A Rage for Revenge

36 Birdie

I told Birdie about the Chtorran calls I'd heard in the night and she went gray. "Okay," she said. "We'll talk about it at Council on Sunday."

"We ought to do something now," I insisted.

Birdie lowered the specimen slide she was peering at. "Like what, for instance." She picked up another one and squinted at it. "We already have the worm charms. By the way, where's yours?"

"Oh, I took it off when I showered this morning."

"Don't bother. The artificial leather is waterproof."

"I really doubt that a Chtorran is going to catch me in the bathtub."

Birdie went on to the next slide. "Oh'?" she asked. "When did they start making appointments?"

"Anyway," I said. "The worm charms aren't going to be enough, and frankly, I'd rather have an earlier line of defense."

"You're right, of course. Worm charms don't do the wearer much good. Do you have something in mind?"

"A worm fence."

She grunted. "The subject was discussed nine months ago and tabled."

"Nine months ago there weren't Chtorrans foraging in the hills."

"Hand me that frame, will you?" She slid the last slide under the microscope. I waited for her to return to the subject, but she concentrated on adjusting the contrast on her screen instead. She switched to ultraviolet, then back to pseudo-white laser source. "Normal, dammit. Thought I had something."

"Well, what about a fence?"

"Fences are expensive. And we don't have the manpower."

"Three lines of razor-ribbon and punji-barriers would buy a lot of security, Birdie. You've been lucky here. This is a regular Chtorran smorgasbord, without a cover charge."

"Winter's coming on soon, Jim."

"All the more reason why we have to do something."

"I thought worms hibernated. "

"Sorry, it's summer when they're torpid. And not so's you'd notice. They lay low in the heat and come out at night. But they still eat the same amount."

Birdie was placing another slide under the lens, adjusting the focus. She dialed a greater magnification and nodded to herself. "That's not what I read in the papers."

"The papers are wrong. I was in Special Forces for nearly two years. We burned worms in their igloos. January was the most dangerous month. I don't know why the government continues to listen to that international collection of bunglers who're living so high in Denver, but their analysis of the habits and life styles of the Chtorr is ninety degrees off axis."

Birdie tapped at her keyboard, storing the image on the screen in memory, and switched off the microscope. As the room lights came up, she looked at me, wiping her hands on a towel. "Jim, I understand your . . . ah, concern about the worms, but-"

"You mean psychosis, don't you?"

"If you wish. The point is, Betty-John and I think it's more important that you concern yourself with your kids." She eyed me carefully. "By the way, how are you getting along with them?" It was not a casual question.

"We're still making adjustments," I said guardedly.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

She searched my face. "I doubt that. You're so transparent, Jim, I can read fine print through you. Tell me the truth."

"Tommy's got a . . . problem."

"Obviously. And you're not content to let him have it by himself, are you?"

"Huh?"

"You have to have a problem about it too." She asked, "What's the problem?"

I took a breath. What was the best way to say it? "Spit it out, Jim."

"I love that kid. But he's-I don't want him to be a queer."

"So? What's the problem."

"Birdie!"

"What?"

"He climbs into bed with me, and I hate pushing him away."

"So don't."

"I'm not a faggot!"

She flinched. "Please, Jim-nobody around here has ever called you 'nigger,' have they?"

"I'm only one-fourth black, and it doesn't show," I said.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed.

"You can't even tell from my gene charts," I added.

"Or from your mentality," she finished. "That's probably what saved your life during the plagues. Statistically, Caucasians have the least resistance to the Chtorran bacteriology. Negroes have the highest. You ought to be grateful your grandfather wasn't a racist."

"Thanks for the sermon. But we were talking about Tommy."

"We still are. The point is, around here, we don't use negative indices."

"Huh?"

"Epithets. Bad names. For one thing, some of our local faggots have short tempers. " She indicated a chair and I sat. "For another, language determines thought. You channelize your thinking with the words you use. Negative indices are a barrier. They keep you from experiencing the complete picture."

I made an impatient waving gesture with one hand. "I know all that, Birdie. Let's just cut to the chase, all right?"

She turned her chair to face me, pulled it close and leaned in close. She said, "What I'm getting at is this: for someone who has seen as much and done as much in the past two years as you have, you are one of the most pompous, arrogant, and unlikable bigots it has ever been my misfortune to deal with. I like you, but it doesn't change the fact that you have the very bad habit of not really listening to people. You're not really listening now. You're more concerned with boogey-men up in the hills than in dealing with the children you've supposedly accepted responsibility for. At the first sign of trouble, you're ready to disown the kid. So what if he's homo? That's when he needs your love twice as much because he'll have to deal with all the other uncured bigots running loose."

"All right, all right-I don't need the sermon."

"No, you don't," she admitted. "You need the same kind of hugging Tommy does. You need to know that it's all right to love."

"Not that way!" I realized how loud I was and lowered my voice.

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Who hurt you?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me. Who hurt you? Sometime in the past, you made a decision about something. What was it? Didn't your father ever hug you?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Nothing at all-except he's the only one you might have learned fathering from. Did your father ever hug you?"

