When the aide returned, she said, “Dr. Kramer will be right with you.”
“I know my father said I’m not allowed to see him,” Jonah said. “But my father is wrong. He wants to keep us apart, but I don’t know why!”
Dr. Kramer walked in and said, “Jonah, is that you?”
Jonah took off the cap and the wig and the glasses. I took off my wig too. I waited for her to ask why we had disguised ourselves, but she didn’t.
“Come with me,” Dr. Kramer said. She led us down the hall into an office and shut the door. “Sit down.”
Jonah said, “Where’s my brother?”
“Jonah, please sit down,” Dr. Kramer said.
We sat down. She sat behind the desk, taking cover.
“Your father hasn’t spoken to you?”
“About what?”
My stomach clenched. Something bad was coming.
Dr. Kramer licked her lips and took off her glasses. “Jonah, Matthew is dead.”
The air thickened, so that everything in the room seemed to slow down.
“What are you talking about?” Jonah said. “Dad didn’t say anything—”
“He died two weeks ago,” Dr. Kramer said. “An accident. He choked. On some food. We ground up his food for him, but he was having trouble swallowing, and—”
“He choked on food?” Jonah said. “He choked on food? How could that happen?”
“It’s—I’m afraid it happens to people in your brother’s condition fairly often. He may have had a seizure. We were planning to switch him to a feeding tube soon, if things didn’t improve, but—”
“How could you let him choke?” Jonah said. “How could you let him die in such a stupid way? Wasn’t someone there? Wasn’t someone watching him? Who was taking care of him?”
“The aides are responsible for a lot of patients,” Dr. Kramer said. “They do the best they can.”
Her face looked tight and tired. I wondered how often she had to have these conversations.
“Why didn’t my father tell me?” Jonah said.
“I don’t know,” Dr. Kramer said. “I fully expected he would—”
“That fucking bastard.”
Jonah’s breath came fast and shallow. I reached for his hand. He turned his face to me, his eyes wide with panic. Two frozen ponds. A boy screamed and pounded on the surface, trapped under the ice. Panicking. Trying to break through. But his screams faded, his fists flailed, and he slipped away into the dark. The boy was gone. Nothing left but the ice, clear and smooth enough to skate on.
Jonah pulled his hand from mine and turned back to Dr. Kramer. “Was there a funeral?”
Dr. Kramer shifted in her chair. “Matthew was cremated, at your father’s request. We are still waiting for your father to pick up the remains. I assume he’ll arrange some kind of service—”
“No, he won’t,” Jonah said. “There won’t be any service. Matthew already had a funeral, ten years ago. My father will forget he ever had a son. He’s tried to forget all these years.”
“Jonah, your father made sure that Matthew had the best care possible,” Dr. Kramer said. “He spared no expense—”
“It didn’t cost him much,” Jonah said. “He has plenty of money.”
Tears pressed against the back of my eyes. I wanted to cry, but Jonah wasn’t crying, and it didn’t seem right to cry without him. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out, though. A large tear wriggled out and dripped down my nose. I wiped it away.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Jonah?” Dr. Kramer said. She wasn’t a bad person. She had a hard job. “I’m sorry for your loss. We’re very sad about Matthew. We miss him. I’m afraid there’s not much more I can tell you.”
I stood and helped Jonah to his feet. He was shaking, pale. His legs seemed too weak to hold him.
“One thing. I want Catso.”
“Who?”
“Matthew’s toy cat. Do you still have him? Or did you burn him up too?”
“We have a box of Matthew’s things. I’ll see if it’s in there.” She walked out, leaving us alone in the office.
“Jonah—” I whispered.
“Shh. Don’t talk. Shhhh…”
He trembled and rocked on his feet. A picture of Jesus hung over the desk. His eyes followed me around the room.
Dr. Kramer returned with the box. “Feel free to take whatever you like.”
