The Spot: Stories

In response to what he seemed to be seeing in her facial expressions, Cavanaugh said, “We’re fine, just a little misunderstanding about the toy bag, the rucksack here, regarding Christmas, pretending it’s Christmas, trying to keep him calm. I mean to say,” he said, as he fingered the dimple on his tie, “I was trying to recharge these toys, so to speak, to make them surprising again, you know, and Gunner became disappointed and began to cry. Not that crying isn’t normal in these circumstances.”

Something stony seemed to enter the nurse’s features as she listened, taking another step into the room, nodding slightly, looking down at the boy and then up at Cavanaugh. Did her eyes narrow slightly? Was there a shift, barely perceptible, in the set of her teeth? Did some interrogative element enter her eyes, brightening the corneas? It seemed to him that she was thinking: We clearly have a situation here. To cup a boy’s mouth like that is wrong, sinful, actually, and just a precursor to more violent acts; God knows what’s going on behind closed doors. And it seemed to him that her face (and the way she moved up to Gunner and touched his head lightly, patting him, and then moved to adjust the collecting device) also said: I’ve seen a thousand such moments, entering rooms to witness patients adjusting their postures, ashamed, awkward around the impersonal equipment, awaiting test results that may change their future. I’ve entered rooms to find patients yanking out IV needles. I’ve opened the door to scenes of fornication, to urine-stained old men with pocked behinds. I’ve opened doors to couples enfolded in weeping embraces, so seized with grief that they had to be pried apart. I’ve opened doors to bald-headed children with angelic eyes and shattering smiles. But this is different because of the cry itself — the desperation and the tonal quality in relation (again) to your unusually guilty face, in relation (once again) to the boy’s self-protective, conspiratorial slack expression, as if he were hiding something, in relation (once again) to the position of the hand held over the mouth, in relation to the finger marks on the flesh around the mouth. Then her lips tightened and her cheekbones — yes, cheekbones! — seemed to sharpen, and her face seemed to say to Cavanaugh: I might have to report this to the resident social worker, just as a matter of protocol. Not because I’m absolutely certain that you struck the child but because I’m not certain, and if I don’t do it and further harm comes to this boy I’ll never forgive myself and I’ll sit forever down in my own particular hell.

Then the nurse said, “Oh, you poor little boy. We’re a long way off from Christmas. But we’re not a long way off from finishing the test. You’re a brave boy. A brave, brave boy.”

Woe to the man whose child is on the verge of a diagnosis, her face then seemed to say as she ran her fingers along the tape, removed the electrode wires, cleaned Gunner’s arm with a gauze pad, secured the collecting device, checked the tubing, and then, without another word, heaved out of the chamber, latched the door, tested the seal, and glanced back through the oval window with a face that said: I understand that your game with the toys in the bag was creative and a sign that you’re a good father, if somewhat desperate, and then she was gone and he turned to Gunner and said, “Daddy got in trouble because you were crying. Daddy got scolded, not verbally, but facially, so let’s pretend again, and do the Christmas grab bag, but do it right this time and really pretend I’m Santa.” And he opened the bag and pulled out his trump card, a toy he had left out in the first rotation, one of Gunner’s all-time favorites, Weird Willy the Spasmodic Doll. When switched on, Weird Willy flexed and yawed spastically, like an injured athlete, and performed a ballet of crude movements while his internal mechanisms poked and prodded through his rubbery skin. The toy, seemingly crucified from within, proved agonizing to watch. Not long ago, back in August, Weird Willy had provided a full afternoon of entertainment in a patch of sunlight beneath the dining room table. Gunner and Willy had spent a good hour conversing, Gunner saying softly, “Stop that, you stupid freak, you pathetic idiot, you stupid stupid.” Now, in the sweat chamber, Weird Willy said, “Haa wee, haa wee,” while Gunner said, “Die, die, die,” and wrung Willy’s torso with both hands, trying his best to tear him limb from limb.