“Just be careful. And don’t take any chances.”
“Me … take chances?” I picture myself climbing down into the canyon. “Don’t worry. I don’t take chances.”
“Good,” Bitsy says. “I’m glad to hear it. This family has had enough trouble.”
“You bet,” I say.
Bitsy gives me a strange look as I say goodbye to Mom and Jason. Maybe I haven’t used her favorite expression in the right way.
When I reach the wooded area near the canyon, I lean my bike against a tree, sling the canteen over my shoulder, and exchange my Adidas for my boots, which are weatherproofed and ready for action. Then I traipse around in the woods, trying to get used to them. I walk in circles, alternately stomping, skipping, and jumping, then laughing, because I feel so silly. Finally, I head for the canyon.
I look down and hope I will see Wolf. But there is no one in sight. I sit for a while, thinking about Atlantic City and the beach. I used to go walking on the beach every day, winter and summer. It was my time alone, my time for thinking. Often I’d sit on a jetty and before I knew it an hour or more had passed. This canyon reminds me of the jetty, and the beach. It is a good place to be alone. A good place for my thoughts.
I see someone moving below me. I stand up to get a better look. It is Wolf, making his way down into the canyon. “Hey …” I call. “Hey, down there …”
He turns but he can’t see me. His eyes are blinded by the sun.
“You must be new around here,” I shout. “I’ll bet you don’t know your ass from your armpit.”
He moves away so that he is out of the sun’s direct rays. He looks up and around. Still, he hasn’t seen me.
“Suppose you get hurt,” I say. “Who’s going to call the Search and Rescue team?” I wave my arms like crazy until I am sure he has spotted me.
He laughs then and his laugh echoes through the canyon.
I scamper down to where he is standing, losing my balance just once.
Wolf looks me over and nods. “I see you found your canteen,” he says.
“Uh huh.”
“And got yourself a pair of hiking boots.”
“Uh huh.”
“Very good.”
He leads the way and together we climb down into the canyon.
By the time we get there my right boot is making a blister across the heel of my foot. I should have brought some Band-Aids with me.
At the bottom we sit on a rock and watch the lizards racing around. Minka would be very happy down here, I think. She would love to chase lizards. But Walter has told me stories about coyotes who live in the canyons and how they carry cats away. I would never take a chance with Minka.
Wolf opens his knapsack. He offers me fruit and cheese. I take an orange and a piece of cheddar.
“You have sad eyes, Tiger,” he says. “A bright smile but sad eyes.”
He waits for me to say something. I don’t.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay.”
We sit quietly for a moment.
“Maybe someday,” I tell him. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it.”
“Okay,” he says.
“But not today.”
“Whenever,” he says.
I nod.
That night I catch hell from Bitsy. She saw me riding back from the canyon and I wasn’t wearing my helmet.
“I guess I forgot it,” I say, sheepishly.
“Safety first, Davey,” Bitsy says. “Just don’t forget it again. We’re trying to take good care of you but you’ve got to help us.”
What does she mean by that? I can take care of myself. But I know that from now on I will have to be more careful or she won’t let me ride the bicycle.
On the first Saturday in October we leave the house at six A.M. to drive down to Albuquerque to see the balloons take off at the annual hot air balloon festival. On the way, we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts in Santa Fe and stuff ourselves on honey glazed crullers. Jason convinces Bitsy to buy him a box of Munchkins for the road.
We get to Albuquerque just before eight A.M. and line up with hundreds of other cars to watch as the balloons fill the sky with brilliant colors. Jason and I sit on the hood of the Blazer.
“Would you go up in one, Davey?” Jason asks.
“In a minute,” I say.
“It’s beautiful to watch,” Bitsy says, “but only a fool would actually participate.”
“Well, I’d do it,” I tell her.
“Then so would I,” Jason says.
“There’s no point in arguing over whether you would or you wouldn’t,” Walter says. “It’s a moot question.”
“What’s moot?” Jason asks.
“It means it doesn’t matter because it isn’t going to happen,” Walter tells him.
“Oh,” Jason says.
“I’d like to go up and never come down,” Mom says.
We all look at her. What does she mean, never come down?
On the way home I promise myself that some day I will go up in a hot air balloon. I picture myself taking off. I wave at the crowd as it grows smaller and smaller, until the people watching are just tiny dots on the earth, while I am floating in my own world of sky and clouds and quiet.
By the time we get halfway home my mother has developed another headache, even worse than the last one. Bitsy tells her to close her eyes and try to sleep.
Jason babbles on about the balloons. He is full of questions about how they work.
Bitsy tells him that there are accidents almost every year. That something always goes wrong.
I read the paper carefully all week, and if anything has gone wrong with one of the balloons I can’t find a story about it.
My mother has three more headaches in a row. She says they come on suddenly, like a blinding white light, piercing her eyes. After the third one Bitsy and Walter take her to their doctor, who recommends a specialist. The specialist believes that the headaches are caused by tension, by anxiety, by depression. He is sure that they are not your usual migraines, although the symptoms are the same.
