The Princess Bride

The Princess Bride Page 12

He began to stuff it in.

“You’re making a poof out of that kid,” I said, only not loud enough for anybody but me and Sandy to hear. Then I took a deep, deep breath, because whenever I come home there’s always trouble, which is because, Helen says, I bring tension with me, I always need inhuman proof that I’ve been missed, that I’m still needed, loved, etc. All I know is, I hate being away but coming home is the worst. There’s never really much chance to go into “well, what’s new since I’m gone” chitchat, seeing that Helen and I talk every night anyway.

“I’ll bet you’re a whiz on that bike,” I said then. “Maybe we’ll go for a ride this weekend.”

Jason looked up from his potatoes. “I really loved the book, Dad. It was great.”

I was surprised that he said it, because, naturally, I was just starting to work my way into that subject matter. But then, as Helen’s always saying, Jason ain’t no dummy. “Well I’m glad,” I said. And was I ever.

Jason nodded. “Maybe it’s even the best I read in all my life.”

I nibbled away at my spinach. “What was your favorite part?”

“Chapter One. The Bride,” Jason said.

That really surprised me. Not that Chapter One stinks or anything, but there’s not that much that goes on compared with the incredible stuff later. Buttercup grows up mostly is all. “How about the climb up the Cliffs of Insanity?” I said then. That’s in Chapter Five.

“Oh, great,” Jason said.

“And that description of Prince Humperdinck’s Zoo of Death?” That’s in the second chapter.

“Even greater,” Jason said.

“What knocked me out about it,” I said, “was that it’s this very short little passage on the Zoo of Death but yet somehow you just know it’s going to figure in later. Did you get that same feeling?”

“Umm-humm.” Jason nodded. “Great.”

By then I knew he hadn’t read it.

“He tried to read it,” Helen cut in. “He did read the first chapter. Chapter Two was impossible for him, so when he’d made a sufficient and reasonable attempt, I told him to stop. Different people have different tastes. I told him you’d understand, Willy.”

Of course I understood. I felt just so deserted though.

“I didn’t like it, Dad. I wanted to.”

I smiled at him. How could he not like it? Passion. Duels. Miracles. Giants. True love.

“You’re not eating the spinach either?” Helen said.

I got up. “Time change; I’m not hungry.” She didn’t say anything until she heard me open the front door. “Where are you going?” she called then. If I’d known, I would have answered.

I wandered through December. No topcoat. I wasn’t aware of being cold though. All I knew was I was forty years old and I didn’t mean to be here when I was forty, locked with this genius shrink wife and this balloon son. It must have been 9:00 when I was sitting in the middle of Central Park, alone, no one near me, no other bench occupied.

That was when I heard the rustling in the bushes. It stopped. Then again. Verrry soft. Nearer.

I whirled, screaming “Don’t you bug me!” and whatever it was—friend, foe, imagination—fled. I could hear the running and I realized something: right then, at that moment, I was dangerous.

Then it got cold. I went home. Helen was going over some notes in bed. Ordinarily, she would come out with something about me being a bit elderly for acts of juvenile behavior. But there must have been danger clinging to me still. I could see it in her smart eyes. “He did try,” she said finally.