The box held some clothes, a few pieces of construction paper smeared with fingerpaint, a plastic watch, and Catso. Jonah took Catso and held him under his arm.
“Again, my deepest sympathies.” Dr. Kramer led us to the door.
“Is he going to sue you?” Jonah asked. “Did my father at least threaten to sue for malpractice or negligence or something? He’s a lawyer, you know.”
Dr. Kramer stiffened. “I’m aware of that. He hasn’t made any mention of litigation at this time. I’d be surprised if he did, frankly. He knows as well as I do that he couldn’t win this case. Not with the condition your brother was in.”
“I just thought he might try, for Matthew’s sake,” Jonah said. “Put up a fight or something, you know?” He shook his head. “Stupid.”
Dr. Kramer steered us toward the front hall. “Actually, we parked over this way,” I said, nodding at the side door where Gertie sat, waiting to make a quick getaway.
Dr. Kramer looked puzzled but didn’t bother to ask. “All right. Goodbye.”
We crept down the long, shiny hall like an old couple with arthritis. It took forever to reach the door. An alarm went off when we pushed it open.
“I’ll drive,” I said. Jonah didn’t protest. I helped him into the car. He gripped Catso as if he were afraid the cat would run away.
I parked Gertie in Jonah’s driveway, next to his father’s Mercedes. Jonah fled the car without a word, still clutching Catso.
“Jonah, wait,” I said, but he stalked into the house without looking back. I followed him inside—just to leave the car keys, I told myself, but I was afraid for him.
He’d left the front door open. “Jonah?” I called. No one was in the living room or dining room. “Jonah?” No one in the silent kitchen.
I heard a crash overhead, glass shattering, a thud, and Jonah’s voice.
I ran upstairs and found Jonah in his father’s bedroom, tearing framed pictures off the wall and smashing them on the floor. Mr. Tate stood by the bed in a dress shirt, boxer shorts, and socks, caught in the middle of changing his clothes.
With a sweep of his arm Jonah cleared the top of a dresser. Bottles shattered, change clattered onto the wooden plank floor. He picked up an unbroken bottle of Bay Rhum and smashed it on the dresser, glass showering his feet.
“He’s dead! You liar! You’re a liar! He’s dead AGAIN! Go ahead, lie to me. You’ve hidden him somewhere else this time. Where did you put him? Tell me where!”
Mr. Tate’s face was gray. He caught sight of me lurking in the doorway but said nothing. I knew I shouldn’t be there but I couldn’t leave Jonah like this.
Jonah grabbed his father by the throat. “You’re the one who should be dead! Why aren’t you dead? You hideous, fucking old man—”
Mr. Tate struggled. He fell back on the bed. I grabbed Jonah from behind and tried to pull him off. “Jonah, stop!”
“Get off me!” He shoved me away and I smacked against the wall. His voice was hoarse with rage. He let go of his father and screamed long and loud.
Mr. Tate fumbled for his trousers. “Jonah, calm down. I’m taking you to the hospital.” Then he added to me, “He should be sedated.”
“I’ll take him.” I wrapped my arms around Jonah, half-hug, halfrestraint. He was panting like an animal. “I’ll bring him to my house to calm down. If he needs to go to the hospital, I can take him.”
“Young lady, this is a family matter. Jonah’s not leaving this house with you.”
I squeezed Jonah, trying to hold on to him. “We’ll get out of here soon,” I whispered. “We’ll go to New York
together and forget all this—”
Jonah turned his head and glared at me—the coldest, hardest look I’d ever seen. “You WANT to forget him. You’re glad he’s dead. You hated him!” He broke out of my arms. “Well, I hate YOU,” he roared in my face. “If the whole human race was annihilated and I could save one person, I wouldn’t save ANYONE.”
He fled the room. I ran after him. He flew down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, and through the backyard. He hurdled over the stream that bordered the property and disappeared beyond the houses the next street over. “Jonah!” I shouted, but I couldn’t catch him. I stopped at the edge of the yard, my toes just dipping into the stream.
