Phoebe has just figured out that Holden has been kicked out of school again in the above passage. She's covered her head with a pillow and is refusing to look at or talk with Holden. She's simply saying "Daddy's gonna kill you" over and over. Obviously, Holden getting expelled from Pencey Prep is simply the latest in a series of academic failures for him. Holden's father, a successful lawyer and chronic workaholic, is going to come down on Holden hard.
I love my daughter, but she has a problem following through on responsibilities sometimes. She loses parts of expensive dance costumes. She forgets to turn in homework assignments. She doesn't remember when concerts and dance practices are. Since she was young, I've noticed this pattern of behavior with her. I've suspected for a long time that she suffers from ADHD. It's hard to keep her focused, unless it's on her iPod or Kindle (and those are just extensions of her distractions--multimedia explosions of sound and images). Despite a few tough academic scrapes, she's coped pretty well in school.
This morning, my daughter told me she forgot to turn in an important form and check yesterday at school. It's not the end of the world, but I sort of felt like Mr. Caulfield. Exasperated. Angry. Tired. Disappointed. I thought the trials of school were behind me for a few months. Now, on Monday, we're going to have to call the school office and see where we go from here. As I said, tiring.
When my daughter told me she forgot to turn it in, my response wasn't great. At first, I thought she was joking. Yesterday morning, the last thing I told her on the phone was, "Don't forget to turn in that form and check." It was the only really important thing she had to remember to do on the last day of school. This morning, I just stood looking at her, shaking my head, saying, "You're kidding, right?" Then I think I slammed a few things around. I may have even cursed a little bit under my breath. Daddy's gonna kill you. I know I made her feel horrible, and (I'm sort of ashamed to say this) I wanted her to feel horrible.
As I said, it's not the end of the world. On Monday, my wife will probably drive up to the school and hand in the form and check. (My daughter doesn't even know where it is right now.) I'm pissed that we have to go through this extra effort. I don't like looking irresponsible. I don't like my daughter being irresponsible.
That's what's been on my mind all day. I do have a new poem for you. It is Beatnik Saturday, so drag out your berets and bongos.
Saint Marty's not gonna kill his daughter. He's just going to make her suffer a little bit.
Thunderstorm Warning on Corpus Christi
It crawls across the bottom of TVs. It's announced with blasts of rusty trumpet on radios. A warning. Something severe approaches. Thirty miles per hour. Filled with hail large as bird skulls, winds strong as whale fluke. In pews, we ignore the shift from Genesis three to two, light to void. Sing hymns of wheat, blood. Thousands fed with five buns, two cans of tuna. This is the Word.
Then it hits. A flood against the stained glass window Christ. He's crying now. Sweating the Jordan. Thunder. So loud the priest stops mid-blessing. Stands before the table, counting place settings, nervous. As if God has just knocked on the door and is waiting for him to say, "Come in."
Confessions of Saint Marty
