Something Happened

'I love it,' my wife says, 'when the three of you find me so funny. They get that from you. They think they can be funny about anything.'

'They can.' (She is starting to ruin my whole day.) It's been close to a very delightful family meal for everyone but my wife, and I wish I were through with it and out of there. 'You know, I don't get any of this at the office.'

'I don't get it at the beauty parlor.'

'Good.'

'You aren't married to people at the office.'

'I got it the first time. Why must you repeat everything?'

'You really do stink.'

'We're only kidding, kids. You do this every week.'

'Have some eggs,' she answers in a low voice.

'You're ruining my whole day.'

'You're ruining mine.'

'I'll have some juice. You do this every week, don't you? Every time I have a day off.'

It isn't true, but she doesn't answer. Her face is set in lines of stubborn silence. Her hand is quivering on the handle of the large glass pitcher. We'll have fresh orange juice when I take the trouble to make it, from a cold glass pitcher instead of the lighter gummy plastic one she and the maid find easier to use. The children sit as still as replicas in a store, hiding inside their own faces as they wait to see what will happen. And my day had begun so auspiciously: I had made love to her at night when I'd wanted to and had avoided doing so in the morning when I didn't by scooting downstairs and starting to prepare breakfast while she was in the bathroom. (She had given me signals I didn't want.) I will find it difficult to forgive her for spoiling my morning. Even fresh oranges taste fraudulent today. Oranges aren't good anymore. It may be something in the soap we use to clean glasses or something in the water. Soda fountains serve ice cream sodas now in paper cups or clouded plastic glasses that don't get cold and don't give back flavor. Nothing stands up. London Bridge is falling down and was shipped to Arizona as a tourist attraction. I make better eggs and bacon than anyone because I take more trouble than anyone else does. I make garlic toast the way my mother used to, and it's just as good. That's easy. Everyone likes it. Nothing's pure anymore. Not even people. I decide to use jokes.

'Be honest now, honey,' I begin to cajole her.

'They'll go if you go,' she breaks in curtly.

My boy shakes his head.

'I won't,' announces my daughter.

'You told me not to make them.'

'I feel all alone in the whole world.'

'Will I have to?' complains my boy.

'Be honest, honey,' I begin again, touching her arm. (I'll have to leave her, if only for making me do that.) 'Would you rather be poor and go to heaven, or rich and go to hell?'

'That isn't the question,' my wife argues.

'It's my question.'

'How poor?' my daughter quips tentatively.

'I don't care as much about money as you think I do.'

'I do,' croons my daughter. 'I like to have all I can get.'

'You want a new house, don't you?'

'What's criminal about that?'

'Nothing. Would you rather be poor and go to heaven or rich and — go to hell.'

She smiles resignedly. 'Go to hell,' she tells me, picking up my cue.

And I sense that the storm has passed and I might yet succeed in sailing away from them all unscathed. I feel like celebrating.

'That's my girl,' I exclaim affectionately to my wife.

'I'm tired anyway,' she admits without a grudge.

'Go alone.'

'I don't like to. I'll stay in bed and read the papers. I'll watch Gilbert and Sullivan. Sounds exciting. Doesn't it?'

'I love money,' my daughter declares in a manner of robust cheer. 'I think I really do.'

'Do all poor people,' my boy asks seriously, 'go to heaven?'

'Do you believe in heaven?'

'No.'

'Then how can they go there?'

'Very funny,' he observes wryly, frowning. 'If I did believe in heaven, would all poor people go there?'

'They haven't a chance.'

'No. Really.'

'They haven't a chance in hell. What kind of place would heaven be if all those poor people were around?'

'Are we poor?' he wants to know.

'No.'

'Then why can't you buy her a car?'

'That's the boy.'

'I can. Let her learn how to drive.'

'I'm almost sixteen.'

'Then we'll talk about it. I've got the money. So don't worry about being poor. And I'll soon have more.'

'I think I love money,' my daughter brags daringly, 'more than anything else in the world. I love it more than ice cream.'

'Someone, my daughter, might think that ungracious.'

'I don't care. I love it like the last spoon of ice cream on a plate.'

'Money really talks, young lady, doesn't it?'

'It sure does.'

'How come?'

'Because money, young man, is everything.'

'What about health?' says my wife.

'It won't buy money. And that's why you shouldn't give your dimes and nickels away.'

'I don't anymore.'

'I would never give it away,' my daughter asserts self-righteously.

'I don't think, daughter dear, that you ever have, heh-heh. Money makes the world go round, young man, and money makes history too.'

'How come?'

'You take history, don't you?'

'It's called social studies.'

'Money makes social studies. Without money there would be no social studies.'

'How come?'

'What Dad means,' explains my daughter, 'is that the love of money and the quest for gold and riches in the past is what caused most of the events we read about today in all our history books. Right, Dad?'

'Right indeed, my darling daughter. You got it again. I'm glad to see you're learning something more in school than pocket pool and rolling drugs, and how to walk around the house without any clothes on.'

I am more startled than she is when I see her gasp and turn white. (I don't know why I said that then. I swear to Christ I don't know where those words came from. I know they didn't come from me.)

Her voice is a whispered plea. 'Did you have to say that?'

I murmur no. 'I didn't.'

'Yes, you did,' she charges. 'You always do, don't you?'

'I'm sorry.'