Sourland Read online

  There was a threat in this—a threat of a sudden backhand slap—not a slap to hurt but a slap to sting—and it was risky, if you smiled when you shouldn’t smile or failed to smile when you should. But Tod was little dude and this was a good sign. Tod liked being little dude. Tod was thrilled being little dude for this suggested that the daddy wasn’t mad at Tod just then.

  Li’l dude just you and me. Love ya!

  Most times when the daddy took Tod to nursery school in the morning and to the park in the afternoon, the daddy would make sure that Tod wore his Yankees cap and a warm-enough sweater or jacket and the daddy would tie his sneakers the right way—tight!—so the laces wouldn’t come loose and cause Tod to trip over them. If the daddy whistled tying Tod’s shoelaces this was a good sign though if the daddy hadn’t remembered to wash Tod’s face and hands after breakfast this might be a not-good sign like if the daddy’s jaws were covered in scratchy stubble and if the daddy’s breath was sour-smelling from cigarettes the mommy was not supposed to know that the daddy had started smoking again. Nor was it a good sign if when they were walking together the daddy made calls on his cell phone cursing when all he could get was fucking voice mail.

  Tod’s nursery school was just a few blocks away from their house and Terwillinger Park just slightly farther so there was no need for the daddy to drive. There was no need for a second car. In the park the daddy smoked his cigarettes—This is our secret, kid—Mommy doesn’t need to know got it?—and read the New York Times—or a paperback book—(the daddy had been reading a heavy book titled The World as Will and Idea for a long time)—or scribbled into a notebook—or stared off frowning into the distance. At such times the daddy’s mouth twitched as if the daddy was talking—arguing—with someone invisible as Tod played by himself or with one or two other young children in a little playground consisting of a single set of swings and monkey-bars and a rusted slide. Sometimes the daddy fell into conversations with people he met in the park—there were young mothers and nannies who brought children to the playground—and women walked dogs in the park—or jogged—or walked alone—and often Tod saw his father talking and laughing with one of these women not knowing if she was someone his father knew or had just met; once, Tod overheard his father tell a flame-haired young woman that he was a married man which was one kind of thing and simultaneously he was the father of a four-year-old which was another kind of thing.

  Whatever these words meant, the woman laughed sharply as if something had stung her. Well that’s upfront, at least. I appreciate that.

  This was a time when they’d begun going to the park every day. This was a time when the mommy’s work-hours were longer at the medical center. This was a time when there was just one car for the mommy and the daddy which was the Saab, that had become the mommy’s car. Before the downsizing there had been a Toyota station wagon which the daddy had driven but this vehicle seemed to have vanished suddenly, like Magdalena.

  Turnpike. Totaled. Towed-away. End of tale! the daddy reported with terse good humor of the kind Tod knew not to question.

  “Let’s surprise Mommy at work. D’you think ‘Dr. Falmouth’ would like that?”

  This day in Terwillinger Park the daddy snapped shut his cell phone in disgust—shoved it into a pocket of his rumpled khakis that drooped from his waist beltless and a size too large—and spoke in a bright-daddy voice as Tod trotted beside him trying to keep up. Tod was thinking—somber li’l dude as the four-year-old was—that the river was miles away, where Mommy worked at the University Medical Center was miles away and he and the daddy had never walked so far before.

  But Tod was little dude and any idea of the daddy’s was an exciting idea. Like a man on TV the daddy was rubbing his hands briskly saying here was their plan to discover whether “Dr. Falmouth” was really where she claimed she was—“We will see with our own eyes like Galileo looking through his telescope.”

  Tod laughed—Tod laughed not knowing who “Galileo” was—though something in the daddy’s voice sounding like gravel being shoveled made Tod uneasy—anxious—wasn’t Mommy where Mommy was supposed to be?—where was Mommy?—and the daddy gripped Tod’s skinny little shoulder reprimanding him—“Don’t be so literal. Christ sake! If ‘Dr. Falmouth’ is there she will give us a ride back home. If ‘Dr. Falmouth’ is not there, we will take the fucking bus back home.”

