David

by Dale Neibaur

David Alexis Montgomery was a very unusual child.

"Impossible!" wailed his teacher, vainly blotting as a huge multicolored splash of poster paint ran together and spread its way across her classroom floor.

"Incredible!" murmured the principal, looking across his desk at half a dozen bloody noses and bruised faces.

"Emotionally disturbed." The school psychiatrist laid his glasses down on the Montgomery's coffee table, then nervously picked them up again. "I'm not sure, of course. I'm sorry to bother you so close to elections. But I thought you'd better know."

"Disturbed? Just because he beat up a couple of kids? Come on." David's father leaned back deeper into his easy chair and folded his manicured hands in his lap. He was an expansive man, big-bodied and deep-voiced. His onetime lumberjack muscles had mostly gone to fat; using people as a successful politician just wasn't as much exercise as using an axe. "Don't tell me you didn't do any scrapping as a kid. Everybody does. I fought at least twice a week for years, and it never did me any permanent harm."

The school psychiatrist felt small in the middle of the broad sofa opposite Mr. Montgomery, and his olive-colored suit clashed with its deep oxblood red. Though he recognized the subtle manipulations that caused them, he couldn't shake his feelings of squirming discomfort. "Your son, Mr. Montgomery," he began again, "hardly fights like a normal child."

"Obviously not." David's father chuckled richly. "He must fight quite a bit better than the others. Or they'd have beaten him up instead of vice versa, and you'd be talking to someone else." Mrs. Montgomery, sitting quietly next to her husband on a strait-backed chair she'd brought from the kitchen, didn't smile. She twisted her hands nervously, but said nothing. The psychiatrist didn't smile either.

"You don't seem to understand, Mr. Montgomery. Your son's actions are hardly typical. Today in class he got into a fight with another boy -- no one knows why -- and when his teacher tried to break it up he snatched a pointer from her hand and began beating at anyone he could reach. When the teacher wrested the pointer from his grasp he hit her in the stomach and then pushed the boy he was fighting with so violently that the boy hit a rack of paints and knocked the entire rack to the floor. Of course they spattered everywhere. And then David left the other boy sprawled in the middle of the mess, walked calmly to his desk, sat down, and took out a book as if nothing had happened! He refuses to tell anyone what he was fighting about. As you know, this is not the first time we've had problems, though it is the most violent to date ..."

David's father allowed a small frown to cross his face. He steepled his fingers and placed them against his lips as if he were pondering. "You say things like this have happened before?"

"Nothing this violent. David is normally a very passive child. Which is part of what worries me. We have sent reports home before. I really must insist that you allow me to take David to the university's mental health center for some tests. Just to be sure."

David's father stroked his chin for a moment, then dropped his hands to his lap. He rose suddenly. "I appreciate your concern," he said, "but that won't be necessary. I'll have a talk with the boy and straighten things out. It won't happen again. Don't worry."

The psychiatrist took his leave, still dissatisfied but feeling somehow impotent. David's mother planned her attack on Mr. Montgomery a bit more carefully than the psychiatrist had; she waited until the evening meal was safely over and David had been sent upstairs to do his homework. (Who ever heard of a kid in the third grade having homework? she thought again, then dismissed the thought. Mr. Montgomery liked his peace, and David never seemed to mind ...) She finished the evening dishes slowly, dreading a confrontation she felt must occur. Her husband, as was his wont, had retired to the front room with the evening paper. Finally the last dish was polished and put away; she could reasonably stall no longer. She came to the door of the living room and hesitated, gathering courage. Mrs. Montgomery was normally an attractive woman; indeed, it was mostly for that reason that Mr. Montgomery had married her. Tonight, however, worry had made her tired, and the lines she'd been battling with cold cream for the last few years were etched deeply into her face. Those lines portended things she didn't quite want to think about. She'd quit trying to dress quite as carefully too; her husband no longer seemed to notice.

