The Quiet Ones Are The Most Dangerous
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“It’s not safe for you to go outside today,” I told my son. “We’re having a heatwave, and it will be too hot for you to go out there without an adult.”
My nine-year-old nodded in understanding, then he frowned at the screen of his tablet computer. He was playing games on it while we waited for our turn with the computer.
He had been playing them nonstop ever since he got his own laptop computer two weeks ago. And even when he wasn’t playing them, he was watching YouTube videos or reading about them online. It was getting to the point where I felt like he spent more time staring into that glowing rectangle than actually interacting with me, and now, after only three days of summer vacation? Now when he would ordinarily be running around outside chasing his friends, he couldn’t do it without risking death? What was wrong with these people?
I sighed again as I looked through another stack of paperwork for this new job. My partner said the boss needed all of us working overtime every day until they were done sorting things out, so if any of us wanted some downtime to do whatever else we’d rather be doing, we were going to have to sacrifice something from our personal lives to do it.
For me, that meant missing out on the last couple of months’ worth of baseball season to catch up on all the homework my kids had missed during their spring break vacation due to our move across town.
If we lose anymore time, we weren’t going to be able to get caught up. I hated being stuck inside all the time like this. We should’ve been enjoying one of the few warm summer days we’d have before winter came back around, but instead I was trapped indoors, buried in endless piles of papers.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help noticing there was a certain similarity between the pile of papers I was looking at right now, and the stack of documents on my desk in my old office…
“…and then, after you’re safely inside, don’t let your dog run loose anywhere,” I continued, still reading over the list of instructions my partner’s boss had written down for me to read aloud to everyone. “Your pet needs to stay indoors where it can cool off, unless it is wearing a muzzle. Dogs aren’t very good at taking care of themselves when it comes to keeping themselves clean. In fact, your dog might be suffering from mange if it has matted fur. That’s why it’s so important for dogs to have regular baths or grooming appointments. But if you have a particularly dirty or smelly dog, or if you see blood stains on its coat, you must report this to animal control immediately.
“And lastly, remember that you need to protect yourself from fleas and ticks. If you notice either of those bugs crawling on you or your cat, it means they are infected with a parasite. You should take them both to a vet for a checkup as soon as possible. The sooner you act, the better, because parasites can cause all sorts of nasty diseases. And they could even be carrying diseases that can infect other people.”
A couple of minutes passed by before anyone spoke up. Then my daughter asked, “So what does ‘mange’ mean?” She looked confused and concerned.
This question was followed shortly by a chorus of voices asking me to repeat everything I just said, as though there was some possibility that we had misunderstood. As if anything could possibly be confusing enough that we didn’t know what it meant!
The heat was really starting to get to my family; the kids were grumpy as ever, and neither of my wife’s parents was helping things any by coming over for dinner each night. It didn’t look like it was going to be any different tonight, either. My dad was supposed to come over for supper, and I knew he’d complain about the heat, so I’d already made the mistake of bringing that up first thing in the morning, and he hadn’t stopped ranting about how cold it was in Seattle yet since then.
I was trying to decide whether to try and placate him with the excuse that it would be worse for him, having grown up in Alaska, if he was going to keep harping on it, when my mother-in-law suddenly broke the silence. “What’s a flea?” she demanded.
“Fleas are insects that jump on you, and then suck on you, and then you’ll be sick if they bite you too much,” I answered.
The kids were sitting up straight in their chairs, waiting for me to continue. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement not to bother us with questions about the information we’d just given them, so they wouldn’t distract us from listening to more.
“And ticks… well, ticks are kind of the same as fleas except they attach themselves to your skin and suck on you.”
As I said this, a couple of the adults gasped, while others started looking uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure which reaction I preferred.
It was finally my turn to speak again. “And, you know, the most dangerous parasite of all, rabies? Rabid animals are always the real threat here. Always be on the lookout for rabid animals. Don’t let anyone touch them. And if you suspect anyone might be infected, call a vet right away!”
After we had all finished eating, my father-in-law told us that he was heading home, because it was too hot outside for his arthritis. He said something about going fishing later in the week if we needed company for a boat ride, but I knew that was probably just so he wouldn’t be bored alone in his house.
My son had already asked me a half dozen times if we were going to the movies tonight. His girlfriend had gone on her own last weekend and brought back a bunch of popcorn from there, so it wasn’t like they had to go. But when he heard my response, which was to say that maybe next week would be better, he looked absolutely crestfallen. He started to cry and ran out of the room crying, leaving behind the remains of his chicken drumstick.
“Oh, honey,” my wife whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, as well.
Her parents had already excused themselves and left our house. They both had places to be now, and didn’t seem interested in sticking around if the conversation wasn’t going their way. After a few moments of my wife and her mother sharing silent looks over the dishes that hadn’t been cleaned, they also headed out the door.
