Too Soon for Jeff

by Marilyn Reynolds

  When I was eleven my mom almost married a guy from Vermont. This is a whole other story, but anyway we stayed with him for the month of February. Everything was a big hassle. I had to spend hours getting dressed just to go to the corner market—gloves, boots, hat, the works. None of this jeans, tee shirt and sneaker stuff there. And half the time you couldn’t even go anywhere because of snow or ice or a storm. I hated it. (The guy we were staying with wasn’t so great, either. Luckily, Mom figured that out.)

  After work, Mom is waiting for me in the parking lot. “Come on. I want to talk to you,” she says.

  She still looks kind of mad. We go to a restaurant where we usually have a good time. It’s this Chinese place where we get tons of food for not much money. As soon as we sit down she starts. I can tell this is not going to be fun.

  “I am very upset with you, Jeffrey, to think you would get so drunk—that in the first place—but then that you would drive?”

  “Mom, I didn’t drive,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  “Yes, but you would have. It’s the same thing.”

  “What makes you think I would have driven?”

  “According to the rangers, your friends were in no better shape than you were. Besides, Jeremy doesn’t have a license yet and Benny sober is a menace to public safety when he gets behind the wheel of a car. How were you planning to get home, if not to drive?”

  “I don’t know, but at least I didn’t drive.”

  “And I don’t like you hanging around with Benny Dominguez anymore, either.”

  “What’s wrong with Benny? You always act like you like him. Whenever he comes to the house you give him a hug, tell him to come back more often. Now all of a sudden you don’t like him?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. How can anyone not like Benny? He makes me laugh. He’s always been a sweet­heart as far as I’m concerned.”

  “So what’s your problem with Benny?”

  “Come on, Jeff. I don’t live under a rock. I see him with that bunch of hoodlums that hang out down by the liquor store, over there on Seventh Street, whenever I drive past there on the way to or from the hospital. School hours, midnight, it doesn’t matter, he’s there looking tough.”

  “So, what’s that got to do with me? You don’t see me down on Seventh Street, do you?”

  “No. But I’ve done my Emergency Room internship and I’ve seen kids who look just like Benny, same dress, same posture, being brought into Emergency, bleeding to death from gunshot wounds. And maybe they were the target, or maybe they were next to the target, or maybe they were playing pool in the target’s garage, for god’s sakes. At least have sense enough to stay away from Benny and his homeboys.”

  I didn’t know anyone could get as much sarcasm into any one word as my mom just put into “homeboys.”

  When she finishes talking about what a fool I was last night, and what a fool I am to hang around with Benny, she starts on the whole pregnancy thing—how disappointed she is, how I’m ruining my future and Christy’s future, too.

  I eat my kung pao chicken and listen. Not only am I messing up for me and Christy, she talks like I’m messing up for her, too—she says how she can’t get her paper done because Christy’s there watching TV all the time, and how she can’t concentrate on what she needs to learn for mid­term exams. She says, “I’ve worked hard to get this far in school. I take my opportunities seriously, even if you don’t.”

  “But I do, Mom. I’m working really hard in debate, so I can qualify for the Brooker University scholarship.”

  She sighs. “I don’t know how you think you’ll go off to school with all the responsibilities that go with being a father.”

  We both poke at our food, not eating, not talking. Then Mom says, “You know how much I love you, Jeff, and how much I want you to finish your education. But your little baby is going to need a lot of care. And I’m not willing to take that on. I’ve already told you that, and I mean it. Just as I finally get to a spot where I can do the kind of work I’ve always wanted—I’m not going to sacrifice a nursing career to be a full-time grandmother. I’m sorry.”

  “Mom! No one is asking you to sacrifice anything,” I say.

  “No, but I don’t see any plan for this new baby. Christy says how much she already loves her little unborn baby, but I don’t hear her saying anything about taking care of it, or supporting it, or working things out so she can finish school after it’s born. It’s like she’s pregnant with a doll.”

  “I’m hoping she’ll consider adoption,” I say.