I thought about it. I tried to remember. I wanted to say yes, but I couldn't find any memories of him hugging me. Not ever.

I remembered one time . . . I had been leaving on a trip. It was my first real time away from home on my own. I felt proud that my parents trusted me. I hugged my Mom and she hugged me back, but when I hugged my Dad, he had just stiffened.

He hadn't hugged me back.

Birdie was looking at me. "What's that about'?" she asked.

"What?"

"That expression on your face. What were you remembering?"

"Nothing. "

"Uh-huh. He didn't hug you very much, did he?"

I said, "Not ever. Not that I can remember." I added, "He loved me. I know that. It's just that he wasn't a hugger."

"Uh-huh." She nodded. "So, don't you think that has something to do with how you're handling Tommy?"

I felt angry. "Are you telling me I can't raise my own kid?"

She grinned. "Yeah. I am. And you know something? I could say the same thing to ninety-nine percent of the people I meet. Anyone can make a baby, it doesn't take a hell of a lot of skill. Little Ivy made two of them. Does that qualify her as a skilled parent? You tell me."

I shook my head.

"Very perceptive. But she thinks she's doing okay, because she doesn't know any better. The truth is, she's doing the absolute very best she can. So are all the other parents in the world. That's the joke. The commitment of a parent is so total, so absolute that they give one hundred percent of themselves, one hundred percent of the time. I've seen whole families mortgage themselves into bankruptcy to buy an extra year of time for a child with an incurable disease. This is it, Jim: you do everything you know how to do, because you can't do anything more. My job is to let you know that there's more to know. There's always more. When you know what it is, you do it."

I folded my arms across my chest. "Cute," I said. "I have to tell you, I really hate this kind of stuff. It's always so glib."

She looked upset. "You really are well defended," she said. "There's not a lot of space there even for yourself-so how could there be any space left for Tommy." She held up a hand to cut me off. "No, I'm not going to explain that." She rubbed the bridge of her nose, then ran her hand through her already rumpled hair. "Jim, I don't know what's going on with you or where you came from, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to; but you've got a lot of big fat red buttons sticking out all over you, just waiting to be pressed. And every time someone presses one, you go off like a skyrocket."

I wanted to tell her about Jason and the Tribe. If she'd have asked me the right question, I would have-but she didn't. And I didn't volunteer it.

Why not?

I didn't want anyone to know what I had been or what I had done.

She must have seen it on my face, because she changed her tone abruptly. "All right, let me come at it this way. You think you know quite a bit about the Chtorrans, don't you?"

I nodded.

"And it's your considered opinion that the teams in Denver don't know as much as you do, isn't it?"

"Yeah." What was she leading up to?

"That's because you have firsthand knowledge that things are very different than they believe, right?"

"Damn straight," I said.

"Good. So why aren't you willing to give your own adopted son the same benefit of a doubt that you're giving the worms?"

"Huh?"

"Don't you think you ought to examine the human race's tentacles and strange habits with the same kind of unbiased observation? You've saddled yourself with the exact same kind of arbitrary judgments that you condemn the men and women in Denver for having."

"Birdie, I was raised old-fashioned . . .

"Good. That's a great excuse. That'll keep you stuck for a long time. You won't get results, but you'll always have a wonderful reason why not."

I opened my mouth. I closed it. I felt frustrated. I wanted to punch her. I wanted to cry. How did I get into this anyway? "Dammit, Birdie! I thought the job of a parent was to help a kid grow up to be a good human being."

"Who said it wasn't?"

"Well, then what are we arguing about?"

"I'm not arguing, Jim. You're the one who's raising his voice." I sat down again. She was right.

She said, "Look, Jim, you've got this whole thing confused with programming. Do you think your job is to make a duplicate of yourself? Don't be stupid; you'll just be condemning the kid to a lifetime of failure. He'll never be able to be as good at being you as you already are. See, here's the joke: you have no voice in how that kid turns out. It's entirely his responsibility."

"I'm sorry, Birdie, I don't get that."

"Good. So, let me ask it another way. Did your parents have anything to do with how you turned out?"

"Uh, not really."

"Right. They only provided the space for you to grow. You were in charge of the growing. Pretty lonely, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Yeah," she agreed. "That's the essential human condition, loneliness. Remember that. That's why we do everything we do. So, look, if your parents had nothing to do with how you turned out, why do you think you have anything to do with how your kids are going to turn out?"

"I hear what you're saying, I get what you mean, but I don't. I mean, it doesn't make sense."

"No, it doesn't. So, just remember what it was like for you as a kid. Do you get it, Jim? You can't teach your kid anything; he can only learn it for himself. All you can do is provide the opportunities for him to learn. Being a parent doesn't mean you own the child; it means you're entrusted with the responsibility of teaching him responsibility. Nothing more. You're performing a service for an adult who is still in the process of getting there-and that service is the creation of continuous opportunities for selfactualization and empowerment. What he does with them is up to him. The best you can do is be an example. He'll learn from what you do, not from what you say." She smiled. "That's the annoying part. You have to take care of yourself."

"It sounds selfish."

