Deacon Locke Went to Prom

  “Sometimes it helps to talk.”

  I turn to her and half smile. “My girlfriend. I thought things were great, but she tells me she can’t handle the long-distance thing. We just broke up.”

  Regina looks indignant. “You’re kidding me! She really gave you up because you have to go away for a little while?”

  Well, I also started getting in fights and attacking her friends and there were some rumors about me and another girl. “It’s complicated,” I say with a shrug.

  “I’m serious, Deacon!” she yelps. “A lot of girls would be happy to go out with you, and be proud to see you on TV. If she’s too stupid to see that, then screw her!”

  I almost leap to Soraya’s defense, before I remember I have no reason to defend her anymore. Not really. “It is what it is.”

  “Listen to me. You shouldn’t waste time on a girl who’s not proud of you.” She scoots closer to me, close enough that our shoulders are touching. I don’t move away. I don’t move when she lays her hand on my knee.

  “Did you drive your friends here?” she asks after a minute.

  “No, they drove me.”

  “I have my car here. Want to go for a ride?”

  I shrug. “To where?”

  She kicks the wall with the back of her feet. “Wherever. We could go out to the country and look at the stars, maybe.”

  Even I recognize what a total line that is. It’s no wonder, I’ve used it myself. I turn to Regina and smile. “No, thank you.”

  She smiles, but I can see she looks a little hurt. A girl that pretty, she’s probably not used to guys not being interested. At least, guys who aren’t totally screwed up in the head.

  “Well, maybe some other time. Are you ready to go back inside?”

  I shake my head. “Why don’t you go on in. I’ll come later.”

  “Oh.” She pauses, as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I don’t move, she returns to the club.

  I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I go with her?

  Because I’m still hung up on Soraya. And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

  That’s my problem, isn’t it? I can never move on. That’s why I’m not excited about doing the dance show, or going to California, or trying to have fun. It’s because I don’t want things to change.

  I want a grandmother who’s still at the top of her game. I want a girlfriend who likes street fairs and pigs. I want to go out and not be filmed.

  My father abandoned everything, including his own son, seeking fortune and pleasure. Me, I get it dumped in my lap and I complain about it.

  Am I really that different from him?

  I see Elijah and Clara leave a couple of hours later. They’re laughing and holding on to each other, and I’m almost embarrassed to call out to them.

  “Holy crap, Deacon!” says Elijah. “We thought you left. Figured you’d met some girl and . . . well, my mistake.”

  I nod. “Let’s go.”

  During the ride, Clara alternates between snuggling with Elijah and jabbing him in the ribs as he attempts to drive with one hand.

  I wonder if I’ll ever have a girl to physically abuse me.

  As we pull down the country road that leads to my house, Elijah addresses me over his shoulder.

  “Deacon? You wanna come over to my place tomorrow? It’s movie night.”

  I don’t feel like socializing. “Maybe some other time.”

  “You sure? Missing My Lady just came out on DVD, and I hear it’s really scary.”

  Yikes. “No thank you.”

  As we pull into my driveway, Clara turns in her seat. “You know, my cousin Janine is going to be there. She likes to dance.”

  “I said no.” I say this rather forcefully. Clara quickly turns around.

  Elijah parks. He’s still looking forward, but I can see his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror when I open the door. They don’t look happy.

  “See ya, Deke. Say hi to the beautiful people for us.”

  I pause, wondering if I should try to defend myself. “Knock it off, Elijah. I’ve had a rough week.”

  “Yeah.” He waves to me with his broken arm and pulls off down the driveway.

  I slump my way to the house. The lights are all off. I haven’t talked to Jean since she yelled at me yesterday. Not that I’m angry or afraid. It’s just that I’m . . .

  Okay, angry and afraid. I’m scared that the next time I talk to her, she’ll be confused again.

  Why the hell did I sign that contract?

  There’s no movement in the house and I sneak upstairs unnoticed. I lie in my empty cell of a room and stare at the ceiling.

  Is this what life in Los Angeles is going to be like? A hotel room, night after night, worrying about Jean and wondering about Soraya, while everyone else is having fun?

  I need to turn off my brain. I need to not think at all. Too bad I don’t have a television in here.

  I don’t have anything in here to distract me, not even a radio. I usually only go up here to sleep. I spend most of my time downstairs with Jean.

  My phone is dead, and it’s only brought me misery recently anyway. I rub my forehead. Is there anything to read up here? I check my desk, but only find that old stack of letters from my grandfather.

  Actually, that might do the trick. His puerile descriptions of the food and his socks might help me take my mind off my problems. I take some letters off the bottom of the pile.

  Dear Jean,

  I’m shipping out tomorrow. I’ll be in California for a few days, then Saigon. After that, I’m not sure. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.

  Jean, I’ve never been so scared in my life. The guys are talking about how rough things get over there.

  I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want to die.

  I wish I could come home to you. I wish we could go swimming and ride the horses and go cruising. I wish I could hold you.

  I’m sorry I can’t come home for your dance. All leave has been canceled. I’m sorry, I really would like to see you before I ship out.