  The daddy spoke matter-of-factly. Tod swallowed hard trying to comprehend. It seemed to be that, if Mommy was somewhere they couldn’t find her, they would have a way to get back home as if getting back home was the crucial thing.

  “Has your daddy ever misled you, li’l dude? Yet? Have faith!”

  The daddy was tugging at Tod’s hand jerking him along like a clumsy little puppy. Sometimes you saw such puppies—or older, stiff-limbed dogs—jerked along on leashes by their impatient masters. Sometimes it happened, the daddy was seized by an idea and had to walk fast. Since the lavish French toast breakfast that morning the daddy had been in an excitable mood. The daddy’s eyes were glistening and red-rimmed and the sharp-looking little quills in the daddy’s jaws glinted like mica. Though often on these walks the daddy wore a fur-lined cap now the daddy was bare-headed and his dust-colored hair disheveled in the wind that was cold and tasted of something wet-rotted like desiccated leaves—the daddy had crookedly buttoned both Tod’s corduroy jacket and his own suede jacket—the daddy was wearing his rumpled khakis and on his feet water-stained running shoes. Tod wasn’t sure if the daddy was talking to him—often in the park the daddy was talking to himself—the daddy was whistling—just pausing to shake a cigarette out of a near-depleted pack when there came hurtling at them—almost you’d think the boy was on a bicycle, he came so fast—a tall skinny spike-haired boy with a chalky-pale face, whiskers like scribbles on his chin—a purple leather jacket unzipped to the waist and on his black T-shirt a glaring-white skull-and-crossbones like a second face. What was strangest about the boy was his lacquered-looking hair in two-inch spikes lifting from his head like snakes—Todd turned to stare after him, as he passed on the woodchip path without a backward glance.

  It must have been that the daddy recognized the spike-haired boy—or the spike-haired boy recognized the daddy—some kind of look passed quickly between them—and the daddy stopped dead in his tracks.

  The daddy told Tod go play on the swings—there was a playground close by—the daddy had to use the restroom.

  The daddy was talking to Tod but not looking at him. There’d come into the daddy’s voice a faraway tone that was excited but calm, almost gentle. Tod saw how the daddy had not turned to look after the spike-haired boy who’d strode away and disappeared.

  Close by the woodchip path—on a narrower path forking into a stand of scrubby pines—was a small squat ugly cinder block building with twin doors: MEN, WOMEN. Both doors were covered in graffiti like the squat little building itself. The daddy had taken Tod into this restroom once or twice—Tod recalled a dark dank smell that made his nose crinkle just thinking of it—but now the daddy just pushed Tod in the direction of the playground saying, “Go hang out with those kids, Tod-die—Daddy will be right back.”

  Tod-die was a good sign too. Usually.

  Tod drifted off alone. It felt strange, to be alone in the park. At first it felt exciting then it felt scary. The daddy had never left him before even for a few minutes. The mommy had never left him in any public place nor did the mommy leave him alone at home, always there had been Magdalena, or another lady to watch him if the daddy was not home. Because it was not a warm day but chilly and gusty for late April there were only a few children in the playground and a few young mothers or nannies. Tod found a swing low enough to sit on with his short stubby legs but it was strange and unnerving to be alone—it was no fun without the mommy or the daddy pushing him, praising him or warning him to hang on tight. No one was aware of him—no one was watching him—no one cared how high he swung, or if he fell and hurt himself—except—maybe!—there was some other
child’s mother a few feet away looking at Tod—staring at Tod, frowning—a pinch-faced woman in a down parka with a hood, half her face hidden by curved tinted glasses.

  Was this someone who knew him, Tod wondered. Someone who knew his mother, the way she was staring at him, but the woman didn’t smile and call out his name, the woman didn’t smile at all but just stared in a way that would be rude if Tod had been an adult and made him self-conscious and uneasy now and before he knew it, he’d lost his balance and fell from the swing—tried to scramble up immediately, to show he wasn’t hurt.

