Sticks and Stones

by Jeff Bleich

The hardwood floor shuddered so under the baby’s weight, that even now, nine months later, you could feel it when you looked at the mark. We try to avoid looking at that spot. We turn our heads from the way the thin pine has splintered like fine hairs under the baby’s weight, and has crimped up permanently under the cold lacquer. We try to avoid looking at the neck brace, the colostomy bag, the suction tubes, the slack, misshapen eyes, but they are with us, all in one room.

Grandpa, my wife’s father, has aged many years since he dropped our baby. When Peggy and I were first married, I had called him by his name, Dennis. But he looks very much like a grandfather now. His eyes have dulled and receded. He moves slowly, always aware that his hands could betray him again. In nine months, the world has become too precious for him. He cannot trust himself anymore, and he knows that none of us trust him, either. We avert his apologies, we dodge his eyes. He is always alone among us.

It is Thanksgiving. The family room is invaded with smells of Butterball turkey, and stuffing, and giblets. Peggy rises to check the turkey, again. She remarks, again, how it seems to be taking longer this year than usual. Her mother, Gladys, who has been poised on her seat since the last inspection, rises with her. “You just checked it,” I say. The turkey has one of those red plastic indicators that pops out of the meat when the turkey is ready. They do not trust the indicator this year. When it did not alert after three hours, they stabbed the turkey with an oven thermometer to check its core temperature. They have risen every five minutes since then. I made two incisions to see the turkey with my own eyes. We have no confidence in the common devices that we relied upon all these years. “It’s never taken this long before,” Gladys says, as she leaves the room.

Peggy’s sister, Susan, pats her husband Ed’s hand, and she, too, walks dutifully into the kitchen. I can hear the voices of the women in the next room, fretting over the poor, undercooked bird that refuses to respond, even with all of our mutilation. “Maybe something’s wrong with the oven,” Ed says aloud. Grandpa and I do not respond. Grandpa is watching Ed and Susan’s child, Katherine, sleeping on the floor. We fed her pretzels 40 minutes ago to stanch her hunger, and they have put her to sleep. I look at little Katherine curled up on the floor, in a red plaid minidress, white leggings, and big red bow in her hair. She looks like a small Christmas present, expensively wrapped and tucked beneath the ficus plant. A gift. In the other corner, I see Toby’s drifting eyes have closed, too, his breath flows in watery bubbles through his breathing tube.

Ed cannot stand the silence. He works as a sales rep for a long distance telephone company, and needs conversation. He likes to talk about his company, to tease Susan, to complain about property taxes and neighbors’ children who leave toys in their front yard. He cannot abide the silence, the heavy suction of air and saliva being forced through Toby’s lungs, the trickling of his bowels into the colostomy bag. It is too much for him. He says: “God, the boy’s improved. He really has, Mike.”

I nod. Grandpa sighs and his arms tremble. “Yes,” I say.

“He’s a fighter,” Ed says.

I notice that Toby’s body has twisted slightly in its brace. I rise and straighten his legs, and check to make sure his air tube is secure. In his mouth, his first two teeth have sliced out from his palette at odd angles. They cut against his lip. I examine the tracheal cavity in his throat. His trachea was crushed in the fall. The skin around it is clammy, and the hole smells of pus and old bandages. I sniff near his exposed bowel. His diaper is clean; they do not make underpants for 13-month-olds. It is important that we check his bag regularly, because he is still susceptible to infection.

“Susan says that he just keeps improving every day. He’s a strong boy.”

“It’s still early,” I say. The doctors say it is too soon to tell how far along Toby might progress. They are candid, though. They tell us that the most we can hope for is that Toby will be retarded and develop some movement in his limbs. That would be a miracle: for our child, who was perfectly healthy nine months ago, to be retarded and permanently disabled. The counselor we’ve been assigned says “alternately abled,” or “if we must, disabled.” But I cannot look at Toby without seeing things as they are: He is broken. He cannot be fixed.

Peggy enters the room. “I think it’s finally ready,” she says. Grandpa rises. Ed leans over and brushes Katherine’s fine red hair. “Wake up, sleepy head,” he coos. I begin to wheel Toby toward the dining room.

“Mike,” Grandpa says. It is the first thing he has said to me this afternoon. “Please, would you carve the turkey this year?” His voice catches at the end.

I look at Peggy, but she turns away from us. I see her pressing her fingers against her eyeballs, to push the tears back.

“I will,” I say.

We are seated at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Gladys flutters anxiously from the table to the kitchen, retrieving bowls of stuffing, yams, giblets, potatoes, and cranberry sauce, which is still cylindrical from the can. “Sit, sit,” she says whenever one of us rises to offer her help. We remain at the table in silence, except for Ed who comments on each bowl as it arrives. “Mmmm, mmmm, doesn’t this look good,” or “I look forward to your candied yams all year, Gladys.” Susan prepares a plate of food for Katherine, a small dollop of potatoes, a spoonful of stuffing, a slim disk of cranberry sauce. Katherine squirms, still half-asleep and cranky. We all watch Susan cut the turkey into small pieces on Katherine’s plate. We are not hungry, except Ed, and we are not interested, but we must look. We stare at the plate, as if fascinated by the event. As if there were no broken boy in the room to look at. “Save some dark meat for me, Suz,” says Ed. I kick Peggy under the table, but she does not acknowledge me.