  I need you to know that there’s a very real chance that I might not come back. I hope that’s not the case. I know we always talked about getting married, but I need you to know that I was serious. I always saw you in my future. I’ve always loved you. I always will.

  If the worst should happen, please look in after my parents.

  I may not be able to write for a while.

  All my love,

  Howard

  Jesus.

  I wasn’t expecting that. I gently replace the letter. I don’t want to read the ones from Vietnam.

  The poor bastard. He didn’t want to go to war. I mean, I guess none of them really wanted to go. Most of them had no choice.

  I walk to the window and stare out at the dark night, broken by the lights from the country club down the road.

  I do have choices. And it’s time I started acting like it.

  Jean’s doctor’s appointment is next week. I’m going to tell her about it tomorrow. And she’s going to go, even if I have to carry her. I’m going to let her physician know exactly what’s been going on. I’ll insist on an honest diagnosis. And if he tells me she’s not okay, I’ll use his word to get out of Delaney’s stupid contract. He can sue me if he’d like, I’ve got nothing.

  If the doctor says Jean will be okay . . . then I’ll go to California. And I’ll try my damnedest to win. I’ll have fun. I’ll go home and see Jean when I can. And I’ll start college in the winter.

  And no matter what happens, I’m going to make things right with Soraya (Elijah and Kelli, too, though they can wait). Maybe it’ll happen before I leave. Maybe when I get back and we’re in school together.

  I don’t want her to think of me as a regret.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING MUCH LATER THAN I intend to. While it would be nice to go back to bed for another couple of days, I know that it’s time to get up and face my problems. First things first, I need to
tell Jean about her doctor’s appointment.

  As I go downstairs, I’m surprised not to smell bacon. I can’t recall the last time she didn’t cook us a big breakfast on the weekend, though after the fire the other day, we may be having Pop-Tarts.

  “Jean?”

  No answer. Did she go out? She almost never leaves without telling me. I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling.

  And then someone punches me in the back of the head.

  It’s not a strong punch. I barely feel it. But it’s so unexpected that I stagger. Someone just assaulted me in my own home. Someone who is about to have their face busted.

  I turn.

  It’s Jean.

  I would love to believe this was just some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe she was trying to get my attention or something and misjudged. But just looking at her, I know this isn’t the case.

  She’s still dressed in her pajamas. She’s not wearing makeup. Her hair is disheveled and uncombed. None of this is remotely like Jean. But that’s not what scares me.

  It’s the look in her eyes. Something I’ve never seen before. I see fear. I see rage. I see anger. And she’s directing it at me.

  “Jean?”

  Her hand snakes out. Her nails rake me across the cheek.

  “Get out!” she hisses, in an unworldly voice I’ve never heard before. This terrifies me more than her violence.

  “What are you doing? Stop that!”

  Her fist flies, catching me in the chin. There’s no pain, but still I fall back.

  “Get out of my house! Leave, right now!” She grabs a knickknack from a side table and hurls it at me. She misses by a mile.

  What has brought this on? I try to think of what could have made her so mad . . . but I already know. I’ve known for months. It’s nothing that I’ve done. And nothing I can correct.

  Jean—or the thing in front of me that looks like Jean—strikes at me again. She connects to my lip. I taste blood.

  She’s yelling at me, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I’m yelling too. Begging her to stop, to look at me, to come back.

  Neither of us understands the other one. Jean begins pummeling me with her tiny fists. It hurts . . . and not just on the outside.

  I’m backed against a wall. I don’t know what to do. I can’t fight her, I can’t leave her alone like this, and I can’t even restrain her. I might break her.

  “Jean, it’s me, Deacon! Stop!”

  “You’re not Deacon! Get out of my house! Get out! Get . . .”

  The punches come harder and faster. All I can do is guard my face. I have to get out of here before she ends up hurting herself, attacking me like this. I have to . . .

  She’s stopped. She’s staring at me. Tears fill her eyes. She’s breathing rapidly.

  “Jean?”

  She turns and rushes toward her bedroom. I take a step after her, then stop.

  I hear her door slam.

  Gingerly, gingerly, I follow. I silently sit down in front of her bedroom.

  Jean is sick. And I knew it. I saw how confused and frightened Jean was getting, but I didn’t do anything. I wouldn’t take her to urgent care. I never forced her to discuss things with me. Because if I didn’t say anything, then I wouldn’t have to face it, would I?

  I was too scared. Scared that she’d have to go away, that I’d lose her.

  Deacon, the little boy who was too frightened to do anything himself.

  I press my ear to Jean’s door. I can hear her softly sobbing.

  Not a bad idea. But later.

  I call her doctor, but it’s the weekend and I only get a recording.

  “If you have an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. . . .”

  Am I that desperate? If a bunch of EMTs show up at our house, won’t that just freak her out even more?

  But who else can I call? Not Elijah. And not one of Jean’s elderly friends. God, who else do I know? Who else does Jean know?

  The answer, of course, is obvious.

  With trembling hands, I dial Soraya. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message.

