harder.
“Cute,” said Karen.
Becker looked at Jack, shrugged as if he couldn’t hear anything, then handed the tube to the boy. Jack imitated
Becker, leaning to listen to his mother.
“Nice influence, John.”
“It’s a magic trick,” Becker said. He pulled from the center of the tube and transformed the newspaper into a five-foot length of fringed pillar. “It’s a eucalyptus tree,” he said. “Or whatever suits your fancy.”
“Real talent. Bedtime, Jack.”
The boy exited promptly but returned after a moment and took the tube from Becker’s hand.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” said Becker. “Nice talking to you.”
“Nice talking to you,” the boy said. He paused for a fraction, seemed to consider saying more, then hurried out.
“Nice with the shit jokes,” Karen said when she returned from putting her son to bed.
“I did my best.”
“He thinks you’re a scream. He was aiming that damned newspaper thing at me the whole time I was reading to him.”
“He’s a funny kid once he loosens up.”
“He’d probably say the same about you.”
“He doesn’t see many adults, does he?”
“Adults? Or men?”
“Men, I guess.”
“Well, his father, of course. I don’t entertain much, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“I’m not driving at anything,” Becker said. “I just meant that he seems very, very shy, and I supposed it was because he isn’t exposed to people like me very often. I mean friends of the family, social friends, that kind of thing. Uncles. Cousins.”
“No uncles, no cousins. When you get home at seven and have to cook and feed your child and get him into bed by nine, you don’t entertain a whole lot.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“The baby-sitter is here by eight in the morning and I have to get to work by nine. Every other weekend, when Jack is with his father. I’m working, trying to catch up on what I would have done if I didn’t have to be home by seven. On the weekends when Jack is with me, I devote myself to him.”
“Um.”
“What does that mean?”
“It sounds rather grim having someone devote herself to you.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Becker, is there anything about me you do like? You criticize the way I raise my son, you make fun of my cooking… ”
“Your cooking?”
“I heard what you said about the ragout. ‘That stew thing with the chicken and tomatoes.’ ”
“That wasn’t criticism,” Becker protested. “I liked the stew.”
“Then you mock me in front of Jack with all that farting business. I hate that word.”
“We weren’t mocking you…”