Nervously Mrs. Montgomery released her hold on the door jamb and stepped into the room. She sat quickly on the edge of the couch. Mr. Montgomery turned the page of his newspaper; apparently he hadn't noticed her.

"Honey," she said tentatively. Then when he didn't look up, she repeated it louder. "Honey."

"Mmph?"

"Honey, aren't you going to talk to David?"

"Mm? Oh, yes. 'Spose I should." He turned another page.

"Alex!"

He laid the paper down slowly, then turned to look at her.

"Alex, I've been thinking. What if the psychiatrist is right? What if David is -- sick? Shouldn't we at least let him run some tests? It wouldn't hurt anything."

"You worry too much. Why don't you go do the dishes? I'll take care of things." He began to pick up his paper again.

"I've done the dishes already."

The tone of her voice made him stop, put his paper back down. He looked at her again. Perhaps he even sees me this time, she thought, but I doubt it. He stopped really looking at me years ago.

"All right," he said finally. "I'll go talk to him now. Is he in his room?"

"Yes." The answer was mechanical. David was always in his room.

Mr. Montgomery carefully folded his paper. He removed his glasses and placed them in an inner vest pocket. He rose, exited the room, climbed the wide carpeted stairs, then paused and knocked briskly at his son's bedroom door. David's mother stopped a little behind him.

"David," Mr. Montgomery called. Then, knocking again, "David!"

"Yes, sir?" The voice was high and mild.

"May I come in and talk to you?"

"Yes sir." The door opened. David's father didn't go in though; he just stood on the threshold, his bulk filling the doorway.

"David, I understand you got into some trouble at school today. Is that right?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, I don't want it to happen again. You mustn't fight anyone at school without my permission. You must never strike a teacher under any circumstances. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir."

"All right. Go back to your studies now." And David's father turned to leave. Mrs. Montgomery stepped aside to let him pass, and after looking at her for a moment he went back down the stairs. She took his position in the doorway. David was back busily studying a book under his left hand, a pad and pencil at ready under his right.

"May I come in?" she asked quietly after a moment.

"Oh, Hi Mom. Sure you can."

David's mother moved into the room. She wanted to sit down by her son and look straight into his eyes, to reason with him and dispel her fears. But David's chair at his wide desk was the only one in the room. She moved in to sit on the bed, but the blue spread was so immaculately smooth, the fold over the pillow so perfectly creased that she dare not rumple it. Mrs. Montgomery was herself a careful housekeeper, but even she felt uncomfortable in David's room. She never cleaned or straightened there; David did it all himself. Everything in the room from David's precisely labeled rock collection to his set of sorted textbooks was exactly in place. The huge chart of western constellations that hung over David's bed looked like someone had used a plumb line and a T-Square to get it perfectly centered on the wall and aligned with the room's corners. The lamp that hung above David's Formica-topped desk shone down only on his book, pencil and notepad. The rest of the desktop was empty. David's book collection was on a shelf above the desk, with the rock collection kept on a shelf above that. In addition to sets of books on astronomy and geology, David had a complete set of children's encyclopedias. He'd asked for them for Christmas, and now they stood in perfect alphabetical order at one end of his bookshelf. There was a small gap about halfway down the line where the 'H' volume should have been; it was under David's hand.

David's mother moved back to his side. The neatness of the room caught at her throat and left her again at a loss for words. Unsure of how to start, she picked up a rock at random from the top shelf and turned it over in her hands a few times. Taking a deep breath, she sat the rock back into its place. David immediately reached up and straightened it.

Impulsively Mrs. Montgomery knelt down and caught both of David's hands between hers. Now their heads were at the same level and she could look straight into his deep brown untroubled eyes. "David," she queried softly, "what happened at school today?"

David's eyes seemed to cloud, and his small mouth drew into a tight line. He pulled his hands from is mother's grasp and turned again to his book. "Nothing important happened at school today, Mother. Why do you ask?"

"You know why. Why did you get into a fight?"

"It wasn't much of a fight. It wasn't really anything. Nothing. Really."

