A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (17 page)

“
No way
”
is what he said.

However, with great charity and in the spirit of compromise, the senior member immediately proposed an altered plan, a generous plan whereby Toph, being so wonderfully youthful and in need of diversion and exercise, would clean the house on a regular basis, now only once a week instead of twice, in exchange for not $2 but
now $3 ($3!) a week in tax-free allowance, and along with the guarantee that if all such cleaning duties are performed satisfactorily and on time, the junior committee member will not be buried to his neck in the backyard and left helpless, able only to scream as hungry dogs tear the flesh from his head. Again, showing how bullheaded and shortsighted he can be, Toph passes on the proposal, this time without comment—only a roll of the eyes—and his refusal to consider any reasonable plan at all is what prompts the charged exchange detailed previously and which continues presently:

“
You know how much you suck?
”
I ask Toph.

“
No, how much?
”
he answers, feigning boredom.

“
A lot,
”
I say.

“
Oh, that much?
”

We are at an impasse, two parties with the same goal but, seemingly, no way to reconcile our ideas about getting there.

“
You know what we need?
”
Toph asks.

“
What?
”
I say.

“
A robot maid.
”

None of it is his fault. Though he
’
s relatively neat—brought up in Montessori, all those careful children and their butcher-block cubbyholes—I
’
m converting him slowly, irrevocably, to my way, the slovenly way, and the results are getting a little gruesome. We have an ant problem. We have an ant problem because we have not yet grasped the difference between paper mess and food mess. We leave food out, we leave food on the plates in the sink, and when I finally turn myself to the task of washing the dishes, I must first wash away all the ants, those tiny black ones, off the plates and silverware and down the drain. Then we spray the ant column, which extends from the sink, across the counter, down the wall and through the floorboards, with Raid, which of course we hide when guests come—oh, this is Berkeley.

Certain things
get
us motivated. One day, his friend Luke, all
of eleven, walked in and said:
“
Jesus. How can you live like this?
”
And for a week or so afterward we cleaned thoroughly, set schedules of maintenance, bought supplies. But we soon lost our inspiration and settled back in, allowing things to fall and stay fallen. If we throw and miss the garbage can, the item, usually remnants of a fruit item, stays where it lands, until a few weeks later when someone, Beth or Kirsten, making a big show of how appalled they are, picks it up and throws it out. They worry for us. I worry for us. I worry that any minute someone—the police, a child welfare agency, a health inspector, someone—will burst in and arrest me, or maybe just shove me around, make fun of me, call me bad names, and then take Toph away, will bring him somewhere where the house is kept clean, where laundry is done properly and frequently, where the parental figure or figures can cook and do so regularly, where there is no running around the house poking each other with sticks from the backyard.

The running around hitting each other with things is pretty much the only thing we
’
re both interested in, and thus the rest of our operation suffers. We scrape through every day blindly, always getting stumped on something we should know—how to plunge a toilet, how to boil corn, his Social Security number, the date of our father
’
s birthday—such that every day that he gets to school, that I
get
to work and back in time for dinner, each day that we cook and eat before nine and he goes to bed before eleven and doesn
’
t have blue malnourished-looking rings around his eyes like he did for all those months last year—we never figured out why—feels like we
’
ve pulled off some fantastic trick—an escape from a burning station wagon, the hiding of the Statue of Liberty.

By mid-fall, we settle into something like a schedule. In the morning, a little after I go to bed, Toph wakes up at, say, 3 or 4 or 4:30 in the morning, so as to allow ten minutes to shower, ten minutes
to dress, half an hour to make and eat breakfast and finish his homework, and at least three and a half, four hours for cartoons. At 8:45, he wakes me up. At 8:50 he wakes me up again. At 8:55 he wakes me up one more time and, while yelling at him because he
’
s late, I drive him to school. I park our little red car next to the school, on the side I have been told, in four separate flyers and one personal note, is not to be used for the loading or unloading of children. Then I grab a piece of paper from his backpack and compose a note.

Dear Ms. Richardson,

I am sorry Chris is late this morning. I could make something up about an appointment or a sickness, but the fact is that we woke up late. Go figure.

Best,

Brother of Chris

We are always late, always half-done. All school forms need to be sent to me twice, and I have to hand them in late. Bills are paid in ninety days minimum. Toph is always squeezed onto sports teams late, and exceptions must be made—I am never sure whether our incompetence derives from our situation, or just my lack of organization—though of course I publicly blame the former. Our relationship, at least in terms of its terms and its rules, is wonderfully flexible. He has to do certain things for me because I am his parent, and I have to do certain things for him. Of course, when I am called upon to do something I don
’
t want to do, I do not have to do it, because I am not, actually, his parent. When something doesn
’
t get done, we both shrug, because technically, neither of us is responsible, being just these two guys, brothers maybe, but we hardly even look alike, making duty even more questionable. But when someone has to be blamed, he allows me to finger him, and when he resists, I only need to look at him that certain way, that way that says
“
We are partners, here, little jerk, and yesterday, when I was exhausted, and sick with pinkeye, you wanted to
get
some of those Magic cards, absolutely had to have
them for the next day, because everyone was bringing new cards in to show during lunch, and because I was afraid that you
’
d be unpopular and would be cast out for being a near-orphan and having funny ears and living in a rental and would grow up with an interest in guns and uniforms, or worse, I
’
ll find you under the covers reading
Chicken Soup for the Prepubescent Soul
and lamenting your poor lot, I got dressed and went to that comics store that
’
s open
‘
til eight, and we got two packs of cards and one of them had a hologram in it, and you were the envy of all, and your life continued on its recent course of ease, of convenience, of relative stardom, of charmed bliss
”
—and he relents.

