We stood alone in the room, we talked, but our words were the wrong words, we said all the wrong things, and she didn't notice the gifts, the treasures I had placed about the room.
She told me, in a voice that grated against the voice I had given her in my fantasies, that she was in control at home now, and her father knew it. She laughed, and it didn't sound like music, like the tinkling bells of my fantasies, but like a dog's bark.
"He knows he's been replaced," she said. "Don is taller, bigger, stronger, younger, and better looking, and he made it real clear to Daddy, without actually saying anything, that I'm his now and Daddy had better not lay a hand on me."
What I had noticed when I'd watched her with Don that first day was the way Bobbi acted around him. She took smaller steps when she walked, made smaller hand gestures, even kept her voice small, timid, when she spoke around him. She looked at him after everything she said, as if checking to see if he approved. She moved and spoke as if she were in a box with a lid on it, and it reminded me of the pantomime Larry and Ben had done on Christmas Day, where they felt their way around an imaginary box, placing one hand at a time in front of them, then hands to either side, then turning around and feeling the invisible wall behind them.
Bobbi told me she had never felt so free, but I thought she had just leaped from one box to another, and when she left my room that afternoon, I reached up to the posterboard covered with her pictures and tore it down.
No one said much to Bobbi about her new boyfriend. I wanted to say something, to protest, but I couldn't put into words what I felt. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong with Don, not in any way that would get rid of him. Since he lived some twenty-five miles away and Bobbi went to school during the week, he only came by on weekends, at first, always with some gift in his hands, flowers or jewelry; and he stayed only long enough to make polite conversation and pat Parakeet, pretending to like her, before whisking Bobbi away for the evening.
I tried to let go of my fantasy, to ignore Bobbi's presence down the hall and her face across from mine at the dinner table. I tried to bury myself in my schoolwork, in the neat stuff I was working on in the computer lab, only it didn't seem so neat anymore and the schoolwork felt tedious. I couldn't focus on anything. I felt as if I were treading on something slippery and treacherous somehow, and yet I didn't know where the feeling was coming from. I couldn't sleep at night. I felt restless, and then I noticed the whole household seemed restless, too. I could hear people all night long, getting up, walking around, the refrigerator door opening and closing, toilets flushing, voices whispering, laughter, tears, all of life, all night long. I thought how the chaos never rested, never slept. It boiled all day, all night, downstairs, upstairs, in each body, in each mind, even in my mind. I knew that, yet I could make sense of none of it.
I ate Bobbi's Pop-Tarts, drank her Dr. Pepper, let the poinsettias go without water, brushed my nature display onto my floor and never noticed when I walked on it, never heard the crunching sounds beneath my feet. I felt like a mess, a wreck. I believed the whole household was falling apart, that the house itself would come tumbling down any second and we'd all be buried in the rubble. For some reason our ship had at last dislodged from the shore and was setting out to sea, gaping hole in the side and all.
But for all the gloom and doom I felt, I didn't see it coming: Mam's little bomb.
She dropped it one night when we were all seated around the dinner table: Bobbi, Jerusha, Susan, Melanie, Ben, Harold, Leon, Larry, Mam, Pap, and me. Everyone was talking at once, as usual. We had finished eating but no one wanted to make the move to start cleaning the dishes, so we were all sitting and talking. I had just decided to excuse myself, which I usually did after Jerusha and I finished my dinner, and return to my room, claiming I had to study for a history test, when Mam banged her knife on the side of her glass and everyone stopped talking and turned to her.
Mam stood up, her face bright, excited, her eyes dancing. "I have some really exciting news to tell you all...," she began.
Pap bopped up and down in his seat. "And I know what it is, and I'm not saying 'cause it's a secret about a Switzerland place."
"Patrick, let me speak."
Pap sat back and said, "I know, but I know what it is. I was just saying that, but I won't tell it"
I could tell Mam was bursting with some kind of news and I wondered if somehow she had entered and won another contest, this time a trip to Switzerland. I didn't have more than a second to wonder, because Mam blurted out, "I'm going to Switzerland!"
Pap clapped his hands and shouted, "Switzerland, yea!"
Mam nodded, tears filling her eyes with excitement "Mike has invited me to go with him. He has a medical convention to attend there and I'm going. I'm going to Switzerland!"
