Freedom [143]
“It’s way too late for that. She’s in France. It’s OK, though. This is a very safe neighborhood.”
But his mother wasn’t listening. She was having words with his father, words Joey couldn’t make out but which sounded somewhat hysterical. And then his dad was on the line.
“Joey? Listen to me. Are you there?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Listen to me. If you don’t have the personal decency to come and spend a few days with your mother in a house that’s meant so much to her and that you’re never going to set foot in again, that’s fine with me. That was your own terrible decision that you can repent at your leisure. And the stuff you left in your room, which we were hoping you’d come and deal with—we’ll just give it to Goodwill, or let the garbagemen haul it away. That’s your loss, not ours. But to be on your own in a city that you’re too young to be on your own in, a city that’s repeatedly been attacked by terrorists, and not just for a night or two but for weeks, is a recipe for making your mother anxious the entire time.”
“Dad, it’s a totally safe neighborhood. It’s Greenwich Village.”
“Well, you’ve ruined her holiday. And you’re going to ruin her last days in this house. I don’t know why I keep expecting more of you at this point, but you are being brutally selfish to a person who loves you more than you can even know.”
“Why can’t she say it herself, then?” Joey said. “Why do you have to say it? How do I even know it’s true?”
“If you had one speck of imagination, you’d know it’s true.”
“Not if she never says it herself! If you’ve got a problem with me, why don’t you tell me what your problem is, instead of always talking about her problems?”
“Because, frankly, I’m not as worried as she is,” his father said. “I don’t think you’re as smart as you think you are, I don’t think you’re aware of all the dangers in the world. But I do think you’re pretty smart and know how to take care of yourself. If you ever did get into trouble, I would hope we’d be the first people you’d call. Otherwise, you’ve made your choice in life, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Well—thanks,” Joey said with only partial sarcasm.
“Don’t thank me. I have very little respect for what you’re doing. I’m just recognizing that you’re eighteen years old and free to do what you want. What I’m talking about is my personal disappointment that a child of ours can’t find it in his heart to be kinder to his mother.”
“Why don’t you ask her why not?” Joey countered savagely. “She knows why not! She fucking knows, Dad. Since you’re so wonderfully concerned about her happiness, and all, why don’t you ask her, instead of bothering me?”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Well then don’t talk to me that way.”
“All right, then, I won’t.”
His father seemed glad to let the subject drop, and Joey was also glad. He relished feeling cool and in control of his life, and it was disturbing to discover that there was this other thing in him, this reservoir of rage, this complex of family feelings that could suddenly explode and take control of him. The angry words he’d spoken to his father had felt pre-formed, as if there were an aggrieved second self inside him 24/7, ordinarily invisible but clearly fully sentient and ready to vent itself, at a moment’s notice, in the form of sentences independent of his volition. It made him wonder who his real self was; and this was very disturbing.
“If you change your mind,” his father said when they’d exhausted their limited supplies of Christmas chitchat, “I’m more than happy to buy you a plane ticket so you can come out here for a few days. It would mean the world to your mother. And to me, too. I would like that myself.”
“Thanks,” Joey said, “but, you know, I can’t. I’ve got the cats.”
“You can put them in a kennel, your aunt will be none the wiser. I’ll pay for that, too.”
“OK, maybe. Probably not, but maybe.”
“All right, then, Merry Christmas,” his father said. “Mom says Merry Christmas,