It was dark outside now, and still very warm inside the house. With nothing else to do, I called my sister-in-law over.
“You know,” I began, “maybe we’re being a little unfair to the kids.”
She sighed. “Maybe,” she agreed. She looked like she wanted to say more, but was hesitant. “But I guess they have to learn sometime.”
It took only another few seconds of thinking before I decided I had an idea of the best course of action. I got up and walked into my daughter’s bedroom where she had taken refuge in her closet. “Hey, sweetie,” I said.
She didn’t respond, but opened the closet door and came walking down the narrow hall toward me. The light from the hallway showed her hair hanging lankly across her face, and she was wearing a pair of pajamas with a unicorn on the front. She had put her stuffed horse on top of her clothes and blankets to sleep. It looked like a little girl’s idea of paradise.
I reached in and pulled off the blanket, revealing her legs, clad in panties. I could feel her shiver slightly, although I couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or my touch.
“Mommy is getting a bit worried about you,” I said. She looked up at me and smiled through tears.
“I’m okay, Daddy.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. It was hard for me to read her expressions sometimes. Maybe if I had been able to make out what those words meant when she’d spoken them the first time, my life would be a lot different right now. I was never really sure how to interpret them, even though they seemed innocent enough. I had learned to pay attention to what she wore instead. That helped me figure out when she was feeling good.
“Yes,” she said. Her expression was calm again. A child’s version of calm.
“Okay then, come with me,” I replied.
We walked down the hall to the other end of the house, to the bathroom. We stood by the shower for a moment, watching the water fall. Then I led her to a spot on the floor between the bathtub and the toilet seat and sat down. She sat beside me. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and held her close to me. She leaned against me and closed her eyes, resting her head against my chest for a minute before she spoke. “Why are we doing this?” she asked quietly.
I looked at her. My hand gently caressed her hair. There were no answers for me. Only a few possibilities that made sense. I tried telling her one of those reasons, and it almost felt like a lie, so I quickly changed my mind.
“Just do your best, and we’ll see what happens,” I answered, trying not to sound nervous or unsure. “That’s all any parent can ask.”
The rest of the night was spent watching TV together. When they turned it off, my sister-in-law took the remote control and said something about coming back tomorrow to pick up her daughter. The boy’s girlfriend had gone home earlier, so we were just three adults sitting around our living room. My son was asleep upstairs, as always. It felt strange after such a large and busy gathering that the house had become so quiet. I could hear birds chirping in the backyard somewhere, but otherwise there was nothing much to listen to except for the occasional creak of wood or rattle of tile in the walls.
My wife had started crying again while my nephew was talking to us. He was too young to understand, and he went back to playing on his computer once they had driven away. We weren’t paying him any particular mind anymore, anyway.
After the kids’ grandmother and her husband left, my wife and I sat at opposite ends of the couch. We hadn’t moved an inch since we’d gotten home, and we weren’t looking forward to moving anywhere in the near future. She was still holding onto her daughter’s hand tightly as if she thought something might happen to her. The look on the younger woman’s face said the same thing.
I finally spoke first. “What should we do?” I asked, trying to break the ice.
She shrugged and looked at me, as if she had been wondering the exact same question ever since she’d returned to this place, which wasn’t very long ago.
“Well,” I began, “we don’t have any plans for the summer.”
She shook her head and said, “They’ll probably send us back to school early. Or take her from us.”
I nodded. “Yeah, they’re going to want to separate us. Probably make my kid live with your family and mine will stay here. I guess they think they need someone from each side to act as a mediator. To keep the peace, maybe.”
Our youngest child was quiet for a moment and then said, “Can I sleep over?”
This caught me off guard. I had forgotten all about that. “Sure,” I replied. Then added, “You know that won’t change anything?”
“Nope,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Good,” I responded. She didn’t seem too thrilled about it, but neither did she object. So we decided to let it go as a temporary measure until we figured out what we were supposed to do next. After she left that evening, I found myself wishing I’d given her something more tangible to remember me by, besides memories. But I wouldn’t be seeing her again unless she came to me.
***
The days rolled into weeks and became months, but the separation continued and my heart was breaking with them. I knew the situation wasn’t permanent, but even knowing it wasn’t meant to last forever couldn’t make it easier. It had already lasted far longer than any normal childhood separation would have; at least ten years in total. I wanted to tell everyone to shut up and stop worrying about making sure we both understood where we stood, and to get on with things, because we weren’t really getting along anyway. We had two children, and it was time they got used to being apart from each other.