Mam sat down and put her face in her hands and cried. "I can't believe it" She shook her head, her face still buried. "I'm going to see the Alps. I never thought..."
She didn't finish her sentence but burst into heavy sobbing and everyone gathered around to hug her, and she told them of her lifelong dream of traveling, and Pap wanted to know if Mam was happy or sad.
I left the table and went outside to stand on the porch, to breathe fresh air, to think a single, clear thought instead of the ones that were racing through my head like so many molecules unleashed and untamed, heated to the boiling point.
At last one clear thought did emerge: Mam could not go off with Dr. Mike. Whatever it took, I would stop her. I would kill Dr. Mike if I had to. It was as clear and simple as that.
Chapter Eighteen
I KNEW I needed a plan, but I couldn't come up with one. My mind kept imagining ridiculous or dramatic solutions like locking Mam in a closet and blasting away at Dr. Mike with a machine gun from my attic-room window, or standing on the runway, again with the machine gun, and forbidding the plane to take off with Mam on it. I had simpler ideas such as stealing her passport, which, I discovered, she'd gotten weeks earlier, meaning she'd been planning this trip with Dr. Mike a long time. I also thought about calling the travel agent, pretending to be Dr. Mike, and canceling the reservations, but I knew neither of these would be permanent solutions to my problem. The machine gun looked to be my best bet, but I couldn't begin to figure out how I'd go about getting hold of one or, once I did, how I'd actually use it. Still, in my daydreams, I shot down Dr. Mike all over town, at the hospital where he worked, at his and Mam's favorite restaurant, in the middle of an opera, at an art gallery, and the best one, as he was driving up the drive in his slick BMW.
I wanted to talk to Mam, but every time I thought of something to say to her I found I couldn't say it I wanted to say, I refuse to let you go! I wanted to tell her what she was doing was morally wrong; she had a husband. She had me. I wanted to ask, Are you sharing a hotel room? Are you sharing a bed? Just the thought of asking, and worse, the thought of what her answers would be, kept me silent. I wanted to appeal to her practical side or maybe make her feel guilty by asking, What will Pap do all day while you're gone? But she had arranged for Aunt Colleen to take Pap to the Center for his classes. She had everything arranged.
Melanie and Jerusha brought hangers of dress clothes to the house for Mam to try on, clothes from their own homes. Susan lent her a pair of never-worn hiking boots that she claimed pinched her heel, yet she'd never bothered to take them back. Mam said they fit perfectly. She had everything going for her, and I could think of nothing realistic to stop her.
I noticed Mam was avoiding me. I'd try to catch her eye across the table at dinner, but she was too busy passing around books and pamphlets about Switzerland, telling everyone of her plans, and describing the fancy hotel where she'd be staying. She talked fast, hardly taking a breath, not letting anyone get a word in, especially me. The atmosphere in the house had turned festive, more so as the time drew near for her to leave.
All I seemed to be able to do was watch and hover. I found myself following her around when she was home, hoping for a mo
ment alone with her and dreading it at the same time. I hung around outside her bedroom door, my head resting on the side of the door frame while Mam reviewed some of her high school French with Jerusha and Melanie. Both of them, I found out, had traveled all over Europe with their families. In between French dialogues, Mam would go into the bathroom, change into one of Melanie's outfits, and then come out saying " Voilà!" and walking as if she were on a runway. She wore her hair up in what Jerusha called a French twist, and her neck looked long and white, whiter than her face, which had the freckles to give it color. Melanie and Jerusha lounged on Mam and Pap's bed and gave Mam a thumbs-up or -down on each outfit.
I knew Mam saw me standing outside the door, but for the longest time she ignored me. Then she came out in a dark green suit and Jerusha and Melanie applauded and Mam turned this way and that like a model, and looking all proud of herself, she asked me, "JP, what do you think of your mother?" She smiled and held out her arms, still looking not at me but down at the sleeve of her jacket, admiring herself.
I said, "That's a loaded question," and Mam's smile faded. She flashed me a nervous glance, a flush rising up her neck to her face. Then she turned away from me and grabbed another dress. She said to the others, "Let's see if this dazzles." Her smile had returned, and she scurried back into the bathroom.
When Mam had closed the door, Melanie turned her head and said to me, "Can't you ever be happy for anyone? Give your mother a break, JP."
