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Authors: Justin Evans
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.”
“Runs away from home, lives in the wild,” you said. “Sound like somebody who writes thank-you notes?”
“No.”
“No. But for you, at that age, this Huck Finn–like ‘friend’ was a way of expressing the terrifying feelings you had. George Davies still had to go to school and get good grades, because he was gifted and talented. But Huck Finn doesn’t give a crap!”
I shifted uncomfortably.
“Now look at George Davies, all grown up. Frightening feelings choke you. They’re so terrible you can’t hold your own baby. Your child, your marriage, your career. You would rather destroy them all than face these feelings!”
“No,” I said feebly.
“Well, that’s what you’re doing,” you snapped. “And why?
Because you have no way of letting these terrifying feelings free. You’re socialized, presentable. But your shadow doesn’t go away, George. He’s 50
J u s t i n E v a n s
standing right beside you now. I can see him, even if you can’t. He’s speaking to me. And do you know what he’s saying?”
I gripped the handles of my chair. I forced myself to look forward. You leaned forward and shouted.
“He’s saying you can’t be a father! ”
I felt as if I’d been struck.
“Do you believe it?” you said. Your voice was urgent. “Do you?”
“No,” I said, weakly.
“Good,” you said. “Me neither. That’s why we’re here. To discover why you would believe a lie like that.” You grinned. “You didn’t really believe Huck Finn was standing behind you, did you?”
“No, no,” I made myself chuckle. I sounded like a drowning frog.
“Keep up the journal writing,” you said cheerfully, ending our session. “But be ready for what comes out. When you lock something in a box for twenty years . . . it begins to stink.”
n o t e b o o k 4
Into the Night
Thank you so much for doing this,” Mother said.
She was clomping to and fro in her knee-high boots and skirt and a high, cream-colored turtleneck sweater, leaving behind trails of her perfume. In makeup, with glasses off, a string of jade on her neck, I barely recognized her.
“It’s my pleasure,” said Tom Harris.
He sat like stone in our living room in a red velvet chair, his eyes half-shut in a semidoze. But I could tell he was watching me. Mom told me he had “jumped at the chance” to babysit me; now he was snoozing in the living room like the place belonged to him already. I glared. My mother fluttered between us, oblivious, lavishly scented, in high spirits.
“Isn’t this exciting,” she said to me. “This could be real money! Do you know how much these corporations pay? Mm, ” she said—a familiar noise, her little grunt of envy. “Compared to what I made on my last translation. . . . Mm. ”
“Who is this guy again?” I asked.
“Some consultant . . . to the food industry,” my mother said dubiously, implying that both consultants and the idea of a food industry were suspect. This was the inverse of her envy grunt: utter disdain for commerce. “. . . who is trying to help his client launch Rogaine in Germany!”
Tom Harris chuckled.
51
52
J u s t i n E v a n s
“What’s Rogaine?” I asked.
“Helps bald men get their hair back.”
“Snake oil,” added Tom Harris.
I ignored him. “Are you going to do the translation at dinner?”
I asked.
“Translation?” It was as if she had forgotten what the meeting was for. Tom Harris cocked an eyebrow. “Oh. This is what you call schmoozing,” my mother said. “Hobnobbing. Sniffing each other out. He wants to see if this crazy professor will be presentable to his client. Wonder if I’ll pass the test? Für aufsehenerregende Ergebnisse, ” she sang out, “ Wenden Sie sich mit dem Fingerspitzen an! ”
Tom Harris smiled slightly, gliding back into his faraway look. Maybe I would run away just to prove what a loser he was as a babysitter. After finishing my homework, I came downstairs. Tom Harris was sitting in the kitchen. He was
“Runs away from home, lives in the wild,” you said. “Sound like somebody who writes thank-you notes?”
“No.”
“No. But for you, at that age, this Huck Finn–like ‘friend’ was a way of expressing the terrifying feelings you had. George Davies still had to go to school and get good grades, because he was gifted and talented. But Huck Finn doesn’t give a crap!”
I shifted uncomfortably.
“Now look at George Davies, all grown up. Frightening feelings choke you. They’re so terrible you can’t hold your own baby. Your child, your marriage, your career. You would rather destroy them all than face these feelings!”
“No,” I said feebly.
“Well, that’s what you’re doing,” you snapped. “And why?
Because you have no way of letting these terrifying feelings free. You’re socialized, presentable. But your shadow doesn’t go away, George. He’s 50
J u s t i n E v a n s
standing right beside you now. I can see him, even if you can’t. He’s speaking to me. And do you know what he’s saying?”
I gripped the handles of my chair. I forced myself to look forward. You leaned forward and shouted.
“He’s saying you can’t be a father! ”
I felt as if I’d been struck.
“Do you believe it?” you said. Your voice was urgent. “Do you?”
“No,” I said, weakly.
“Good,” you said. “Me neither. That’s why we’re here. To discover why you would believe a lie like that.” You grinned. “You didn’t really believe Huck Finn was standing behind you, did you?”
“No, no,” I made myself chuckle. I sounded like a drowning frog.
“Keep up the journal writing,” you said cheerfully, ending our session. “But be ready for what comes out. When you lock something in a box for twenty years . . . it begins to stink.”
n o t e b o o k 4
Into the Night
Thank you so much for doing this,” Mother said.
She was clomping to and fro in her knee-high boots and skirt and a high, cream-colored turtleneck sweater, leaving behind trails of her perfume. In makeup, with glasses off, a string of jade on her neck, I barely recognized her.
“It’s my pleasure,” said Tom Harris.
He sat like stone in our living room in a red velvet chair, his eyes half-shut in a semidoze. But I could tell he was watching me. Mom told me he had “jumped at the chance” to babysit me; now he was snoozing in the living room like the place belonged to him already. I glared. My mother fluttered between us, oblivious, lavishly scented, in high spirits.
“Isn’t this exciting,” she said to me. “This could be real money! Do you know how much these corporations pay? Mm, ” she said—a familiar noise, her little grunt of envy. “Compared to what I made on my last translation. . . . Mm. ”
“Who is this guy again?” I asked.
“Some consultant . . . to the food industry,” my mother said dubiously, implying that both consultants and the idea of a food industry were suspect. This was the inverse of her envy grunt: utter disdain for commerce. “. . . who is trying to help his client launch Rogaine in Germany!”
Tom Harris chuckled.
51
52
J u s t i n E v a n s
“What’s Rogaine?” I asked.
“Helps bald men get their hair back.”
“Snake oil,” added Tom Harris.
I ignored him. “Are you going to do the translation at dinner?”
I asked.
“Translation?” It was as if she had forgotten what the meeting was for. Tom Harris cocked an eyebrow. “Oh. This is what you call schmoozing,” my mother said. “Hobnobbing. Sniffing each other out. He wants to see if this crazy professor will be presentable to his client. Wonder if I’ll pass the test? Für aufsehenerregende Ergebnisse, ” she sang out, “ Wenden Sie sich mit dem Fingerspitzen an! ”
Tom Harris smiled slightly, gliding back into his faraway look. Maybe I would run away just to prove what a loser he was as a babysitter. After finishing my homework, I came downstairs. Tom Harris was sitting in the kitchen. He was
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