One day, however, everything changed. My son brought me the newspaper one morning, saying his mother had told him to bring it to me because she couldn’t find it. He gave it to me, and it contained several pages of news articles. At first, I didn’t bother reading them. I just put the paper on the coffee table and went about my business. My son watched as I cleaned the kitchen, washed some dishes, made breakfast and got dressed. I could feel him watching me, curious about what he was reading, but I refused to look at it again. There were no pictures in the articles. They were mainly about my son’s father or his girlfriend or friends of theirs, none of whom I particularly cared for or knew well. I kept telling my son to come down and eat, but he remained standing at the top of the stairs, staring intently at the paper. Finally, I broke the silence.
“Do you need help with anything?” I asked him.
He shook his head. He was too afraid to speak, and I knew he was too scared of upsetting me to try.
So we waited there together without saying much more. It took almost ten minutes before I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and my wife walked in the door. She’d gone shopping in town earlier, so the house smelled fresh and clean and she seemed pleased with her purchases. I tried not to show how relieved I was to see her, and when I saw the newspaper still lying on the floor, I picked it up and handed it to her.
“Didn’t you read this?” I asked.
She frowned, looking at the paper and then back at me. She opened it up and glanced at each page.
“What happened?” she asked, turning to face me.
My son looked away nervously and said, “Mom, we’ve gotta talk.”
I looked at my wife and she shrugged, as if to say I’m confused too.
“Talk,” my son repeated, shaking his head in disgust. “About what? We’re doing fine. Everything is cool.”
My wife nodded her agreement. “Okay,” I said to my son. “Go ahead.”
His eyes darted around the room like they might jump out of his head at any second, but he eventually settled on my wife. “Tell your dad.”
I smiled. “Your mom is the one who should tell you first thing. She’s your mother and you can trust her most of all. Go ahead, baby girl.” She smiled and nodded her assent. I could sense the nervousness building within our youngest as she thought hard about what to say, but finally she turned to face my son and began.
“Daddy…” Her voice trailed off as her expression shifted into an intense frown. “Dad…” More tears threatened to spill, but she fought back against them and managed to keep control. I could almost hear her fighting to keep the hurt and anger inside herself and not give way to the emotions that wanted desperately to explode free. But I could also see that the dam was crumbling and there would be no stopping its collapse until it ran its course.
Her words flowed freely now, though they were broken with sniffles. “You know how we never told you guys about us having sex?” She stared directly into his eyes, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, but I could tell that he was only answering because he had absolutely no idea what was going on.
“Well…,” she said, “the truth is, your dad and I are married.”
He blinked, stunned beyond belief. His mouth dropped open, his jaw hanging slack. Then he slowly raised the paper toward me as if it might contain a few answers for him. He turned to look at me, but he wasn’t really seeing me, as if I wasn’t real enough to warrant his full attention. He was searching through the paper, looking for any clue as to why his parents were behaving like total strangers who hated each other.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
I stepped forward and placed my hand on his shoulder to try to comfort him, but he pulled away from me, and suddenly I understood why he felt as he did. He’d been completely betrayed by his parents—not by the fact that we were married, but by the way we hid it from him.
My wife continued speaking to my son in the calmest tone I’d ever heard her use. “We were in love with each other for years before we got married. Your father was twenty-one when he proposed to me and we decided that it would be best to wait until we graduated college. When we left school, we moved here to live with my parents while we saved money and worked on starting a new life together. It was hard not being able to do normal things like go out drinking or have sex, but we did what we had to do just like everybody else.” She paused, looking over at me and smiling sadly, as if to say “Isn’t that pathetic?”
Then she turned back to my son and continued, “The reason we were so secretive was that we didn’t want to upset you when you were young and innocent, and we were worried you might not understand why we couldn’t have sex anymore. We didn’t think you could handle knowing that your folks weren’t perfect, and we were probably right.”
She stopped talking and took a deep breath, staring down at the floor. I saw her shoulders begin to shake. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to hold everything back, but finally I reached out and grabbed her by both arms, pulling her in close to me. She buried her face in my chest, crying uncontrollably. I wrapped my arms around her body, holding her tight, feeling my own tears threatening to overflow.
“Oh my God,” she gasped into my shirt. “It was supposed to be private!”
I held her close to me, stroking her hair as I whispered gently in her ear. “Baby, we never lied to you or cheated on each other. You knew we loved each other, but we kept our love hidden from you and you trusted us because you loved us too much to ask questions. That’s what made us special. No one else knows this about us. And we swore we wouldn’t share this with anyone else either.” I kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we kept it secret. We promised we would never lie to each other about anything again.”
She looked up at me, her eyes red and puffy, but I could see the love in them. “But… but…” She wiped her face with her hands. “If we’re not supposed to talk about our feelings, then what am I supposed to say next time someone asks me if I’m going out on dates? Or if we have boyfriends or girlfriends?”
I could feel myself smiling. “You’ll always be my girlfriend.”
The End