  “I wish she would,” Mom says. “But I don’t believe that will happen. Christy and I have had a lot of talks since she’s been staying at our place. I think she wants this baby very much. But I’m telling you, Jeff, I see these grandmothers, starting all over again with their baby’s babies. I want you to understand, I can’t do it. I just can’t!”

  And then she starts crying. Maybe I’m a coward, or embarrassed, I don’t know, but I have to leave. Besides, the way my luck’s been going, I’m afraid to see what the fortune cookie might say. I walk back to the Fitness Club where my car is still parked, then drive home and grab some clothes and my books.

  “What are you doing?” Christy says as I walk past her back toward the door.

  “Going back to Steve’s.”

  “Come talk,” she says in this kind of pleading voice.

  “I’ve had enough talk for one day,” I say.

  “I don’t get you,” she yells after me. “You’re all lovey-dovey one minute and then next you’re the iceman!”

  “I don’t get you, either,” I yell back without stopping. “You’re on the pill one month and pregnant the next!”

  Steve isn’t home, so I use the key from under the mat. I get blankets and a pillow and flop down on the sofa. What a day. What a week. What now?

  Chapter

  9

  It feels strange to be staying at my uncle’s house. I’ve stayed with him often, but never for more than one or two days at a time. But now, I’ve got my clothes hanging in his den closet, and he’s moved a camp cot inside so I won’t have to sleep with my feet hanging over the end of the couch. I’ve been here for three weeks. My mom wants me to come home, but I’m not going to do it until Christy finds some­where else to stay.

  See, if I go back to my house, and my mom is out or already in bed, and Christy puts her arms around me, fresh from the shower and nothing on under her big, old tee shirt, I know what will happen. And then it will be like we’re together, and we’re having a baby together. And everything is so cute. I don’t want that. So I’m at Steve’s. When I first came here it was because my mom and I weren’t getting along. But when he told me I could stay for a while, it seemed like a good idea, more because of Christy than because of my mom.

  Sometimes, when I get out of school, or work, I find myself on Columbus Street, like I’ve been on automatic pilot and I’ve forgotten I don’t live there right now. Then I turn around and go back to Steve’s apartment.

  I’ve told Christy I want some time to think things through, and I can’t be with her right now. She said she hated me, but then two days later there was a note on my windshield saying she needed me to take her to her next doctor’s appointment.

  Saturday morning someone is banging on the door before I’m out of bed. I hear Steve stirring around so I stay in bed, listening. It’s Mom.

  “Hey, Karen. What brings you out so early?”

  “Life,” she says.

  I hear them walking toward the kitchen, then hear the sounds of coffee being prepared. I’m in the camp bed, in the den, with the door closed, but Steve’s apartment wasn’t built for privacy and I can hear everything he and Mom are saying.

  “What are you up to today, Steve?”

  “Errands, grocery shopping, Saturday things. I may go to a movie this afternoon. Wanna join me?”

  “No, thanks. But could I take refuge in your bedroom or kitchen or somewhere quiet? I can’t seem
to study at home anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Steve. Christy’s there most of the time, watching TV. I swear if I hear one more piece of corny soap opera dialogue, I’m going to throw my iron skillet through the TV screen.”

  “Doesn’t she do anything besides watch TV?”

  “She eats. I feel sorry for her—sixteen, she’s pregnant, her dad’s kicked her out, and her boyfriend doesn’t want anything more to do with her. Basically, she’s a nice kid, but she’s . . . well . . . underfoot.”

  “How much longer do you think she’ll be with you?”

  “I hope not much longer, but what can I do? She has nowhere else to go. It’s funny. Ever since I first met her, she’s told me how nice it is to be in a house where people get along and aren’t always yelling at each other, and now, there she is, moved in.”

  “Do you think she wants to stay there indefinitely?” Steve asks.

  “Maybe. She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. And now her mother, Olga, is over at my place half the time, too, crying, saying she misses her, she wants her home. I’m afraid they’re both going to end up living with me. And I miss Jeff, but he won’t come home while she’s there. Can I come stay with you?”

