The course requirement for Health Ed
was to carry around flour babies. Because the five-pound sacks of Gold Medal or
King Arthur couldn’t go inside backpacks, but had to be cradled everywhere, the
assignment was supposed to dissuade sixteen-year-olds from early parenthood.
Thelonious frequently forgot his baby at home on the kitchen table, so Mr.
McGreeley gave him an extra sack for punishment.
“You’ve got twins!” McGreeley declared
to the amusement of Theo's classmates who had him pegged as the last person on
earth qualified for fatherhood.
The
sentiment was shared by Theo’s
father who said, “God help any kid raised by a knucklehead like you,” only to
be contradicted by Theo’s mother, who retorted, “A
child should only be so lucky!”
Vicky was a
talented jazz pianist whose history of panic attacks had relegated her to
cleaning cages at their neighborhood pet supply store. A skillful landscape painter, Dale had
given up his easel to manage databases at the DMV. A short man, he demanded
respect.
“Eat your eff-ing lunch or I’ll shove
it down your throat,” Dale once yelled at little Theo tucked into his high
chair. A smack on the cheek followed. By chance, Vicky was videotaping the meal
on their Camcorder.
Immediately
she stopped recording, taking the Camcorder as she whisked Theo into the stroller, comforting
him. Circling the block - in sunglasses so anyone inclined to chat wouldn’t see
her face - Theo wailed, though the exertion soon put him to sleep.
Vicky knew
that Dale was
quick to anger like his own father, and actually a lot like her own pop, but
now Dale had crossed a line, and Vicky had the cassette in the stroller basket.
Instead of doing one big circle around the block, she pushed the stroller all
the way to the police precinct, deciding in the sunshine whether to enter. A
thickset matron strode by in a camel trench reminiscent of Dale’s mother, who
recently treated them to a trip to Disney World. Vicky rocked the stroller,
soothing Theo, who had woken up. Then she turned the stroller around, heading
home. Julia - as much a believer in second chances as Vicky’s own mom - would
be livid if Vicky entered.
Vicky was glad she didn’t because Dale
showed remorse, spending time with Theo, teaching him to ride the new silver
scooter he got him, buckling the shiny helmet carefully under Theo’s chin. But
alone in the bathroom, Vicky cried, questioned, and blamed herself for being
fooled by Dale, who had sold himself as a good man. He’d been supportive of her
love of piano, a fellow feminist who said he understood what her pop put her
through. When Vicky was physically unable to produce more tears, she made it to
the Steinway, playing until her fingers hurt, later marveling at the
restorative power of art.
But in
quiet moments, she wondered: How many good acts does it take to erase one act
of evil? Obviously, it wasn’t
one good act erasing one bad. But was it, say, ten good acts? Or maybe twenty?
Or was it more like one hundred in this case? Could she ever forgive Dale?
She thought
of her childhood, what her mom, Eileen, withstood like a chronic illness. Vicky’s pop used to rage at Eileen
like Dale did. Vicky’s pop raged at Vicky, too, and, though her own memory was
spotty, might easily have done to her something like what Dale did to Theo in
the high chair - minus the physical violence of the smack.
She
recalled Eileen frequently saying not to take Pop's yelling to heart. For
whatever reason, Vicky
bore no resentment, simply feeling sad for Pop for harboring such fury and
unintentionally hurting those he loved.
As the
years marched on for Vicky’s
young family, the high chair incident was raised sporadically. Unable to live
with the evidence, Vicky had long since thrown out the cassette. However, sometimes when Dale’s
temper flared, she would remind him of the incident, and because he knew it was
unconscionable and had no way to undo it, he’d become more enraged. Then he’d
list his good acts - like teaching Theo to ride the scooter - and accuse her of
rubbing the incident in, asking what the hell more she wanted of him.
Anger
management classes? Therapy? But her suggestions were met with winces, curses,
stormy exits. His moods stayed unpredictable. Vicky would drive up to the house
after taking Theo to piano and see Dale’s white SUV in the driveway and feel
her stomach drop. Theo learned to ask if he could go over a friend’s house to
do homework, sometimes staying for supper. Going inside her home, withstanding
his shouting, Vicky put on headphones or locked herself in her room.
Theo had no
babies at sixteen. In college he met someone and later texted the news of
becoming a father.
“Congrats! Well, I’m sure you’ve
learned a few things since your flour baby days,” Vicky replied. “Remember
bringing home two babies, grousing about Mr. McGreeley? Actually, twins run in
my family.” Theo typed LOL.
She did not
meet the baby. Not because she didn’t want to - on the contrary, she ached to. The only news
she got was an occasional general text like, “All good.”
Later, on
Instagram, she saw videos of Theo
doting on not one, but three babies. Triplets! As much as she tried to have a
relationship with Theo’s new family, Theo made excuses. The most recent video
showed him feeding three toddlers - all boys - in matching high chairs.
Theo was an
excellent father, Vicky
could see. But he did not want her to be part of his life.
He had told
her she didn’t
protect him. He said, even now, he was frequently woken by nightmares of his
father with his hand raised before the moment of impact.
She cried. Lost herself in playing “Round Midnight.” And realized that the number of good acts on Dale’s part could never have mattered.
Bio:
Karen Regen Tuero has published
short fiction in North American Review, New World Writing, Gargoyle, Lunch
Ticket, Potomac Review, Iron Horse, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Sarah
Lawrence College. For links to many of her published stories, go to:
https://linktr.ee/kregentuero
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