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Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

Erica Haldi

    Our son came home with a split lip and a shiner today, Chere, and I almost lost it. He walked in, dopey grin and all, lip practically cleft, drooling blood, and it was all I could do not to go on a rampage.
    I asked him what happened: some kid had pushed him down the slide. Had themselves a good, old-fashioned punch-up. The other kid landed a hit on him, and old Chip bit him. Even drew a fair amount of blood. Honestly, I’m expecting a knock on the door; your boy’s got a set of gnashers on him that’ll go the distance. There must have been blood and snot everywhere. God, Chere, they’re only four. Where could they have learned something like that? I never thought I’d say it, but that Kindergarten is a friggin’ moral cesspool. I had a bad feeling about enrolling him there, you’ll remember, but this exceeds anything I could have ever imagined. How do I know this other kid won’t show up tomorrow with a shiv? Or make a run at him with the safety scissors?
    Do you know what else? I cleaned him up and put some Neosporin on his lip, and not once did he cry. He just kept on trucking. Smiling. Even sang a little. The kid’s face looked like a ruptured sausage. I can only imagine what it must have felt like. Do you see why I always call him Chipper?
    But seriously. What’s the code on protecting your kid’s honor these days? I know some people just shrug and say unhelpful things like, “boys will be boys,” but Chere... I feel like I’ve got to do something. Confront the kid and quietly threaten to force-feed him dog shit. Berate his dad, ask him what the hell kind of hooligan he’s raising. I can’t just let this happen to our son, can I? I want him to know that this is not ok. But then again, I’ve seen the other kid’s dad. He looks like he discusses things with his fists. What if I go over there and the dad wants to have it out with me? What then? What will I have taught our son? That it’s ok to tuck tail and run? Because, though I am clearly a coward, I am no fool; the man could rearrange my face.
    I worry. You know that I worry. And I hate being given more reasons to worry. The kid’s in kindergarten, for God’s sake. He hasn’t even gotten to the nasty bits yet- the insecurity of middle school, or even the humiliation of an authentic high school experience. I worry that I can’t do this. That I don’t have it in me. The consoling, the talks. The talk! How will I have that conversation with him? That’ll be good and awkward. How do I talk to him about controlling his hormones, because if they’re anything like mine were, this kid’s going to have a miserable teenage existence? What about the importance of being the bigger person in a conflict? Who will speak to him of the perils of strippers and mango-scented infections? How do I impress upon him that his body is not a waste receptacle? Or initiate the conversation about drugs? Let’s face it, I’m no great authority on the subject. I can’t tell the kid the difference between smoking pot and shooting heroin. And I certainly can’t tell him why bad things happen to good people. I’m not ready, Chere. I’m just not ready.
    What else is new? The washing machine has survived Chip’s most recent attempt at doing the laundry. I have it on good authority (the Maytag man) that it will live. (Have I told you this already?) Chip, in a characteristic fit of good intentions, decided to do his part around the house a few days ago; he loaded up the washing machine with God-only-knows-what, and filled the soap dispenser with Meow Mix. The Long Program. I’m still picking kibble out of the kid’s socks. The cat, fat bastard, has caught on, and trails Chip around the house like a bad odor as he is getting dressed in the morning, daintily picking up whatever Chip shakes out of his pockets, socks, and mittens. I guess the pasty-soft kibble is easy on the cat’s teeth. Who knows? You know how I feel about that thing.
    Your parents took Chip to church yesterday; said church can be a great comfort. At what point do you think they’ll stop asking me to come, too? They’re great people, Chere, they really are. But they look old, like they, too, are not long for this world. Haggard. Defeated. Like people moving to a massive city seeking proximity to others, and then feeling spectacularly isolated. But I let Chip go. He likes it. Even came home with a happy-clappy Jesus coloring book and homework from bible class. Homework, Chere.