  They both laugh. They’ve got this strange brother/sister thing where they laugh alike, and they laugh at all the same stuff.

  I lie there on the cot, thinking back to the last Labor Day barbeque we had in our backyard. My mom always does a back-to-school barbeque. Christy, Stacy, Jeremy and Benny were all there. Uncle Steve fixed the hamburgers and a bunch of my mom’s friends from work came and brought food. After dinner we all played kick-the-can, like a bunch of little kids. Then, at nine o’clock, Christy’s dad called and demanded she come straight home.

  “Why does he have to be like that?” she’d said. “He’s mad because he wanted me home at eight-thirty. He says I’m grounded for two weeks.” Then she’d started to cry. “I’d give anything to have a family like yours and to live where people care about each other and they don’t fight all the time. Anything,” she’d said.

  I turn my attention back to the conversation that is drifting through the wall.

  “Christy may be basically a nice kid. I think she is. But she sure tricked Jeff, don’t you think?” Steve asked.

  “Probably. But how could he be so goddamned stupid?” Mom said, sounding very angry.

  “Karen, you’ve got to forgive him. He made a mistake.”

  “I know. I know. I’m trying. But he’s got so much ahead of him—the scholarship, and he’s so good at so many things. He’s always had such a good heart. The only trouble he’s ever given me was about mowing the lawn. Really, Steve, the whole world was opening before him, and now what? His prospects have shrunk like wool in a hot dryer.”

  I can’t lie here listening anymore. I get up and walk into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes as if I’ve just awakened. Mom stands up and hugs me. I hug her back, hard.

  “I miss you, Jeffie. Come home,” she says.

  “I can’t, Mom. Not yet.”

  Thursday afternoon I take Christy to the doctor. She wants me to come in with her, listen to the baby’s heart through this special kind of stethoscope thing, but I don’t want to. I’m only taking her because there’s no one else to do it and I feel guilty. I wait in the car, in the parking lot, and watch people come and go. Some of the women who go in there are huge, and they waddle, like ducks. I wonder if Christy will get like that.

  After about two hours Christy comes walking out, all smiles.

  “Everything’s fine,” she says. “I have to start taking these iron pills, but that’s maybe because I haven’t been eating right.”

  I sit there looking at her. She seems happy. How can she be happy?

  “Hey, Christy. I’ve been talking with my Uncle Steve about adoption. He says there are lots of people who can’t have kids and who can offer great homes to babies. What do you think?”

  Christy’s smile fades. “I think you’re an idiot! I always looked up to you so, but you’re a person with no heart. How could you want to give our baby to strangers, and never ever see it again? What kind of person are you, anyway?”

  “I just thought it would be a good idea. We can’t take care of it, give it to someone who can.”

  “This is a little person, Jeff, not a baby kitten.”

  “I can get some information. Would you at least think

  about it?”

  “I don’t want your information!”

  “But what are you going to do? How will you support it? What kind of life will it have? What about college?”

  “I don’t care about college right now. Okay?”

  “Okay, Christy. Okay. But I’m not in this with you. I’m not going to play house with you. I’m going to live my life.”

  “Get me pregnant and run out! That’s the kind of person you are!”

  “You got you pregnant!”

  “Ha! How could I do that?”

  “By pretending to be on the pill!”

  “You don’t know anything!”

  “I know I don’t want a baby! I know I want a free life! I know I don’t want to be with you anymore!”

  Well . . . it’s not the way I’d planned to say it, but it’s out. Christy turns her head away from me. I drive her back to my house. Neither of us speaks until I turn into the driveway.

  “Wait just a minute,” she says. “I’m going to get my things and go home.”

  “But Christy . . .”

  She opens the door with the extra key my mom gave her. She goes to my room where I guess she’s been staying. Clothes, shampoo, books, all are stuffed into three grocery bags which we then carry to the car.

  “What about your dad?” I say.