"David, look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, David closed his book and looked up.

"That's better. Now, what happened at school today?"

"I got into a fight with Billy Prescott."

"Why?"

"No reason."

"None at all?"

"I just don't like him. That's all."

"Why don't you like Billy? I thought he was your friend."

"Not any more. I don't like him. He's mean and snoopy and he tells lies."

"Lies? About what?"

"Nothing. Just lies."

"David." She took his hands again, and he let her hold them. "This is very important to me. I have to know why you were fighting. I have to know. Please tell me. What did Billy say?"

David hesitated for a moment, torn between his desire to please his mother and his fear of her reaction. Finally he averted his gaze and said quietly, "Billy said his mom told his dad that she saw Daddy going into a bar with his secretary. Billy said Daddy is going to leave us. But I don't believe him. He likes to tell mean lies." David looked up at his mother. "It is all lies. Daddy won't go away like Mr. Peterson. I won't let him!"

David's mother felt very cold inside. Mr. Montgomery had been working late so much. Elections were coming up in a few weeks, and as a candidate for a senate seat there was much to be done. Or so he'd said, she thought, feeling too tired to be really bitter. She'd known for weeks, of course, and guessed for a few months before that. There'd been hints enough. It wasn't even like this was the first time, although it was the first time she'd known for sure. Before, he'd always been discreet. At least he used to be discreet! She'd never talked to him, of course. What was there to say? But now ...

"Mommy?"

Mrs. Montgomery started, recalling her surroundings. To her dismay she could feel a tear rolling down her cheek. Heavens, she thought again, I thought I was done crying. Not now.

"Don't worry, David," she said. She was surprised that her voice came out level, controlled. "Don't worry. Daddy won't have to move until after he wins the election, and then he'll come back often. It will be all right. Don't worry."

Again David's face hardened and his mouth drew into a tight line. Then, amazingly, he smiled. "Daddy won't leave," he said. "You'll see. He'll never leave us. I'm going to make Daddy famous."

"I'm sure you will, dear. ...I think I'd better go back downstairs now and finish the dishes. Be good and finish your studies so you can go to bed." I've got to get out now, she thought, before I break up in front of him. I'm sure I'll be okay in a few minutes. As she turned to go, David reopened his encyclopedia. She saw the index word "hemp" in bold print at the top of a page, and the glossy green picture of a fern in the lower corner, and then the page began to blur. Hurriedly she left the room.

Mrs. Montgomery brought up the subject of David's fight again as she and her husband were preparing for bed. She knew she shouldn't, but she tried anyway.

"Alex," she began, sitting on her side of the bed and facing him across the room, "Alex, I've been thinking. I really think maybe we should let David see a doctor."

"Why?" Mr. Montgomery was busy untying his tie. It was knotted and wouldn't loosen. "There's really nothing wrong with him. He'll grow out of it."

"Grow out of it! It certainly doesn't seem normal for a boy to beat his classmates with a stick. Or to threaten his teacher. Something is the matter. I think we should find out what it is. You never even asked David what happened today that caused the fight."

There was a pause. "I know what happened," Mr. Montgomery said finally. "I asked David when he first came home, and he told me. He doesn't understand much now. But in a few years I'm sure he will. He'll be fine." The tie still wouldn't loosen, so with a muffled curse he slipped it over his head and threw it onto the bed.

"So you know. What did you tell David?"

"I told him not to worry. I told him I was just doing some work and he shouldn't worry about what people say. I told him I was going to win the election and be famous. Hell, he's a gullible kid. He'll handle things okay."

"And were you just working?"

He snorted in disgust. Then, removing his shirt, he threw it into a corner. She would put it in the wash before she went to bed, he knew, as she always did. It irritated her to have dirty clothes laying on the floor. "Don't be stupid." He was being deliberately brutal, knowing no other way to play the scene. "I know you've been aware of Charlotte for months."

