by Merry Jones
Although the bus driver had done nothing for Tommy.
And there it was again, the memory. Nora had waited at the bus stop to tell the driver about the books, out of breath from racing her bike uphill.
The bus doors folded open and the driver yelled, “No more roughhousing, you two. Next time, you’ll walk home, the both of you.”
And, oh God, Tommy tumbled out backwards into the street, landing on his butt and scuttling backwards like a panicked crab as Craig Troeschler jumped off and followed after him, swinging Tommy’s empty backpack. Tommy raised his hands, protecting his head. The doors closed and the bus chugged away with a dozen noses pressed against the windows.
Nora tried to stop remembering. She concentrated on the parking lot. On the yellow Volkswagen door opening for a girl about seven years old, dressed in magenta and white striped leggings and an orange tie-dyed tank top. Focus on those stripes, Nora told herself. On colors and patterns. On mismatched clothes. Or cars. But while the Volkswagen’s door closed, her memory played on, and Craig’s voice boomed at Tommy.
“Don’t ever take my seat again! Hear me, you sorry piece of shit? Next time you see me standing on the bus, what are you going to do?”
Craig whapped the backpack at Tommy’s hands and head, and Tommy turned away, dodging and cowering. His face flushed crimson, even darker where black fuzz grew in unshaven patches along his jaw.
Tommy muttered something.
“What? I didn’t hear you.” Craig’s grin gleamed, vicious. He kept swinging the canvas bag.
“I said I’ll get up and give you the seat.” Tommy hunched, arms protecting his head.
“You’ll give me the seat?” Slap. “What else will you do?” Whap. “Say it.”
“I’ll go away.”
“Wrong!” Craig bent over him, growling. “What will you do?”
“Crawl. I’ll crawl away.” Tommy’s voice was husky. A swallowed sob.
Craig stopped smacking and jeered. “That’s right, crybaby douchebag. You’ll get on the ground with the rest of the dirt and crawl out of my sight.” He threw the book bag at him, spit at the ground, and sauntered off across the street.
Toward Nora.
Nora didn’t move, couldn’t. What had just happened? Craig Troeschler was an older kid who lived in a red brick house up the street. What did he have against Tommy? And the driver—he and all the other kids on the bus must have seen what Craig was doing. Why hadn’t they stopped him? Unless—
The realization hit like a slap. It appeared like a rewind, like scattered shards unshattering and reconnecting into an unbroken whole. In a short, silent moment, Nora knew that the game she’d seen on the bus hadn’t been catch. It had been kids playing keep-away with Tommy’s books, tossing them back and forth and, finally, out the window.
It was why he hid in his room and never invited anyone over. Why he slunk around without making a sound. She’d known he wasn’t popular or cool. But the truth was far worse: Tommy, her big brother, was the brunt of jokes. He was a wimp who got bullied. A loser. A freak.
Nora’s whole body went numb. She wished she hadn’t seen what happened. It wasn’t her business. She wasn’t part of it, had nothing to do with it, had stumbled into it by chance. What should she have done? Intervene? Stand up for her older brother and confront an even older, bigger Craig who had just acted meaner than anyone she’d ever seen before, who even on that warm spring day was wearing a black biker leather jacket that matched his greased-back shoe-polish-black hair? Nora didn’t know what her role should be, how she should act, so she did nothing. Even when Craig walked right up to her, standing at the bus stop with her bike, she said nothing. For a flickering heartbeat, she thought, oh God, he was going to pick on her for just standing there, witnessing, or for being Tommy’s sister. Did he know she was his sister? But he passed her by without the merest glimpse, not even a grunt.
Tommy looked up, then, probably to make sure Craig was gone. For an endless, permanent, never-to-be-forgotten moment, brother and sister stared at each other in silent recognition of Tommy’s humiliation, his perpetual victimization, his tormented hopelessness. When finally Tommy wiped his eyes and climbed to his feet, Nora didn’t go to him. When he brushed himself off and started down the hill to reclaim his books, she didn’t help. Later, at home, they didn’t tell their parents what had happened. Neither of them mentioned it, not ever.
But months later, Craig was on her camp bus, a counselor where she was, at twelve, just a counselor-in-training. He wore no gel in his hair and gave cheerful high fives to a little kid. Would he recognize her from the bus stop? Connect her to Tommy? Taunt her for the whole ride home?
Nora pictured her brother hunched in the street, promising to crawl in the dirt for Craig. Letting Craig defeat him. Something surged in her belly, searing and sharp. She sat straight and looked directly at Craig, catching his eye.
“How ya doin’?” He winked and took a seat across the aisle.
She narrowed her eyes. Nora wasn’t like Tommy. Just let him mess with her. She wouldn’t cower. No, if Craig picked on her—if he said one mean word, she’d fight back and make him bleed.
“Wait, don’t I know you?” He sat back, half smiling.
She ought to tell him who she was and what she’d seen. Her hands went clammy and her belly somersaulted.
“Don’t think so,” she said instead, half-smiling back.
“I’m Craig.” His smile broadened, revealing straight white teeth. He was actually kind of cute. Dark and hunky. Mischievous sparkling eyes.
Tommy had groveled at Craig’s feet. But she wasn’t like Tommy, didn’t want to be like him. Silently, she counted. One, two, three… until she shoved her nerves aside.
“Nora,” she said, as if she didn’t even know Tommy or anyone else with that name.