  “My mother told me a few days ago that he wants me to come home.”

  “Really? Does my mom know?”

  “No . . .” She looks as if she might say more. I wait for more explanation, but none comes. I drive her home and help carry in the shopping bags. Her mother runs from the kitchen, throws her arms around Christy and welcomes her home. I think she welcomes her home—she is speaking Spanish, but it seems like a welcome. Her dad sits in his chair, in front of the TV, watching Christy and her mom.

  Neither of them speak to me.

  Maria comes in from the kitchen and says to Christy, “Don’t think you’re getting your old room back!”

  I leave. A sense of freedom comes over me as I drive away—lonely freedom.

  Chapter

  10

  The day after Christy and I officially break up is the day I’m scheduled to do my dramatic interpretation piece in the debate class. This is one of the two events that will get me to nationals. And nationals will get me the Brooker University scholarship. I don’t have to win anything in the national tournament, I just have to qualify and compete.

  “Ready, Jeff?” Mr. Rogers says, just after I walk in.

  “Now?”

  “Might as well.”

  I wait until the bell rings, then stand at the front of the classroom, waiting for silence. I don’t let my eyes wander to the place in the room where I know Christy is sitting. I begin:

  “I told my father not to worry, that love is what matters, and that in the end, when he is loosed from his body, he can look back and say without blinking that he did all right by me, his son, and that I loved him . . .”

  From the short story, “The Year of Getting to Know Us,” by Ethan Canin . . .

  I can feel it. The introduction, the cut, the blend of humor and sadness—it all works and, for the purpose of this D.I., I become the character, Leonard, from the short story, whose dad hardly knows him, hardly cares. When I finish, I stand very still making the transition from Leonard back to myself.

  “Great, Jeff,” Mr. Rogers says. “It’s an unusual choice, but I think that’s to your advantage for this tournament—Comments?”

  I stand, waiting. This is the time people say, �
�I really liked how you used your hands . . .” or “Great voice distinction between characters . . .” or “Wow!”

  I know I got it right. I’m jazzed! I can see it in Roger’s face, too. But when I look at the other faces, no one is even looking at me, except Jeremy.

  “Hey, what goes here?” Mr. Rogers says. “How about giving this guy a little feedback?”

  “Cassie? . . . Dashan? . . . Patrick?” Mr. Rogers calls on the kids who always have something to say, but this time they don’t.

  No one looks up. Kim leans forward, whispers some­thing to Christy, and pats her on the shoulder. Christy smiles a weak-looking smile and suddenly, I get it. I am the bad guy. No one’s saying anything because they don’t want to be nice to me.

  Mr. Rogers is standing there, looking puzzled, but I’m not puzzled. Inside my head I’m screaming “It’s not my fault!” But outside, I’m cool, still waiting for someone to say something. No one does. Okay. Okay. I don’t need them. I grab my books and hurry out of the room.

  The weekend after Christy moves back to her house, I move back to mine. It’s good to be home, sleeping in my own soft bed, listening to my own private stereo. Nothing against my Uncle Steve’s taste in music—he’s got a right to like what he likes, but I don’t think I could take one more playing of that country-western dude singing about how he’s got friends in low places, especially not with Steve singing along.

  When Steve first played that song for me, I thought it was kind of clever. But that was a long time ago, and he still plays it all the time. Last week I told him, give it a rest, but he reminded me that it was his stereo, and his apartment. Anyway, it’s good to be home, and listening to a little Pearl Jam, and some old-time classic rock.

  I guess the music I first noticed was stuff like The Beatles, The Who, The Rolling Stones. That’s what my mom used to play when I was a little, little kid. She’d dance me around, both of us laughing, to “It’s a Hard Day’s Night,” and “Eleanor Rigby.”

  My grandma thinks Elvis is king, but maybe she didn’t dance me around to him enough, or something, because I don’t really enjoy listening to him. Now my mom listens to New Wave, which pretty much puts me to sleep. But I still like the old stuff I cut my teeth on.