"Perhaps I have." Am I going to feel tired forever? she wondered. I'm tired of fighting and I've never even fought with him about it before. At least I'm not crying. That really would be stupid. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about that bitch. I want to take David to a psychiatrist and have him examined. He acts strangely, and I'm worried. He's all I've got, you know. I just want to know he's all right. Heaven knows he's been under enough pressure, between your campaigns and your sluts. Let's just make sure he's all right." I can't believe the language I'm using, she thought. I never used to talk like that. Strange what life does to you.

"You can take David to any psychiatrist you want to next month. Not now. I'll pay for anything you want after the elections are over, but not now."

"What does your damn election have to do with this?"

"Elections are funny things." His voice went flat. Toneless. He might have been talking to the wall, or to himself. "People vote on whims, on slogans. They look for the man with the biggest smile and the most promises. They don't really think; they're not expected to. But that makes things dangerous sometimes. Suppose for a moment people heard tomorrow that my son had been admitted to a mental ward for psychiatric care. What do you think they'd say? What do you think they'd do?"

David's mother sat silent, watching.

"They'd say," Mr. Montgomery continued, "'did you hear how the Montgomery boy went crazy? Must run in the family.' Or maybe, 'sad what happened to the Montgomery boy. I've read how bad parents can do that to a kid.' And when it came time to count the votes you wouldn't even be able to tell I'd been running."

"And what about me?"

"When the elections are over I'll move out. You can have a divorce if you want it; I don't care. You can keep the house and the cars. I'll pay child support and medical care. But it has to wait until after the elections."

She sat silent for a moment, watching him. I used to love him, she recalled. If he tried I'm sure he could make me love him again. But I can't feel anything now. Tomorrow, maybe. Not now. "Okay," she finally said. "Next month."

It was nearly dark before David got home from school the next day. He came clamoring through the back door into a kitchen warm with baking bread and simmering food. "Hi, Mom!" he called happily, dumping an armload of what looked like overgrown carrot tops into the kitchen sink. "What's for supper?"

"Oh, hi Hon. Glad you're back. What's all that stuff?"

"It's part of my project. For Daddy."

"Well get them out of the sink. They're muddy. And so are you! You're tracking on my floor. Here," she added, scooping the plants from the sink, "take these into the back room and wash them there. And take off your shoes while you're in there!"

David soon reappeared carrying the dripping greenery and several long white roots. He plunked them on the cutting board next to his mother. "There! Now they're ready. Mommy, how do you make tea?"

"Tea? Just heat the water and put a tea bag in." She was busy putting the finishing touches on the dinner. "There! All ready. Go wash up, we're eating alone tonight. Daddy said he'd be late."

"Daddy isn't coming home?" His disappointment was plain on his face.

"Oh, he'll be along. He just had some work to do."

"But I need to make Daddy some tea. It's to make him famous."

"Okay, dear." He's been so strange lately, she thought. So strange; his mind goes in such odd directions. I'll have to take special care of him for the next few weeks until all this is over. "Are you ready to wash for dinner?"

"Please, I want to make some tea first. How do I make it from plants?"

"I really don't know, dear. I guess you just shred the plants up a little and put them in the boiling water. What is that stuff anyway?"

He smiled and gave his mother an exaggerated wink. "That's a secret. But it'll make Daddy famous, and he'll never leave us for some other family. May I use this pan?"

David was so engrossed in his project that he didn't notice the sudden change of expression on his mother's face. "Of course, dear. Go ahead. I'll be back in a minute."

When Mrs. Montgomery reentered the kitchen about five minutes later, she was greeted by a delicate herbal smell. Her own carefully prepared dinner was cooling on a counter. I'll reheat it later, she thought. I have to keep David happy. How will he cope with his father leaving? How can I tell him? He practically worships Alex. "Mmm, that smells delicious!" she said aloud. "May I have some?

David removed the pan from the stove. He'd been carefully stirring, making sure nothing burned or stuck to the side of the pan. The water in the pan was a delicate green. Careful not to spill, David carried the pan to the sink. Then he poured the tea town the drain and fed the green pulp down the disposal. He then picked up his unused greenery and put it in an empty plastic bread sack and stored it in the refrigerator. "Sorry, Mommy," he said. "This is just for Daddy."