"Hey, why don't you give me a break and go live in your own home for a change?" I said, shifting so I stood in the doorway instead of leaning against it. "You must have the perfect relationship with your parents, right? That's why you stay here all the time"
Jerusha said, "He's right. We can't judge—"
"And I don't need you defending me," I said, cutting her off. "Don't act like you get it. You wouldn't be encouraging her if you understood anything. But nobody here gets it. You're all this kind of free-love, free-living, what's-mine-is-yours people. You wouldn't encourage her if you got it, so spare me, okay?"
I backed away, then turned and headed off to my own room. On the way up the stairs I heard Mam come out and say, "This knit dress shows my tummy bulge. I haven't had a tummy bulge in years. Not since..."
She didn't finish. Jerusha and Melanie were insisting the dress looked great on her, and Mam, encouraged, said, "Yeah? You think so?" And I could hear the delight in her voice.
***
AS THE DAYS passed and it got closer to the time for her to leave I realized I'd never say anything to Mam, never do anything but watch her leave. I stopped trying to seek her out, stopped trying to catch her eye, but sometimes I'd look up and catch her watching me, looking almost sad, or maybe just thoughtful, as if she were wanting to talk to me now. I heard her come up to the third floor once. I recognized her footsteps as she walked halfway down the hallway toward my room, paused, then turned around and went back downstairs.
The day before she was to leave she'd gotten out of work early and sat out on the porch alone, as if she were waiting for me to get home from school I walked up the driveway, back pack hoisted onto one shoulder, and kept my glance downward, pretending I didn't see her rocking on the porch. As I approached the steps, Mam stood up. I didn't look at her but kept moving up the steps.
"JP, can we talk?"
I stopped, and still looking down, shrugged. "What's the use? Will our talking keep you from going to Switzerland with that doctor?"
"No, JP, but I think—"
"Then what's the use?" I adjusted my pack on my shoulder and headed for the door. I thought Mam might stop me, but she let me go. I dragged up the stairs, up to the third floor, and saw Bobbi coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I looked back toward her room and saw Don sitting on the floor, flipping through a magazine. Was he living here, too, now?
I shook my head and Bobbi asked, "What's the matter with you?"
I walked past her into the steaming bathroom and shut the door.
Mam left for Switzerland the next morning. I watched from my bedroom window. Dr. Mike picked her up. Larry and Ben brought out Mam's luggage. The rest of them flocked around Mam, all still in the clothes they'd slept in—none could be called pajamas. I saw Pap hugging Dr. Mike, then hugging Mam, then Harold, then Mam again. He started for Dr. Mike one more time, but Dr. Mike hurried around to the trunk of his car and loaded Mam's luggage into it.
Mam hugged everybody good-bye while Melanie kept adjusting Mam's coat and sweeping her hand across the back of it as if trying to brush something off of Mam's back. Susan handed Mam her purse and opened the car door for her. I felt something lurch inside me and I let out a sound like a sob, or like some wounded animal would make, and I saw Mam stop and look up at my window. I backed away, holding myself against my wall, stiff, not breathing, waiting, and then when I looked again the car was rolling down the drive and everyone was waving good-bye. Pap ran after the car, blowing kisses and following it to the end of the driveway.
Later that day, in school, I got my first B ever on an exam. I looked at it and felt nothing, no panic, no loss, no feeling that my brain was deteriorating. I said to myself, Here it is, this is my life now. I folded the test paper in half and slipped it into my notebook and got up and left the class. The class hadn't ended and the teacher called me back, but I kept walking.
I'd seen other kids walk out in the middle of class over the years and I'd thought they were jerks, losers. I did it and I felt a surge of power, of some kind of freedom I'd never experienced before. I kept walking. It felt good. I walked faster, my eyes fastened on the exit. I reached the doors to the outside and banged through them and walked faster, jogging down the steps, hurrying along the sidewalk, faster, until I was running. I felt my backpack slamming against my back, books jabbing at my spine, and I laughed. My mind had cleared. I understood those kids, those students who had gone before me over the years, who had stood up and walked out the door, slamming it behind them. They weren't losers. They were just taking back what belonged to them. They were taking back control, and that control gave them their freedom. Walking out, running out, felt so good, so free.