Mr. Tate stood outside the back door, still in his socks and boxers, holding his pants in one hand, staring at the neighborhood rooftops, as if his son might somehow be up there, slicing through the sky.
I returned to the house. On his legs and hands, blue veins snaked under paper-thin skin.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine. Go home.”
“I’ll help you sweep up the glass in your room.”
“Go away now, young lady. Go home.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back later, once he calms down,” I said.
“I have no doubt.”
I walked slowly away, through the yard, up the driveway, and down the street toward my house. I guess it sounds funny, but I felt sorry for Mr. Tate then. I don’t think he knew he was standing outside in his underwear, or cared. It’s just one little thing I remember. One little thing that made a sad day sadder.
Jonah slipped into his house after midnight. I knew he’d come back because deep into the night I heard Ghost Boy on the radio.
Herb:
Next caller, you’re on the air.
Ghost Boy:
Hello, Herb. This is Ghost Boy.
Herb:
Hello, Ghost Boy. What’s on your mind tonight? I heard your birthday party was quite a bash.
Ghost Boy:
I, um…my brother died. I just wanted to say that somewhere, publicly, out loud. My brother died.
Herb:
I’m very sorry to hear that.
Ghost Boy:
We were twins.
Herb:
Oh no.
Ghost Boy:
It’s my fault. I killed him.
Herb:
What do you mean?
Ghost Boy:
My brother died for me. To save me.
Herb:
How did he die, Ghost Boy?
Ghost Boy:
There wasn’t enough for both of us. When we were babies. Inside our mother. Not enough food or blood or whatever. Only enough to sustain one. So my brother gave his share to me.
Herb:
That doesn’t sound like something you could help. It couldn’t be your fault.
Ghost Boy:
It is, though. Because I’m living, and he’s dead. And I wanted to live. I must have wanted to live pretty badly. I don’t know why, but I did. And my brother gave his life to me before he could even think. That’s generous. Isn’t that generous?
Herb:
It’s very generous. Though I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about.
[The “time’s up” music comes on. Ghost Boy appears not to notice. Herb says nothing.]
Ghost Boy:
I just wanted to say something about him, to shoot his spirit out over the airwaves and see what it will do. Maybe he’ll come to one of you and give you something you need. Help you get rid of the blues, or keep the sun from catching you crying. A lot of you believe in ghosts. I’ve heard you say so. My brother is a ghost now. If he haunts you, you’re lucky.
Herb:
[Silence.]
Ghost Boy:
Good night, Herb. Sweet dreams to you all.
JUNE
CHAPTER 23
The Canton Yodel came out the first Monday in June, followed by a signing frenzy. The seniors spent their free periods scribbling in the halls, their friends’ yearbooks stacked beside them on the floor.
I found AWAE’s yearbook open on a lunch table and peeked at some of the messages. Black Rock!!! Kissing DW at Deep Creek—OMG!
TG + AS caught ifd at Boomer’s!
The notes seemed to be written in code. My classmates had shared their whole lives with each other. You had to be there, and I wasn’t.
Anne Sweeney grabbed my yearbook at Assembly one morning. “Why haven’t you asked me to sign?” she bluntly asked, shoving her book onto my lap. She opened my yearbook to her page—each senior had a page of his or her own—and scribbled across her face in silver gel pen.
Bea,
I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better this year. But thanks for being my faculty brat buddy and Jonah buffer—where were you twelve years ago????
I can tell you’re a good person. You have such a pretty smile— you should use it! Put yourself out there, and you will find more friends—and guys—than you can handle.
Best of luck next year. I’ll miss you!
Kisses xxxooo, Anne
p.s. See you at the pool this summer?
She slapped the book shut. I sat beside her, stumped, her yearbook still open on my lap.