One night I am sitting up in bed reading the current issue of People magazine. I had to buy it on the sly and sneak it up to my room. Walter considers it trash and wouldn’t think of having a copy in his house. But I have seen Bitsy thumbing through it while waiting on line at the Safeway, so I’m not concerned when she knocks on my door. “Surprise,” she says. She’s carrying a tray with two graham crackers and a cup of cocoa. I feel about six years old, especially when I see the marshmallows floating on top.
She hands me the tray, then sits on the edge of my bed.
“Thanks,” I say. “I was just thinking about how good a cup of cocoa would taste.” Of course, I wasn’t, but Bitsy believes me. I take a bite of graham cracker, then a sip of cocoa, wondering why Bitsy is sitting on my bed.
“Well …” she finally says. “I wanted to talk to you about your mother.”
“What about her?” I ask.
“She’s under a lot of stress.”
“I know.”
“And Walter and I don’t think she should leave until she’s feeling better.”
I don’t say anything so Bitsy continues.
“We feel responsible for you … we can’t send you and Jason home with Gwen this way. She’s in a daze. It’s all beginning to hit her now. She needs time to mend. So we’d like you to stay a while longer.”
Bitsy is explaining about my mother as if I am going to give her a hard time about going home. The truth is, Bitsy is right and I know it. We can’t go home with Mom this way. Who would take care of her? What would I do when she gets one of her headaches?
“Jason is anxious to get back to school,” Bitsy says, “so tomorrow I’m taking him over to Aspen. It’s a very good elementary school. All of our schools are very good. Do you know we have more National Merit finalists than any other city in the country?”
“Jason likes to go to schoo
l,” I say. “I think it’s a good idea for him.”
“And then I’ll take you over to register at the high school.”
I snap to attention and almost spill my cocoa. “I don’t want to go to school here,” I say.
“Why not? It’s a very good school.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“I don’t want to go to school this year. I’d rather take the year off.”
“Oh, Davey … you can’t do that.”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll study at home. I’ll learn astronomy. I can keep up … I know I can … I’ve thought it all out … and I’ll help around the house and I’ll babysit for Jason and …”
“You have to go to school,” Bitsy says. “You’ve missed more than a month already.”
I can tell that her mind is made up. That I have no choice. So much for my fantasy.
“How long do you think we’ll be staying?” I ask.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“But I have to know. It’s important.”
“I don’t know myself, Davey. It depends on your mother.”
“But how can I go to school without knowing how long I’m going to stay?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Everything. I have to know if I should bother to make friends.”
“Of course you should make friends,” Bitsy says. “What kind of question is that?”
“It’s an important question.” But I can see that she has no idea what I am talking about. There is no point in trying to explain.
When Bitsy has gone back downstairs, I get out of bed and walk down the hall to say goodnight to my mother. I open her door without knocking. She is sitting on the bed, surrounded by old photos. She is holding one of my father. She presses it to her face and says, “Oh, Adam … I miss you so much.” She begins to weep quietly.
I close the door to her room. I don’t want her to know I’ve seen her.
FIFTEEN
I have only three free days before school. I spend each of them in the canyon, with Wolf. He always has to leave before two o’clock. I figure he has a job. I don’t ask him any questions, he doesn’t ask me any. I like it that way.
Wolf tells me stories about the Anasazi, the Ancient Ones. They used to live in this canyon and in the canyons and cliffs all around here. He takes me for a walk and shows me a cliff dwelling. I try to imagine us hundreds of years ago. Tiger and Wolf, living in a cave together. We would make love on rocks that have been warmed by the sunshine. We would raise babies, fat and happy.
On the third day Wolf brings me a book. The First Americans. It is about the history of this area. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll read it and bring it back next week.”
“No, it’s for you to keep,” he says.
I open it. On the first page he has written To Tiger Eyes, who makes me laugh. From Wolf.
I look over at him.
“They are, you know,” he says.
“What?”
“Your eyes. They remind me of a tiger’s, the way they change color in the light, from golden to brown.”
“When’s the last time you saw a tiger?” I ask.
“I have a cat,” he says. “That’s close enough.”
I laugh, wanting to hug him, wanting him to hug me. But he doesn’t, and neither do I. “Thank you for the book,” I say. “And for being my friend.”
“It’s good to have a friend,” he says.
“Yes … I know.”
On Monday morning Bitsy insists on accompanying me to Los Alamos High School. She asks me a hundred times if I need anything. I tell her I don’t but she slips me ten dollars just in case.
“Walter and I want you to have an allowance while you’re here. Of course, we’ll expect you to help around the house but you’ve been very nice about doing that without being asked.”
“Thanks,” I say. I feel uncomfortable taking money from Bitsy and decide to discuss the situation with Mom.
At the high school we ask a boy with a calculator strapped to his belt where the office is, and then we take a wrong turn and miss it anyway. Bitsy stops a group of girls and asks again. I look away, as if I have nothing to do with any of this.
