The Silent Fit
by
Jeff Stimpson
A day of three Cape Cod beaches was winding down,
and Jill agreed with me that the perfect capper would be a root beer
float. Even now, a few days after Labor Day (Season of the Cheap
Vacationers and the Roomier Route 6), there were ice cream stands
open.
We also chose to forgo our usual dinner of chowder
or fried fish for pizza from some corporate joint in the little town
of Orleans. So far so good. But as Route 6 sped under our tires, Ned
began to have one of his nights. He began with pleas for ice cream
for dinner. Over and over and over. "No, Ned, we're having pizza..."
NOOOOOOOOO!
By the time we pulled into the pizza joint, Ned's
idea of behaving had become to wait at least two and a half minutes
between demands. Part of the burden on Ned to behave stems from,
unfairly I realize, his parents' need to settle Alex into a booth or
table in a restaurant. Alex has always been liable to bolt. Tonight,
maybe showing prescience to what was coming, Alex seemed content to
study the placemat and occasionally and quietly ask for crackers.
We'd hoped he's eat pizza, but so far he eats in only one pizza
place, on 96th Street in Manhattan. And besides, he was right there
a moment before when we'd hit a grocery store for $1.99 boxes of
Cheese Nips.
"Not yet, Alex. Wait until our pizza comes."
Jill goes to the ladies room. With even more
urgency, Ned bolts for the claw toy machine in the back of the
restaurant and presses his nose to the glass, eying the stuffed and
useless toys inside. I sprint after him. I try to take his hand.
"Ned, we have to wait for-"
"I want to see the toys," he replies.
I glance over my shoulder and see Alex still
sitting over the placemat, so I figure fair enough, and give Ned a
moment with his toys-in-glass. Then another moment.
"Ned, let's go get our pizza."
"I want to buy a toy," he replies.
"Maybe later, Ned. Let's go get our pizza now."
"I want to buy a toy!"
I haul him away. He breaks loose and returns to
the machine. I glance back at Alex, who seems to be getting antsy.
Again I haul Ned back. Jill has returned, so I leave Ned with her
and go get our pizza and salad.
Immediately Ned wants to eat Alex's crackers when
there's pizza. Can't blame him, I guess: It's got to be hard for
anyone to understand why his brother always seems to be dining on
something different. But I can blame Ned when he keeps bolting up to
look at the claw machine.
"I just want to buy a toy!"
"Ned, behave or we'll take you to the car."
Quicker than it takes for a parking lot to get
dark, I'm looking at my wife and younger son out there on the
blackening asphalt, pale through the black glass of the pizza joint.
I see Jill's face leaning in on Ned; I see her mouth working. Alex
munches crackers. I see Jill point. I see Ned drop to his knees and
hang from her hand - the boys' ultimate pose of protest. I see Jill
and Ned disappear deeper into the black lot, then in the night the
interior light of our car explodes to reveal her strapping him into
the car seat.
Jill returns to the restaurant and grabs a slice
of pepperoni. "Ned d is eating his in the car," she announces.
I eat two slices and half the salad, and offer
Alex pizza, which he turns down. Except for the crunch of Alex
eating crackers, I eat in silence.
Jill brings Ned back in. He sits quietly and picks
all the pepperoni off one slice. We're a postcard of a happy if
silent vacationing family for a few moments until Ned whispers, "I
want to see the toys."
"Ned-"
"I just want to buy the toys!"
By the time we're back on Route 6, we're a
postcard of a happy and excruciatingly silent vacationing family:
Alex sated with crackers, Ned figuring it's best to say little right
now, and me still yearning for a root beer float. Jill is thinking.
Every now and then, though, from the shadows of the back seat: "Ice
cream?" It isn't Alex who's asking. I watch the lines on the road.
"How are we going to handle the ice cream?" I
finally ask.
"Ned, no ice cream," Jill says. "You were not a
good boy back there, and I told you if you weren't a good boy you
wouldn't get ice cream." Then Jill slips into her adult-to-adult
voice and turns to me. "You can't back down on this," she says. "If
we're not careful, we might be raising a not-so-nice person here.
Hard as it is to enforce, I think it's harder still not to enforce
it."
Sure glad Jill makes these decisions. Like maybe
uncounted fathers going back to when protozoan youngsters threw fits
in pools of ooze, I agree 100 percent with my wife and I will
support her to the end. But I'm glad she made this decision.
"Ice cream?"
Moments later, Alex is using a spoon on his
vanilla cone in the cool glow of the ice cream stand. I see Ned in
the shadows of the back seat, his eyes slitted and glistening, his
mouth a writhing "O". I can't hear him through the car glass: I'm
watching the silent movie of his night of anguish. Jill is reading.
I never get my root beer float. Out of sympathy, I guess.
We drive home amid diminishing sniffles. Before
bed, Ned cheerfully eats yogurt with Jill.
Copyright 2004 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
