How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [8]
Maybe that was why he preferred the company of animals. Everywhere we moved, he had fish and a lizard. I wouldn’t let him have cats and dogs until after we were done with our overseas tours, so we wouldn’t have to give them up.
Moving so much for the Navy had been hard for Mike. It took him about two and a half years to make a good friend, and three years was how long each duty station lasted. When we left Washington state, Mike was six. He had sat down in the doorway of our old Craftsman bungalow and held on to the doorjamb, rocking himself back and forth while the movers hauled off our belongings, while his little friend Jimmy came to say good-bye, and his father and I packed the car. Five hours total. Nothing would budge him. “I’m staying. I like it.”
I tried to pick him up. “Come on. We miss plane.”
His fingernails left grooves in the wood, and he screeched. It sounded like a bald eagle getting shot down. He banged his head on the doorjamb.
“You hurt self! Stop!” I tried to block him and he gave me a tremendous slap on the arm. I backed off.
“Cut it out, Mike.” Charlie put the last piece of luggage in the car and turned around, his face reddening in anger. “Get over here right now.”
“I’ll run away.” Mike looked up at me. His face was sweaty and tear-stained. A bright red gash and a purple bruise were starting to appear. I bent to touch it and he jerked away.
I looked at my husband. Charlie wiped his brow, then sat down next to him and put his arm around him. “Mike, Daddy’s getting time off after we move. I’ll take you fishing in Guam. You won’t believe the fish they have there. And the water’s so warm. You can swim every day.” Charlie always made the most of his leave time, taking Mike camping and fishing and giving me a break to be alone.
“But Jimmy’s not there.”
“You can write.”
He glared at his father. “I don’t know how.”
Charlie ignored that. “Listen. This is how life is, Mike, and you have to adjust.” Charlie stood up. “Get in the car.”
He held on to the doorjamb. “No.”
Charlie looked at Mike, then at me. “Fine. Get in the car, Shoko.”
I did.
Charlie turned the ignition on and drove away quickly.
“What you doing?” I cried, looking back at my son. Mike’s mouth was open in a wail.
“Teaching him a lesson for throwing a tantrum.”
I turned, wondering if Mike would run to the neighbor’s, if he would run down the driveway after us. Mike was still holding on to the house.
We drove to the end of the block, then turned around. Mike was still on the doorstep, his hands now in his lap, his face covered by new tears.
“I thought you left me,” he said, hiccuping.
“We never leave you.” I tried to put my arms around him. He pushed me off.
He stared. I saw that he did not believe me.
“You ready now?” Charlie asked him.
He went silently to the car, his head hanging down. Mike was too easily broken. What other children shrugged off, Mike could not. I shook my head at Charlie and got in the backseat next to my son. Charlie drove us silently to the airport.
Mike never complained about moving again. Instead he would sit in a corner, a blanket pulled over his head, shutting out us and the rest of the world, until I took him by the hand and led him to the car.
I stared at him now, an adult leaning against his doorjamb, seeing the little boy. “The smoke hurt my heart.”
“What’s the problem? I’ve got the window open.” He cleared his throat. I hoped he wouldn’t get lung cancer.
A black cat ran into the hallway. “Shoot.” Mike had just gotten a notice to get out of his old place. Over the years, Mike had moved out and back more times than I could count. This time, he moved back in with four cats. They peed all over the living room. I put my foot down. Now he kept them in his room, taking out the window screen so they could come in and out as they liked. But we were near a mountain, and coyotes