I shouted out loud, "I got a B!" And I laughed at the sound of my voice and shouted it again. "I got a B!" I kept running, shouting out words, sentences as I ran. "My mother's in Switzerland, everyone! She's sleeping with the great Dr. Wonderful! Dr. Great! Dr. BMW! Come to my house! Follow me and I'll set you free!" I ran toward home, shouting out anything that came to me. I was in control. I could do whatever I pleased, whatever, whenever, however. I could get Bs on tests, I could get Ds, Fs even. I could skip the tests altogether. I ran through town, past restaurants and Farley's Bookstore, all the way down the road past the playhouse, dodging tourists, shoppers, bums. I ran up and up the steep hill toward our house and I didn't feel tired, just exhilarated. Follow me to my house, where love is free! Sex is free! We're all free!
I stopped when I reached the driveway and stood panting, my arms dangling by my sides, my leg muscles quivering, wasted by the charge up the hill. A picture of the scene with Mam and Dr. Mike riding off in his car flashed through my mind. I shook the thought away and slouched toward the house, dragging up the porch steps and on inside. I could feel the quiet, the stillness, like a presence. I recalled the feeling I had the first time I had been alone in our old house after Grandma Mary died, that empty, desolate feeling. It all came back to me. I crept along the hallway and into the kitchen, half expecting someone to jump out at me from behind a door. I slammed my pack and my notebook down on the kitchen counter, relieved by the noise. I opened and closed a few cabinet doors and swiped at the dish towel hanging from one of the cabinet knobs.
I turned around to face the room, the mess, and remembered the way it had looked the first day we saw it. Then it had been neat and spare, and the wood floors shone and the kitchen fireplace had dried herbs hanging down. Now wet clothes hung in front of the fireplace. Dishes were stacked up on the countertops, cereal boxes left
out on the table, the Mr. Coffee had been left on with half a pot of coffee still in the pot, and coffee stains covered the counter around it like outlines of foreign countries.
I left the kitchen and wandered through the other rooms and found the same mess—clothes strewn about, paint cans with colors drip-dried on their sides, paintbrushes stuck hard to the paper bags they were set on, books, musical instruments—cello, flute, guitar, harmonica, and ukulele—plants of every kind and variety, bottles of wine, beer cans, soda cans, potato-chip bags—some empty, some not—and shoes. Everywhere I went I found shoes. We had beanbag chairs in every color of the rainbow and one huge plaid one that Ben always sat in, and in the living room our latest addition, Ben's huge fish tank I tapped the side of the tank when I walked past, and smiled. Ben had warned us all not to tap the side of the tank I tapped it again.
I wondered where Parakeet had gone. I called her, but she didn't come. Then I remembered, Delveccio had convinced Bobbi to return her to the SPCA. Bobbi returned her on the sly so the rest of us couldn't complain. What Delveccio wanted, Delveccio got.
I stepped outside and stood on the porch, wondering what kind of free thing I could do next Running out of school had felt so good, but coming home and touring the house, I had allowed my old self, my old mood, to creep back. I looked at the cabin at the edge of the woods. Everyone had started calling it Larry's cabin. Jerusha had brought over a box of tools one day and said, "I'll just go put it in Larry's cabin and surprise him." That was it. Everyone called it Larry's cabin after that "I think they're all at Larry's cabin." "Would you go ask Harold if he wants to go to the concert with us? I think he's at Larry's."
I jumped off the porch and jogged out to the cabin. "My cabin," I said. I opened the door, expecting to see more mess, mess that had spilled over from the house—tools everywhere, maybe planks set over the missing floorboards—but the room stood neat and tidy. Larry had repaired the floor and kept it swept clean. I found the broom leaning against the wall beside one of the two windows. He had two boxes of tools set on the floor in the corner and a board he'd attached to the far wall where he hung still more tools. Newspaper had been laid out on the floor beneath this and on top stood another table, this one with a round top, freshly stained, giving the cabin its wood-and-chemicals smell. I ran my hand over the table. The stain had dried. I felt the side rubbed smooth by Larry's sanding, and circled my hand all around the rim. I remember he had bragged about using almost nothing but hand tools to make his table. He went into a long explanation of how he might set up a business creating colonial furniture using only hand tools, and wondering if he should apprentice under someone or just keep teaching himself.