Something Happened

because we are out in public). I want to tousle his hair lightly. (I do.) Tenderly, I say to him:

'That's still no answer.'

'How come?' he inquires with interest.

'It doesn't tell why.'

'It's why.'

'It doesn't tell why you wanted to give him something. Why did you want to give him something?'

'I think I know. You sure keep after me, don't you?'

'Why did you want to give him something?'

'Do I have to tell?'

'No. Not if you don't want to.'

'I was happy,' he states with a shrug, squinting uncomfortably in the sunlight, looking a little pained and self-conscious.

'Yeah?'

'And whenever I feel happy,' he continues, 'I like to give something away. Is that all right?'

'Sure.' (I feel again that I want to kiss him.)

'It's okay?' He can hardly trust his good fortune.

'And I'm glad you were happy. Why were you happy?'

'Now it gets a little crazy.'

'Go ahead. You're not crazy.'

'Because I knew I was going to give it away.' He pauses a moment to giggle nervously. 'To tease you,' he admits. 'Then when I knew I was happy about that, I wanted to give the nickel away because I was happy about wanting to give the nickel away. Is it okay?'

'You're making me laugh.'

'You're not mad?'

'Can't you see that you're making me laugh? How can I be mad?'

'Then I'll tell you something else,' he squeals with ebullient gaiety. 'Sometimes I feel like laughing for no reason at all. Then I feel like laughing just because I know I feel like laughing. You're smiling!' he cries suddenly, pointing a finger at my face, and begins shrieking with laughter. 'Why are you smiling?'

'Because you're funny!' I shout back at him. 'It's funny, that's why. You're funny, that's why.'

'Are you gonna tell Mommy I gave money away?'

'Are you? You can't tell her either if I don't. Otherwise I'll get in trouble.'

'You can tell her,' he decides.

'Then you can tell her too.'

'Was it all right?'

'Sure,' I comfort him. 'It was all right. In fact, it was better than all right. It was very nice. And I'm glad you talked to me. You don't always talk to me.' I rest the palm of my hand lightly on the back of his head as we start walking again and head toward the boardwalk. My hand feels unnatural there, as though I am stretching a small elbow and arm muscle into an unaccustomed position. I move my hand to his shoulder; I feel a strain there too. (I am not used to holding my boy, I realize. I am not used to holding my daughter either.) 'But suppose — ' I want to prepare him and shield him against everything injurious in the world, and I cannot stop myself.

He pulls away from me with an impatient lurch of his shoulders, frowning. 'Daddy, I knew you were going to say that!'

'And I knew you were going to say that,' I laugh in reply, but my heartiness is false. 'What else am I going to say?'

'I want it for myself later or tomorrow? Then I'll get it back from him. But suppose —»

'Yeah?'

'— he doesn't have it or won't give it to you?'

'He won't.'

'Then I'll get another nickel. From who?'

'I won't give it to you.'

'From you. I won't give it to you.'

'I won't. I warn you.'

'You will,' he replies to me directly, ending his imitation of us. 'You always say that. You always say you won't. And then you always do. So why do you say that? Won't you?'

'Yes,' I concede in a long syllable of total surrender, succumbing pleasurably to his childlike charm and intelligence. 'I'll give it to you. I'll even give it to you now before you want it.'

So what, his sage and ironic expression seems to say to me, am I making such a bogus fuss about? 'I knew you would,' he summarizes in triumph. He walks beside me with a lighter, more contented step.

'I always will, I want you to know. Do you?' I watch him nod; I see his brow tightening a bit with recollection and perplexity. 'We're pretty good pals now, ain't we?' I ask. 'You and me?'

'I used to be afraid of you.'

'I hope you're not, now.'

'Not as much.'

'You don't have to be. I won't ever hurt you. And I'll always give you everything you need. Don't you know that? I just yell a lot.'

After a moment more of deep reflection, he allows himself to bump against me softly with his shoulder as I often see him do with other boys I know he likes. (It is the friendliest answer he could have given me.) I bump him back the same way in response. He smiles to himself.

'Daddy, I love you!' he exclaims with excitement, and throws his face against my hip to kiss me and hug me. 'I hope you never die.'

(I hope so too.) I crook my arm around his shoulders and hug him in return. Very swiftly, before he can be embarrassed by it and stop me, I kiss the top of his head, brush my lips against his silken, light-brown hair. (I steal a kiss.) I love him too and hope that he never dies.

I have the recurring fear that he will die before I do. I cannot let that happen. He is too dear to me. I know him now, and I know he is a much more valuable person to me than the Secretary of the Treasury and the Secretary of Defense, the Majority Leader and the Minority Whip. He is more important to me than the President of the United States of America. (I think more of my boy's life than I do of his.) I Pledge my Allegiance to him. (I never mention this heresy to anyone, of course.) I will never permit them to harm him.

But what would I do to protect him? I think I know what I would do. Nothing.

'Don't worry,' I have promised him in earnest. 'I will never let anything bad happen to you.'

He is afraid of the government, the army, the Pentagon, the police. (And so am I.)

'I won't ever let them hurt you or take you away.'

And what is there, really, that I can do? Except nothing.

So I do nothing.

I can connive (that gives me time), as I connive now in my job at the company (connive to survive, keep alive till five), but that's about all. And time may soon run out.

Who am I? I think I'm beginning to find out. I am a stick: I am a broken waterlogged branch floating with my own crowd in this one nation of ours, indivisible (unfortunately), under God, with liberty and justice for all who are speedy enough to seize them first and hog them away from the rest. Some melting pot. If all of us in this vast, fabulous land of ours could come together and take time to exchange a few words with our neighbors and fellow countrymen, those words would be Bastard! Wop! Nigger! Whitey! Kike! Spic! I don't like people who run things. I don't like Horace White, who is hard to take seriously (and yet I must).

'If you ever write a book,' he has said to me, and meant it, because such things are important to him, 'I would like you to put my name in it.'

Horace White is a pale, insipid man of many small distinctions. He likes to see his name in the newspapers. He is an honorary deputy something or other of the City of New York (even though his legal residence is in Connecticut) and has an undistinguished bronze shield proclaiming that distinction affixed to the bumper of his