When we get to the office I want to register as a temporary student but I am told there is no such thing. They want my records from Atlantic City, and a medical history from my doctor. I begin to explain that we don’t have my school records because we thought we were here for a visit, when Bitsy produces them from her purse. I am surprised and confused. Bitsy says, “We sent for them … last week.” I don’t know whether to believe her or not.
I am told to have a seat, that a guidance counselor will be with me in a few minutes. Bitsy sits next to me. I don’t want her hanging around. “I know you have a lot to do this morning,” I say. I don’t know that she has anything to do but I want to get rid of her. I want to do this on my own.
“I haven’t got anything to do that can’t wait,” Bitsy says, smiling.
I sense that she is enjoying all of this. It’s like a new game for her. Instant Motherhood. But I am not angry with her. My own mother is home in bed, zonked out on headache medicine. If I am angry at anyone this morning, it’s Mom.
Finally, I convince Bitsy that it is okay for her to leave. I reassure her that I will be just fine, and reluctantly she stands up, then embarrasses me by kissing my cheek, as if she won’t see me for a year. I breathe a sigh of relief when she is gone.
I am shown into the guidance counselor’s office at last. We talk about what courses I should take. I tell him what I was taking in Atlantic City and he arranges a schedule for me here. English, something called American Cultures, Geometry, and French II.
“What about Science?” he asks, pulling on his ear lobe. “We try to encourage our sophomores to take Chemistry.”
“I’d rather take Astronomy,” I say. I am getting better and better at identifying stars, planets, and constellations.
“We don’t offer Astronomy.”
“Well then, I’ll just skip a science course and take typing.”
He looks up at me.
“I don’t think I can handle Chemistry right now,” I explain. Why should I kill myself with work? I think. I’m only going to be here for a little while. And the truth is, I’m not sure I’d be able to memorize all the symbols that go with Chemistry, especially after missing more than a month of school.
“All right,” he says. He doesn’t give me a hard time about it. He schedules me for typing instead.
I am late getting to my first period class, which is English. I hand my card to the teacher, who is a young guy wearing jeans and a sweater. His name is Mr. Vanderhoot. He reads my card out loud. “Davis Wexler.”
“Davey,” I tell him. “Everybody calls me Davey.”
“Sure. Okay, Davey. Have a seat. Anywhere is fine. We’re reading Dickens’ Great Expectations. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“Good. You can pick up a copy after class. And get the notes from somebody smart. Let’s see …” He looks around the room. “Try Jane. Jane, raise your hand. There she is,” he says to me.
Mr. Vanderhoot seems flaky. I like him already.
After class Jane comes up to me. “That’s why my parents named me Jane,” she says.
“What?” I am confused.
“You know … that Davis-Davey business. With a simple name like Jane you never run into trouble.”
“Oh, that,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
“You can take my notes home tonight. They’re good.”
“Thanks.”
We discover that we both have second period free and we walk outside together. Jane is tall and blonde and she would be beautiful except for her chin, which is practically non-existent. We cross the parking lot, then the walking bridge over Diamond Drive, and go into a sleazy store, where Jane buys V-8 juice and pretzels. I don’t like V-8 so I get a can of grapefruit juice inste
ad.
Outside the store a group of boys wearing cowboy boots and ten gallon hats call lewd things to us. Jane ignores them and mutters, “Stomps.”
We cross back over the walking bridge and sit on the grassy area in front of the high school. There is a cool breeze and Jane pulls her poncho around her while I zip up my jacket.
“Where’re you from?” Jane asks, guzzling V-8 juice from the can.
“Atlantic City,” I tell her.
“Where’s that … California?” she asks.
“No, New Jersey.”
“Oh, right … New Jersey.”
“Yes,” I say, amazed that she thought Atlantic City is in California.
“I guess I was thinking of Studio City. That’s in California.” She nibbles on a pretzel. “Atlantic City … that’s where the Miss America pageant is held … right?”
“Right,” I say.
“My sister was a state finalist one year but she lost out to this girl who could whistle Beethoven.” Jane polishes off the rest of the pretzels, brushes the crumbs from her hands and says, “So you just moved up here?”
“Yes. A few weeks ago.”
“Is your father a physicist?”
“No,” I say. “My father’s … dead.” It is the first time I have said that to anyone.
“Oh,” Jane says. “I’m sorry.”
“He died over the summer,” I tell her. “Of a heart attack.” Once I get started I can’t stop myself. “He died in his sleep. Everyone says it was a good way to go. That there was no pain. He was only thirty-four.” Why am I doing this? Why am I telling her this story?
“I don’t know what to say,” Jane tells me. “It sounds terrible.”
“My uncle’s a physicist,” I say. “We’re living with him, and my aunt.” I want to change the subject now. I want to get away from how my father died. “Where are you from?”
“Me … I’m from right here … Los Alamos.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I was born here. I’ve never lived any place else. But I’ve been to Kansas. That’s where my grandparents live, and I’ve been to Tennessee. My father worked at the lab there … at Oak Ridge … for six months. It’s a lot like here.” She smashes her V-8 can and tosses it up into the air, then catches it. A few drops of juice trickle out and land in her hair.