  “Soraya? It’s Deacon. Jean is having some kind of attack. She doesn’t recognize me. She hit me. I . . . I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem, but Jean likes you. Maybe she’d recognize you. I . . . look. If you could come by . . . please. Please.”

  I hang up.

  Soraya calls back in two minutes.

  “Stay with her. I’ll be right over.”

  I stand in front of Jean’s door the whole time I’m waiting. I knock a few times, but there’s no answer. Part of me wants to just bust the door down, while the rest of me wants to collapse, sobbing.

  Soraya arrives seven minutes after I talk to her. She rushes into the house without ringing.

  “Deacon.” She takes my hand and squeezes my wrist as she looks sadly up at me. And just for a moment, I feel a little stronger, a little better.

  A little.

  She turns to the bedroom door. “Jean?” she calls. “Jean, it’s Soraya Shadee. From dance class at the YMCA. I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”

  There’s no answer. What is she doing in there? What if she’s hurt? I’m about to knock again when the knob starts to turn. The door opens just a crack. I can’t see into the bedroom. Soraya slips in and closes the door behind her.

  I wait in the hall for over an hour, my back against the wall and my arms around my knees.

  What are they talking about? Why will Jean speak to Soraya and not me?

  Maybe because I’m a shitty grandson. I can’t believe I even considered being on that stupid TV show. I can’t believe I didn’t realize how sick Jean was.

  Solitude is not my friend. I begin replaying scenes from my life with Jean. I remember a thousand times that I was inconsiderate and rude and just plain mean. Why did I always slam the screen door? How come I didn’t help around the house more? Why didn’t I encourage her art?

  I’m at the point of kicking the door off its hinges when Soraya comes out of the bedroom. She silently motions me to the kitchen.

  “How is she?” I ask in a whisper.

  She shakes her head. “Not good. I’m sorry, Deacon. I didn’t realize things had gotten this bad.”

  I rap my knuckles against the counter. “I knew it. But I kept telling myself that I was just being overprotective. That Jean would be okay if I didn’t think about it.”

  Soraya goes to the fridge and takes out a jug of lemonade. Jean’s lemonade. The special, extra-tart kind. She pours us both a glass.

  “You know what has to be done, don’t you?”

  I can’t look her in the eye. “I’m going to talk to her doctor next week.”

  Soraya stands beside me. “She needs to go to the hospital. Today.”

  “But . . . what if they . . .” My voice cracks. “What if they keep her?”

  She looks grim. “You may have to face that possibility.”

  “Like hell I do! She can stay here. I can watch out for her.”

  “Deacon . . .”

  “You’ll see! She took care of me, now I’ll take care of her.”

  “How did you get those scratches on your face?” she asks evenly.

  “Jean was upset. But you know what? I don’t care! She can’t do anything to me, she weighs like ninety pounds.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. You’re built like a wall. If she comes smashing into you, she’s the one who’s going to be injured.”

  I remember how I let Jean whale on me, for fear I might accidentally hurt her.

  “It won’t come to that.”

  She shakes her head. “What if she needs special equipment? What if she needs someone to help bathe and dress her?”

  “Quit trying to turn her into some kind of helpless baby! And if she needs all that, I’ll get it! I’ll hire someone! I’ll get Clara to install equipment we need! You watch, I’ll turn this house into a place dedicated to Jean. Somewhere we can take care of
her and watch out for her and . . .”

  I suddenly shut up, realizing what sort of home I’m describing.

  Soraya, I think, realizes she’s won the argument but takes no pleasure in it.

  My hand shakes hard enough to spill some of my drink. “Maybe if we waited a few days . . .”

  “Deacon. The ambulance is on its way.”

  I take a step away from her. “You had no right!”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t call them. Jean did. She was scared and confused and was afraid she might end up hurting you. I think she knew that it was going to come to this sooner or later.”

  “But why an ambulance? I would have driven her!”

  “No. You would have come up with some excuse.”

  I can’t believe what is happening. I call Soraya over here for help, and she lets Jean do something like this. I’m so furious I want to scream. I want to break something. I grab the glass lemonade jug and prepare to smash it to the floor. I stop myself just in time.

  “It’s okay,” says Soraya. “Do it. It’ll make you feel better.”

  It’s hard to be violently angry when someone gives you permission. I set the pitcher back on the counter, where it promptly slips out of my hand and dumps its contents everywhere.

  I stare at the sticky puddle as it drips onto the linoleum.

  “I hate everything.”

  Soraya grabs some dish towels. “Deacon, Jean made that call ten minutes ago. Why don’t you go talk to her?”

  Go talk to her while I still have time. Before they come and take my grandmother away.

  I want to take Soraya with me. I want her to do the talking. I want someone else to take care of everything.

  But those days are over. I go to Jean’s bedroom and knock.

  “Come in, Deacon.”

  I expect to find her disheveled and confused, so I’m happy to see her fully dressed and made up, her hair perfect. Is this what they were doing this whole time while I was going through hell waiting? Playing beauty salon?

  Jean sits on her bed, her travel bag next to her.

  “Sit with me, honey.”

  I sit.

  “I have to go away for a while.”

  Nausea sweeps through my body. “We don’t know that. Let’s wait and—”