"It is," she agreed. "Listen, the only thing you can ever give your kids is your own well-being. They're going to look to you as the source of all well-being in the universe. If they don't see it in you, they're not going to know it's possible. You know, most parents go crazy with that. They think their job is to sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice for their kids. Don't do that, Jim. You'll just drive them crazy, particularly when you start thinking that they owe you something for all that sacrifice. Don't expect it, because you're not going to get it. Growing up is a full-time job. They're not going to have much attention for anything else for a long time to come. Let them be the way they are, because they sure as hell can't be anything else."

"So, you're saying that it's all right if Tommy is . . . that way?"

She shrugged. "He's thirteen, maybe fourteen. Do you know how to change him?"

"No."

"Neither do I."

"So what do we do?"

She looked at me with a blank expression. "Nothing. We do nothing at all. Tommy's fine just the way he is." She went on, "See, this isn't about Tommy at all, it's about you. It's about your judgments. They're getting in the way of your willingness to express your commitment. The problem isn't with Tommy. Tommy doesn't have a problem with being gay-if he is. Maybe he isn't, we won't know until he's ready to tell us; but whatever he is, he's already handled it in a way that works for him. You're the one with the problem. And if you're not careful, you'll give it back to Tommy. Right now, you're telling him you don't love him."

"But I do!"

"I know you do. Or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"But you're telling me there's nothing I can do!"

"That's right. You've already done enough. Now it's time to stop doing and start being."

"Huh?"

"You're carrying around a whole bunch of pictures about what's the right way to be a Daddy. They're getting in the way. You're already a Daddy. But those pictures you've got about the right way to do it-that's really your ego in disguise. You've got some stuff going on about your manhood, right?"

"Uh . . ." That was the large part of it.

"Right?" she pressed.

"Uh, yeah."

"Do you know most men have that same stuff going on? You're normal. You're just as crazy as everyone else. Now, try not to take it out on Tommy."

"I see your point," I said.

"Thanks. Listen, your commitment is real clear. You've taken on a big responsibility, and this conversation is about that responsibility. It's about the fact that you want to do the job right, don't you?"

"Yeah. "

"Good. So let me tell you this. You won't. No matter what you do, you're going to screw it up. Your kids will blame you, just like you blamed your parents, and probably still do. The only way to measure your success as a parent will be the speed with which your kids forgive you."

"That's really reassuring."

"That was the good news," she said. "I don't think I want to hear the bad."

"You don't have a choice. Listen, Tommy's all right. He'll figure things out fast enough. He'll work it out one way or the other. He's a survivor, he's already proven that. Now, he's ready to go beyond just surviving. Teach him how to contribute to the people around him and you'll have done your job. No, it's Alec who I'm really concerned about. He needs to learn how to be independent. Neither you nor Tommy will be around to take care of him forever; he'll have to be on his own a lot sooner than you think, it always works that way. He's your real problem, Jim."

I hadn't even thought about Alec in all of this. He was so passive, so accepting of everything, that I tended to take him for granted. If he didn't say anything, then I assumed everything was all right. Except Alec hardly ever said anything.

"What do you mean?"

"That kid needs to learn how to interact with other people. He's very withdrawn."

"You're right about that. I just haven't had the time to . . . "

"And you never will. There's never enough time, Jim."

"Okay." I threw up my hands in a gesture of surrender. "What do you suggest?"

"I recommend that you put yourself and your kids into the Living Game at least three times a week."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. If you want, I'll make it an order. I'll prescribe it as necessary to your mental health, and you'll have to be there. I want you and your kids to participate in this community. At least one of those nights, I want you assisting in the management of the Game."

"I don't need that cr-stuff."

"Neither do I. Neither does B-Jay. And we play every night. It makes a difference for the kids, Jim."

I sighed. "You play real dirty, lady. What time should we be there."

"Yep," she agreed. "And I get results. Be there at seven-thirty. Wear comfortable clothes." She turned back to her keyboard, then stopped and looked at me again. "Oh, you still want to put up worm fences, don't you?"

"Huh? Yes!"

"All right, look. Betty-John and I were discussing the idea again last week, when the charms came down. I agree with you that it's a good idea, but B-Jay doesn't want to spare the manpower; but if you're willing to put them up yourself, I'll talk to B-Jay and we'll push it through at the next Directors' meeting."

"Birdie, one person alone can't install a worm fence-"

"I was getting to that. I can probably talk B-Jay into letting you have one and a half helpers."

"One and a half?"

"Jack Balaban and Dove. Don't make a face. Dove can be your gofer. And Jack's a good worker. Take Tommy out to help you. He needs some strong role models anyway."

"But Jack and Dove?"

"Your bigotry is showing, nigger."

"Uh, sorry. I'll give it a try."

"You do that. You might do some growing up."

I walked away from Birdie's office feeling better. Not a lot, just a little.

Because she was right about almost everything she had said. She had only missed one point.

I wanted to make love with Tommy as much as he wanted to make love with me. But I was ashamed of the wanting. And I was ashamed of my shame.

If I wasn't a part of Jason's world any more then I couldn't follow its ways. But I didn't know if I could be part of this world either.

I wondered how long I could keep holding him off before one night I gave up and gave in.