Parked in front of the school, I try to get him to give me a hug. I reach my arm around him, pull him near and say what I find myself saying too often:

“
Your hat smells like urine.
”

“
No it doesn
’
t,
”
he says.

It does.

“
Smell it.
”

“
I
’
m not going to smell it.
”

“
You should wash it.
”

“
It doesn
’
t smell.
”

“
It does.
”

“
Why would it smell of urine?
”

“
Maybe you peed on it.
”

“
Shut up.
”

“
Don
’
t say that. I told you not to say that.
”

“
Sorry.
”

“
Maybe you shouldn
’
t sweat so much.
”

“
Why?
”

“
It must be your sweat that
’
s making it smell like urine.
”

“
Bye.
”

“
What?
”

“
Bye. I
’
m already late.
”

“
Fine. Bye.
”

He gets out. He has to knock on the school
’
s door to
get
in, and when the door opens, the secretary tries to give me the customary dirty look but now as always I am not watching, cannot see her, no. Toph disappears inside.

On my way to whatever temping assignment I have that day or week, usually somewhere in the sweltering (Far) East Bay, I muse idly about home schooling. I have been lamenting all the time he is there, at school, being taught God knows what, away from me. I calculate that his teachers see him, on a daily basis, as much as or more than I do, and I am convinced there is something fundamentally wrong with this situation; a jealousy creeps over me, of his school, his teachers, the parents who come in and help...

For weeks I
’
ve been working for a geological surveying company, re-creating topographical maps, line by line, with archaic Macintosh drawing programs. It
’
s monotonous, but also soothing and meditative, the utter lack of thinking necessary, no worry possible in the utter safety of life there, in their immaculate Oakland office, with its water coolers and soda machines and soft, quiet carpet. While temping there are breaks, and lunch, and one can bring a Walkman if one so desires, can take a fifteen-minute break, walk around, read— It
’
s bliss. The temp doesn
’
t have to pretend that he cares about their company, and they don
’
t have to pretend that they owe him anything. And finally, just when the job, like almost any job would, becomes too boring to continue, when the temp has learned anything he could have learned, and has milked it for the $18/hr and whatever kitsch value it may have had, when to continue anymore would be a sort of death and would show a terrible lack of respect for his valuable time—usually after three or four days—then, neatly enough, the assignment is over.
Perfect.

In her sunglasses and new Jeep, Beth picks Toph up from school, and he spends the afternoon at her little place, sharing her futon, the two of them studying side by side, until I get home. At
that point, Beth and I do our best to fight about something vital and lasting—
“
You said six o
’
clock
”
/
“
I said six thirty
”
/
“
You said six
”
/
“
Why would I have said six?
”
—and once we have done so, she leaves us to our dinner.

Which we wouldn
’
t bother with if we didn
’
t have to. Neither Toph nor I, though raised by our mother thirteen years apart, ever developed any interest in food, and much less in cooking—both of our palates were stunted at five, six years old, at fruit rolls and plain hamburgers. And though we daydream aloud about the existence of a simple pill, one pill a day, that would solve our daily dietary requirements, I recognize the importance of cooking regularly, though I have no idea why cooking regularly is important. So we cook about four times a week, for us a heroic schedule of operation. This is the menu from which we choose, with almost all dishes modeled closely after those which our mother, while still cooking more varied and robust meals for our siblings and father, prepared specially for us, each of us at one time her youngest:

1.  The Saucy Beefeater

(Sirloin strips, sliced and sauteed in Kikkoman-brand soy sauce, cooked until black, served with tortillas and eaten by hand, the tortilla being torn into small pieces, each small piece being used to envelope one, two, maybe three but no more than three beef fragments at a time. Served with potatoes, prepared in the French manner, with oranges and apples, sliced the only logical way—first in half, width-wise, then lengthwise, ten slices per—and served in a bowl, on the side.)

2.  The Saucy Chicken

(Sliced chicken breasts, sauteed in Kikkoman soy sauce, cooked until tangy, almost crispy, and served with tortillas and eaten by hand in the manner described above. Accompanied with potatoes, served in the French manner—which it should be mentioned are exclusively Ore-Ida brand Crispers! frozen french fries, they being the only one of their species that actually become crispy during their oven-time. Also with sliced oranges and apples, served on the side.)