    Also. At long last: After years of dropping hints and threatening action, the neighbors have finally offered to set me up with their hideous, bedraggled relations. I try to explain that I am not interested, that you were all I ever wanted and needed, and they pretend to sympathize, tell me for the umpteenth time how sorry they are. It’s been three years, Chere, and random well-wishers still come up to me and stammer their awkward, inadequate condolences. Hell, some even try to tell me that they understand my loss. Their condolences be damned. They will never, NEVER understand my loss. And setting me up on a date with their dull-witted, one-eyed cousins isn’t doing anyone, least of all their cousins, a favor. You should have heard the description Jean gave me of her “favorite” niece (you remember Jean, don’t you? Three doors to the left, lots of birds, raggedy yard.): Sweet girl, has some good years left in her, never found the right man, cooks well. Meaning: a horse-faced girl with a harelip, 60 extra pounds, and a personality disorder. My God, Chere. They know no bounds.
    So while your parents pretend to have church as a comfort, I am far more honest with myself; I have none. Don’t get me wrong: I adore Chip. I can’t imagine my life without him. No, let me rephrase that: I don’t want to imagine my life without him. But he, in all his brave, 4 year-old glory, is a sorry replacement for you. For our life together. For the future we had planned together. My heart breaks 33,000 times a day when I look at him and see your smile, slightly lopsided, crammed full of teeth, your curious gold-speckled eyes staring back at me, when he sings a song that you used to love, always perfectly on pitch and in that sweet, ball-cracking little voice of his. And I fall in love with him just as many times a day for the exact same reasons. Love is a surgeon, Chere. It’ll cut your heart out in one masterful stroke and then suture it back in with gorgeous, invisible stitches. I’m always on edge, waiting for the next strike. I can’t take it.
    So, I’ve had better weeks, for sure. I wouldn’t exactly say that I’ve been throbbing with bonhomie lately, but Chip has been a help. Especially this week. He’s kept me on my toes. Just when I’m ready to lose myself in grief, he’ll pull a stunt so ridiculous that it distracts me from my thoughts. He’ll water my shoes, shave the cat, wash his hair with peanut butter, hide a package of ground beef in the hamper and forget about it for a few days, go streaking through the neighborhood on his tricycle... God, that kid. He enjoys being naked in public entirely too much. Is that a jab at my parenting? Is he destined to become a perv? What will your parents think of me then? That would give them permission to finally say out loud what they have been thinking for the past three years. That I’m failing. At parenting. At living. At pretty much everything. And they won’t hear any disagreement from me.
    So besides reporting the facts on Chip’s black eye and trying to imagine a smile on your face, now I’m back to the question that I ask myself every morning when I realize that I have no option but to face the day and kick the cat off the bed: What’s the point? Chip? Yes. But otherwise? I spend every day waiting to get home so that I can park Chip in front of the TV, walk into our room, and fall apart. I have no desire to be part of the mad throng of people determined to live life on their own terms. My terms went ignored, my prayers unanswered. This, of course, is not a conversation I care to have with your parents. One whiff of this little nugget of blasphemy, and I’ll get packed off to church with them and lectured by their pastor, who, coincidentally, hasn’t changed in all his eons there. Chip does an impression of him, marching up and down the hall like a self-righteous, emotionless yuck that has me laughing so hard I have to beg him to stop. Which only makes him march a little straighter and step a little higher. The kid is a clown. The poor guy doesn’t see me laughing enough, so I guess he feels he’s really gotta ham it up once he finally gets me going.
    All of this to say: Come back. Come back and visit me in my dreams like you used to. I used to see you nightly. Remember how we would sit on the swings out back and just talk like nothing had happened? Talk about random shit as if any of it mattered? You’d ask me to cook dinner, I’d balk; we’d discuss our finances; sometimes we would make love? Where did you go, Chere? The days were never good without you, but at least I had my nights. God, don’t go. I’m doing my best with Chip, I really am. But I don’t know how I’ll cope if I have to go it alone.



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