Gladys finally returns with the last bowls of food: a Pyrex dish with a bubbling mixture of green beans, condensed mushroom soup, and canned onion rings. It is Ed’s favorite. She also has a large orange-and-white bowl with the words Love Makes A Happy Home, in which we are to deposit the bones.

“You’ve outdone yourself again, Gladys,” Ed says, as he reaches for a drumstick. “Please start,” Gladys tells me. Grandpa asks her to prepare a plate for him, and offers it up to her tentatively, as if presenting an eggshell. She takes it without meeting his eyes.

We fill our plates. There is a large bay window in the dining room that looks out over the front yard. I hear Gladys begin to say grace; she is referring to God’s bounty. I look straight ahead out of the bay window. I am not religious. I never was, but now I cannot understand what these people could be thanking God for. I look across their bowed heads, not understanding. Peggy presses her foot against my ankle, and Ed looks up briefly in disapproval of my sacrilege.

I look at the fallen leaves outside. Scattered across the lawn, I see the burnt orange ones, still shiny and limber, laying across the top of the leaf piles. They gave way too quickly, I think. They slipped off the tree in a breeze that was not intended for them. They are strange among the other leaves, striking and tragic. I think of the doomed leaves, helpless, unable to return to the tree, and in my mind I see Grandpa’s hands bouncing Toby on his knee. I see them perfectly. The skin is waxy and smooth, freckles appear in bursts of brown decay, the veins press against the surface as the skin fades and then shrivels and dries. I see it all in minute detail.

“Mike, help him for God’s sake.” I look up and discover Ed holding the platter of turkey out to me, like an offering. “Oh, yes,” I say to Peggy. “Sorry.” I take the platter, offering it to Susan, then I place it back on the table and remove two slices of white meat for myself. I notice that Grandpa remains tense until the turkey has been safely returned to its place on the table.

I have not been in this house since it happened. And I find myself slipping away, out of time. “Could I have a little bit more cranberry sauce?” Ed asks. I pass him the bowl, observing how the tube of cranberries has started to melt into a bright red puddle. It lies there, inert, and my eyes begin to well up. “Is something the matter?” Ed asks.

I see Toby rising through the air, suspended. He descends, and my heart pauses. I lurch forward, but, at the last moment, two hands materialize to catch him, sure and sudden like a parachute. He goes up again. Toby is descending too fast this time. I am sure he is going to slip through. I almost say something and then, the hands are there, confidently holding the boy and lowering him against Grandpa’s chest. Toby goes up again. I look away, wishing the game would end. I want to say something. I want to hear myself say something. “Please stop,” or “Toby looks tired.” Just something. “Say it,” the voice is insistent.

The hands shoot out to catch Toby. He topples backward a little. Just a little. A fraction. He is just a little too far, and his head snaps back, away from Grandpa. He is O.K., though. Grandpa’s fingers clutch to draw him in, and I relax. It does not seem possible that the soft cotton jumper can slip from him. But it does. It is as if the hands cannot believe it, either. They close as if holding something, but they are empty. They reach out again, more quickly, frantically refusing to accept that it is too late. The moment hovers briefly beyond our grasp, and then Toby tumbles down backward in a slow armless dive. I feel the ground shudder and see Toby in a puddle there on the ground.

“Forgive me,” I say, “I need to excuse myself.” I get up to leave the table. Gladys starts to follow me. “No, no,” I say. “I just need to get some water.”

“He’s O.K., Mom,” Peggy says without looking up. “He’s going for a walk.”

“You O.K., Mike?” Ed says, because he needs to say something. I turn back to look at Grandpa’s hands.

Grandpa sees me looking at him. He drops his hands toward the table.

“Come on back to the table, Mike,” Ed says again.

“Shut the fuck up, Ed,” I say.

I hear a clatter. Grandpa has upset the gravy boat: brown fluid is flowing like thick lava across the table. Grandpa sits stunned, allowing the gravy to pour onto his lap. “Dennis,” Gladys shouts, as she tosses her napkin on the mess, either to blot it out or to cover it. “God bless it.” Peggy hands her a sponge she has retrieved from the kitchen. I watch them clean the table with brisk, angry strokes. Grandpa looks up at me, but I cannot see him anymore. All I can see is the man who crippled my son sitting helplessly. I leave the house.

I do not return until late that evening, when the last wet pans are being placed into the drying rack, with a small tinny cry....

Jeff Bleich is an attorney who lives in Piedmont. E-mail: Jeff.Bleich at mto dot com