"All right, dear. But it certainly smells good! Maybe I'll make some later."

"No! You can't use them! They're for Daddy! Promise me you won't use any of it."

"Okay, dear. I promise. Now go wash up for dinner. I have to reheat it."

About halfway through dinner Mr. Montgomery walked through the front door. "I'm home!" he shouted unnecessarily.

"Daddy!" David bolted from the table, shot through the door, then halted suddenly just outside his father's reach. "I thought you weren't coming tonight."

"Things got done earlier than I'd expected. How are you? Were you good at school today?"

"I was good. Dinner's ready. Come on!"

Mr. Montgomery followed his son through a doorway into the dining room. Mrs. Montgomery had already risen to get another place setting for the table.

"Don't bother, dear. I've already eaten."

"Daddy, when is the election?"

"Next week, son. But I'm going to be very busy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to move tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! But you said you'd stay until after the elections! You said you'd stay! You can't go!"

Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery exchanged glances. "You haven't told him?" he queried.

"I thought I'd leave it to you. After all, you are his father. You explain why you're leaving."

David looked in anguish from one to the other. "You can't leave! Why are you leaving?"

"I just have to, Dave. It's hard to explain. But I have a lot to do, and it's better I go now."

"But why?"

"It's something I have to do. You'll understand some day, son. I have an election to win; I have work to do. Your daddy is going to be famous."

"And after the election will you come back?"

Alex Montgomery looked long at his son, then sat down on a chair. "No," he admitted at last. "No, I won't. But I'll see you sometimes. We'll have fun."

"But you can't leave me! You can't leave Mommy! I won't let you go!"

"I'm afraid I have to, son."

David ran from the room. Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery looked at each other in painful silence, a silence broken suddenly by the sound of running water in the kitchen. Without a word Mrs. Montgomery turned and left the room. Mr. Montgomery remained sitting at the table.

When Mrs. Montgomery entered the kitchen she found David removing the last of his greens from their bag, laying them out in careful rows along the cutting board. He already had the same pan heating on the stove. His hands were shaking. As she watched, he carefully cut the greens into small pieces and dropped them into the pan. Then he chopped up the white roots and added them. He adjusted the flame under the pan, then moved on to the sink. He turned hot water on, then began vigorously scrubbing the cutting board and the knives under the stream of running water.

"Here," Mrs. Montgomery said at last, moving into the room. "That's enough. They're perfectly clean now."

David turned and ran to bury his head in his mother's apron. "Why is Daddy leaving? Doesn't he care about us at all?"

"Daddy still loves you," she said, not knowing if it was a lie. "He just has to be famous." She fondled his head, then pulled him close. Fame. Alex Montgomery had been such a strong, clean man when she'd met him. A lumberjack with twinkling eyes and a scratchy beard and blue, blue eyes. His smile encompassed all outdoors. She'd been so happy at first. She'd have been content to remain the wife of a hardworking lumberjack. But Alex needed more: he wanted money, money and fame ...

"It's boiling over, honey."

David jumped to stir the mess in the pan. It was rapidly taking the consistency of cooked spinach.

"David, what is that stuff?"

He did not answer directly. "Mommy, do you know the story about Socrates?"

Socrates, Socrates ... Dim memories of dusty lockers and initial-carved desks tickled her mind. A writer? A philosopher? She'd never been much good at school. "I'm afraid I don't remember."

"My teacher told us about him at school. He was a kind of politician who got famous for this tea. May I have a teacup, please?"

"Sure honey. They're in the cupboard over there. It does smell good. Can't I have some too?"

"No, Mommy. It's not for you. You're a girl, and you don't need to be famous. You're staying with me. We'll just let Daddy be famous."

"Okay, dear." His mind works so strangely, she thought. Associations that don't make clear sense. Still, only a few weeks ...