  Tod wasn’t alone in the park or lost—the daddy was close by—he wasn’t hurt and he wasn’t going to cry like some little baby with a runny snot-nose but there was the pinch-faced woman in the glasses right beside him—“Oh! Let me help you, little boy! Did you hurt yourself?” With quick strong hands the woman lifted Tod—steadied Tod—you could tell these were mommy-hands by their quickness and deftness—the woman brushed his hair out of Tod’s eyes peering at him as if there was some secret in his eyes she had a right to know.

  The woman was asking Tod if he’d been left alone in the park—if that had been his father she’d seen with him, a few minutes ago—Tod was too shy to look at the woman or to reply to her except in a near-inaudible mumble that gave the woman an excuse to lean closer to him squatting beside him with the disconcerting intimacy with which adult strangers approach children as if in some way children are common property; she’d lifted the tinted glasses to peer yet more directly into his face so that her eyes were revealed stone-colored and serious like Tod’s mother’s eyes—the kind of eyes you couldn’t look away from. In his confusion Tod was moved to ask the woman if she knew his mother—his mother worked at the University Medical Center over by the river and she put people to sleep—did she know his mother? Tod couldn’t think of his mother’s name, the name that the daddy called her sometimes, the name she was called at the medical center—the woman said she was afraid she didn’t know Tod’s mother—“Tell me what is your name, little boy?”—Tod mumbled a reply but the woman couldn’t hear—asked him to repeat what he’d said—Tod was silent feeling resentful, obstinate—if he’d been a little dog, he’d have bitten this pushy woman right on the nose. Again she was asking where Tod’s father had gone—“That man who was walking with you just now on the path—is that man your father?” Tod made a sniggering noise and twisted from the woman’s grip—“He’s Dad-dy—that’s who. Dad-dy. And you’re ugly like some nasty old witch.”

  This was surprising! The woman was surprised, and Tod was surprised. Like a feisty little dog Tod pushed free of the woman and ran away—ran as the woman called after him—out of the playground and in the direction of the cinder block restroom—he’d sighted a tall man who resembled his father coming out of the restroom—though as he drew nearer he was embarrassed to see that the man wasn’t his father but a stranger—for a moment he felt panic thinking the daddy had left him—how close he came to breaking down and bawling like a baby—a silly little snot-nose baby like certain of the children at nursery school—but now the daddy did appear—there was the daddy emerging from the restroom blinking in the light frowning and distracted and his suede jacket unbuttoned, he was tucking his shirt into the beltless waist of his khakis as Tod called, “Dad-dy!” and ran at him headlong.

  The way the daddy stared at Tod, the child was made to think He doesn’t remember me! He doesn’t know who I am.

  That was silly of course. The daddy knew who Tod was!

  “Christ sake your nose is running. Here, c’mon—blow.”

  Out of a pocket the daddy extracted a fistful of wadded tissue, that looked as if it had been used already. Dutifully Tod blew his nose as bidden.

  “This place is depressing. Let’s get the hell out of this place.”

  The daddy was edgy, alert. The daddy’s eyes were alert and dilated and darting-about like a wild animal’s eyes. Some change had taken place in the daddy, Tod sensed. Tod was anxious, the pinch-face woman was still watching him, seeing him now with his father, she was the kind to ask a sharp question of Tod’s father, that was none of her business. Badly Tod wanted to turn to stick his tongue out at the woman—nasty ugly witch—but then the daddy would see the woman and Tod didn’t want that. The daddy would discover how Tod had fallen and scraped his hand because the daddy had forgotten Tod’s mittens and Tod didn’t want the daddy to discover that.

  “C’mon, li’l dude. Circumstances compel us.”

  Often the daddy made such statements, that were utterly mysterious to the child. Like, “D’you recall Ingmar Bergman—that’s ‘Ing-mar Bergman’—famed Swedish filmmaker, deceased 2007—Always keep a project between you and your death”—which the daddy had made more than once on these urgent park outings.