“You haven’t written anything yet!” She flipped to my page. BEATRICE ROSE SZABO bannered across the top in black letters. I’d skipped the traditional yearbook portrait, filling the entire page with my Icelandic hairdresser photo—me styling the Barbie head in Santaland. I limited myself to one quotation, superimposed over the picture: THE WRITTEN WORD IS A LIE—Johnny Rotten. I didn’t know if I believed that, but there it was, baldly stated on my page in black and white. Guess I had to believe it now.
Jonah’s page was next to mine. JONAH MARTIN TATE. A black-and-white photo of a chubby-cheeked three-year-old was centered in plain white and framed with a pen-and-ink design of vines and flowers. There was a quotation under the picture.
Goodbye to them he had to go
—Daniel Johnston, “Casper the Friendly Ghost”
“Why did Jonah put nothing but a baby picture on his page?” Anne said. “Years from now, how will his children know what he looked like in high school?” She tapped the page with her pen. “On the other hand, what are the chances Jonah will ever have children?”
“He’s in some group shots,” I said, flipping to the “Yodel Staff” page. There we were, posing in our hats, masks, and funny glasses. I’d forgotten about that—Jonah’s “concept” for the photo. His face was completely obscured. The caption listed our names, but you couldn’t see most of us clearly enough to identify us.
“Maybe the class photo.” Anne turned to the large group shot of our class, forty of us perched on the hill outside the Upper School door.
All the seniors were present and accounted for and captioned as usual. But Jonah’s face had been cut out of the shot and replaced with a cartoon drawing of Casper.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Anne said. “He defaced our class picture.”
Was there a clear shot of Jonah anywhere in the book? I skimmed through page after page.
“Aw, look.” Anne pointed to a photo of a tiny Anne and tiny Jonah eating graham crackers at a small table. “That’s us in kindergarten.”
Kindergarten, yes, and second grade. But in the entire book there was not a single recent picture of Jonah’s face.
“It’s almost as if he really is a ghost,” Anne said. “You know, like he doesn’t show up on film.”
“But he’s not a ghost,” I said. “He’s not. He’s real.”
“Okay,” Anne said. “Calm down. He’s real. Now sign my yearbook.”
I kept Anne’s yearbook for a while. I needed time to think of something to write.
I read through the signatures Anne had gathered, the nicknames and in-jokes and memories of pranks and good times. The compliments—“You’re so pretty!” “Everyone loves you!” “I’d kill for your eyebrows!”—and promi
ses—“We have have HAVE to keep in touch! Come visit me in Snoozeville Ohio and we’ll rip it up!”
What could I write to Anne? What could I say that would mean something? That I wouldn’t be embarrassed to read twenty years from now?
I thought about Anne, the kind of person she was. We weren’t really friends, but she’d been friendly to me. She’d tried. And in a funny way, I felt related to her. Our parents’ friendship—her mother, my father—linked us. And she was going to Cornell, in Ithaca, the town I’d escaped less than a year before.
Dear Anne,
Thanks for noticing me, and for trying to teach me the ways of the Cantonites. Sorry I was such a lousy pupil. I appreciate the effort, though. I really do. Best of luck in college next year. You’ll love Ithaca. It gets cold, but it’s beautiful.
Beatrice
p.s. Watch out for the gorges.
Anne and I traded yearbooks at lunchtime. “Someone asked to write in your book, so I let him,” Anne said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
I flipped through my book until I found the page she meant: WALTER MINTON CARREY.
Walt’s page was very traditional, dominated by the classic year-book portrait, his unruly hair parted, combed, and flattened. His freckly face. His lopsided smile. He looked like a happy person.
Beneath the portrait, two smaller shots: Walt in full Canton lacrosse gear, mid-game, shooting a goal; and Walt on a bike as a ten-year-old with a younger girl who must have been his sister. He quoted Charles Dickens (“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”—so hokey) and, to my surprise, Emily Dickinson.