David took a teacup and carefully filled it from the simmering pan. He turned the heat off, but left the pan sitting on the stove. Carefully carrying the cup, he went back to the dining room. His mother followed.

Mr. Montgomery still sat where they'd left him ten minutes earlier. His face was grave, and the smile lines Mrs. Montgomery remembered with such longing seemed never to have been there. David went straight to his father and without ceremony presented the cup he carried.

"What's this?"

"It's a special drink for you I made, Daddy. It's to make you famous."

"A drink to make me famous? Sounds like my cup of tea."

David did not smile at the joke. Mr. Montgomery sat the cup on the table beside him, then looked at his son. "David, I know you don't understand, but I must go. Your mother and I have talked, and we both agree. You need to stay here and go to school. But I don't belong here any more." I don't know how to explain the reasons for divorce to him, he thought. I'd better keep it simple, like I have in the past. Tell him something he can understand. "I need to go to Washington and be famous."

"Okay, Daddy." He's taking it well, Alex thought. He always did take things well. "I know you need to be famous. That's why I made you the tea. Drink it!"

Mr. Montgomery lifted the teacup and sniffed the clear green liquid. It smelled pleasantly of an herb he did not recognize. "To my success, then," he said, and drained the cup in one long swallow. The tea was unexpectedly bitter, and left an unpleasant aftertaste.

"Would you like some more?" David inquired.

"No, thank you son. That was quite enough."

"Then may I go to my room?"

"Certainly. I'll come see you after I've packed. Go do your homework."

After David left, Mrs. Montgomery began clearing the table. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not watch while you leave me. I'll do the dishes."

Mr. Montgomery stood awkwardly. "Okay," was all he said. He walked out without touching her.

Alone in the kitchen, Mrs. Montgomery sat amid the ruins of the dinner and cried. After several minutes she rose and dried her eyes. Mechanically she began cleaning up. After gathering the dishes from the dining room table and collecting the pans she'd cooked in, she came to the pot of cold tea still sitting on the stove. She stopped to sniff it as she picked the pan up, enjoying again the delicate herbal smell the tea emitted. She considered reheating the tea, but remembered her husband's grimace and decided not to. She poured the tea and the green pulp down the disposal and turned it on.

It was almost an hour later that Mrs. Montgomery finished cleaning the kitchen. As she replaced the pot David had used to make the tea, she paused. She hadn't heard Alex leave yet, she thought. He's taking his own time. Again she wondered about David, and thought of the tea. The name 'Socrates' kept tickling her memory, telling her there were important associations she should be making but hadn't. Walking to the bookshelves by the fireplace she pulled out an encyclopedia and flipped through it until she found her place. She sat down on the edge of the couch and began reading half-aloud, her fingers tracing the lines. "Socrates ... well-known statesman ... great teacher ... famous for ... death caused by hemlock tea ..."

She just sat for a while, then slowly closed the book and got up. She selected another and thumbed through it until she found the page she was looking for. Yes, there it was as she'd remembered: "hemp" written in bold type on the right-hand page, and the color photograph halfway down the left side. The caption beneath the picture read, "Poisonous hemlock (sometimes called Queen Anne's Lace) is found in many parts of the world, including much of North America." She replaced the book precisely in its place and went into the kitchen, where she spent fifteen minutes retrieving and vigorously scrubbing the pan, knives, and spoons that David had used making his tea. She finished by throwing away her cutting board. After drying her hands she put the dishes away and went into her bedroom.

Alex was collapsed across the bed face down. He didn't seem to be breathing, but she found his pulse after a moment. It was weak and very erratic. She dropped his wrist and moved from the room up the stairs. David was sitting at his desk, a new reading text unopened before him. He looked anxiously at his mother as she entered the room.

"Is Daddy famous yet?"

She walked evenly across the room and stood behind David's chair. Her hands rested briefly on his shoulders, then slid down lightly to half-embrace him.

"Not yet," she answered. "Not yet, but soon."