  So the walk was resumed. The hike of at least two miles through Terwillinger Park to the river, that was farther than the daddy and Tod had ever hiked before. In his edgy-cheery mood the daddy smiled frequently, or maybe it was just the daddy’s mouth that smiled; the daddy’s face must have felt itchy for the daddy was rubbing at it vigorously, eyes, nose, mouth as if wanting to erase his features the way a TV cartoon character might erase his face. The daddy had not asked Tod about the playground but Tod was boasting how he’d gone way high on the swing—higher than the other children—so high, he’d gone over the top—like the child-gymnasts they’d seen on TV, that had won Olympic gold medals. The daddy made no reply to the child’s boastfulness not even to chide him or to laugh at him. The daddy was clearly thinking of other things. In his face a look as if the daddy was listening to something in the distance for always in this park on damp chilly days especially there was a background murmur of something like voices—muffled laughter—traffic on the interstate, or wind high in the trees—gusts of wind like knives cutting into the slate-colored river in which human cries were mixed. Listen closely the wide-eyed daddy once said that is the dark under-side of the world you are hearing, son. Souls in Hades.

  After a half-mile or so the woodchip path ended. Now the path was mud-rutted and treacherous. This was a hiking trail but only sporadically marked. Or maybe real hikers knew how to use the trail, as the daddy did not. For several times the daddy lost the trail, Tod had to point out to him the little blue triangles on trees that let you know where the trail was. Tod hoped his father would become discouraged and turn back with one of his harassed-daddy jokes but he said only, “Your mother will be damned impressed by us! Taking the back way like Che in the jungle.”

  Tod asked who was Che in the jungle? but the daddy ignored him.

  Ever deeper the daddy and Tod hiked into the woods. Though the air was chilly and the trail overgrown with brambles the daddy walked with his suede jacket open and his face was flushed, ruddy. Still the daddy’s eyes were quick-darting like an animal’s and Tod wondered if the daddy was looking for someone, or if someone was looking for the daddy. Since he’d passed Tod and his father on the woodchip path the spike-haired boy had not reappeared so far as Tod knew.

  The daddy was saying this was a shortcut. The daddy was saying things wear out, wear down. The daddy was saying that the human will is a pitiful vessel to withstand the tidal waves of the non-human will. Tod had no idea what the daddy meant but he was grateful that the daddy’s tone wasn’t angry or accusing, it was more as if the daddy was reciting facts commonplace and banal and of the sort the daddy might be expected to confer onto the son as in an ancient ritual of enlightenment, erasure. Tod remembered how before his birthday a few weeks ago—before the downsizing and before the change in our schedules—even the daddy had been restless and distracted watching TV news with the remote control in his hand switching among three or four channels—sometimes too the daddy prowled through the house in the night while the mommy slept and Tod slept and Tod was wakened to see the daddy leaning over his bed—at first thinking it was a scary thing in a dream then it was the daddy’s face dark in the shadows—the daddy’s face was soft-crinkling with pain
so exquisite it couldn’t have been named and the daddy whispered Love you! Whoever you are, whoever sent you to us.

  By us the child knew that the daddy was referring not just to himself but to the mommy as well. But it was rare, the daddy spoke of us.

  They were passing overturned trash cans. Sad to see here in the woods trash spilled across the trail. Beer cans, Styrofoam containers. There was a single rotted jogging shoe, that scared Tod making him think there was a human foot inside. There was a smell as of something dead and rotted. The daddy must have smelled this smell for he shuddered and laughed saying, “All shortcuts entail risks. Have faith, son!”

  The thought came to Tod like a tiny bird pecking at his skull He will leave you here. He is taking you here to leave you.

  In the sky—that they could see, for only part of the sky was visible now—clouds had turned heavy and sullen like a face suffused with blood. Steadily the day was becoming colder—it didn’t seem like April now. Tod was tired trying to keep up with the daddy pulling him along the path but didn’t dare try to pull his hand free. The daddy seemed not to know how hard and how tight he was gripping Tod and in such a way that the child’s arm felt as if it might be pulled out of its socket.