The Paris Review - Fall 2016

ehind her. After an hour, my father emerged from his nap and began to move
around the apartment. Every time he came into a room my mother was in,
she would get up and leave. Finally, my father demanded to know what ghost
had stuffed itself into her. She started to cry. “I am just a servant. It doesn’t
matter what I feel. You would like it if I cut out my tongue and threw it away.”
My father hurried from the house to get the pizza. When he returned,
my mother refused to eat her slice. We were in the living room with its TV
and plastic folding chairs, but none of us sat down. My parents stood there
facing each other, and I stood between them. I began hopping in place. “I’ll
eat it,” I chanted. I imagined myself from the outside, as if we were on a TV
show and people were laughing at my cuteness.
“You have shown your heart,” my mother scolded my father. “What else
is there to say?”
“I’ll eat it,” I sang.
“Shuba, are you a little girl?”
“My head hurts now. I can’t eat.”
“I’ll eat it,” I continued.
“Shuba.”
“I’ll eat it.”
My father turned to me. “You’ll eat it?” he demanded.
I became afraid. I felt that if I did not go on hopping and acting cute,
it would mean admitting that I was not like a boy on a show, that I was pretending
and so I would reveal that I was dishonest. I nodded.
He smashed the slice into my face.
We stood quietly for a moment.
My mother took me to the bathroom and leaned me over the sink.
IN THOSE DAYS, I was always falling in love. I fell in love with Mrs. Muir
from The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, with Mary Jane, Spider-Man’s girlfriend, with
Wonder Woman. I loved the last two especially.
I would imagine going for drives with Lynda Carter or for walks in a
park. I imagined sitting on a sofa and holding hands. The fact that I could
not drive and Wonder Woman would have to drive for us embarrassed me.
It made obvious the difference in our ages. I felt that the proper relationship
for me was with Mary Jane, who was younger and a cartoon, although I liked
Lynda Carter more.
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