Friday, August 10, 2018
T
he girls had been fed, bathed, tucked in, and read to. Their bathing suits had been washed and the dishes were done. Nora was in bed, reading. Well, not really. Really, she was staring at page thirty-something, picturing Dave in various sexual positions with the Other Woman, who she’d again imagined might possibly exist. She wondered how late he’d be and whether she’d work up the nerve to ask him about it. She imagined that conversation, what he would say. He’d be surprised, of course. Would he deny it? Or would he laugh at the absurdity of the idea and reassure her? More likely, Dave would be baffled by her suspicion but flattered by her jealousy. He’d take her in his arms and hold her, promising that he was hers and hers alone, that she could trust him.
But what if he didn’t? What if his eyes grew somber and his shoulders slumped, silently admitting it? Would he beg for forgiveness again? Or pack a bag and leave? Lord. Nora closed her eyes, told herself to stop being ridiculous and dramatic. She had no reason to imagine such a dire and unlikely scene. Dave was neither having an affair nor leaving. Their marriage was solid. Nora clutched her book, and stared at the words, the letters shimmying on the page.
The girls were still awake, whispering and giggling in Sophie’s room across the hall. Nora hoped they’d continue to be close, no matter who got custody. Good Lord. Where had that come from? She was out of her mind. Had she really imagined a divorce? She needed to stop. There was no other woman. End of story.
Bullshit. If he really loved Nora, he’d have come home for dinner not just tonight, but all the nights he’d stayed out late. She’d forced herself to be cheerful, meal after meal, while his seat at the dinner table remained vacant. She’d pretended, for the girls’ sake, that it was normal for daddies to stay at work into the night, that everything was fine. But the girls weren’t stupid. They sensed something was off—after all, Ellie was biting her nails and Sophie was always asking questions, picking up on Nora’s moods even when Nora tried to hide them.
Across the hall, Sophie shrieked.
“Sophie,” Nora called. “Quiet down.”
“But El
lie said another spider might be here.”
“Don’t worry. There’s no spider in there.”
“There might be.” Ellie sounded certain.
“Mommy!” Sophie shouted. “What if one climbs in my bed?”
Nora took a breath and set her book on Dave’s side of the bed. She got up and crossed the hall. Her daughters made her turn on the light. They got out of bed and huddled behind her while she examined their sheets, the floor under both beds and dressers, the closet, shelves, curtains and windowsills. Finally, as she tucked them in again, she heard the front door close.
It was barely eight-thirty. Very early for a passionate date. Unless his girlfriend had to get home. Maybe she was married, too. Maybe she had kids. Who the hell was she?
She wasn’t anybody, damn it. She didn’t exist.
“Hello?” Dave’s baritone barreled up the stairs. “Where are my girls?”
“Daddy! Daddy!” Ellie and Sophie jumped out of bed, screaming, ran to him and leapt into his arms.
Nora stepped back, watching, caught off guard by the open affection of her family. Obviously, she was wrong about the affair. Dave really was working extra hours. Without thinking, she offered her cheek for him to peck as he passed. The girls trailed as he tossed his suit jacket, briefcase, and phone onto their bed. Sophie and Ellie chattered about their day at camp, about Sophie doing big arms in the pool and Ellie learning the frog kick. They pulled his hands, dragging him to their room. Dave glanced at Nora long enough to shrug and roll his eyes in feigned helplessness, a captive of his manic, adoring daughters.
Nora smiled, not so much at Dave as at the delight the girls took in capturing their father. Who could blame them for being so excited? It was a rare night when daddy was home before they were asleep. For a moment, she listened as they each offered to read to him, vying for his attention. Then she went back to bed, climbed into her side, and picked up her book.
And noticed his phone lying beside her on the crimson floral comforter.
Tuesday, July 22, 1993
W
arm water poured over Nora’s head, rinsing pineapple-coconut scented shampoo bubbles over her eyes. As she soaped her legs, she wasn’t thinking anymore about Craig, how friendly and outgoing he’d been on the bus, or how awkward she’d been in her hesitant response. Nor was she thinking about her two best girlfriends, Natalie and Charisse, who were both away at sleepover camp for six whole weeks, leaving her alone with her pathetic counselor-in-training job and her dorky brother, whom she also, for sure, was not thinking about. No, as Nora stood sudsy in the shower, the single thought in her head focused on the evil-demon poison ivy rash above her ankle. It raged and itched like a plague from hell even after a whole week. Nora could deal with being friendless for a summer. She was okay with being a CIT, herding four and five-year-old kids back and forth to the pool, playground, bathroom, arts and crafts room, or bus. She didn’t even mind that she wasn’t getting paid one single dime. But poison ivy? That, she minded.
Her ankle screamed to be scratched, but she wouldn’t give in. She had learned that scratching made it worse. So she held the rash directly under the shower spray, hoping that the water might soothe and quiet the itch. Instead, the pulsing aroused it. The itch surged to life, exploding into a furious rampage. Even then, Nora resisted. It took all her will power, but she didn’t scratch. She turned the knobs and made the water hotter, with any luck, hot enough to scald the rash and sear the itch away. How could she have known that the rash would feed on the heat, guzzling and swallowing it, licking its lips, swelling, burgeoning, intensifying until finally, it crushed Nora’s resolve. She squatted, her fingers hungry like talons, reached for her ankle, tore at her flesh.
Beyond the shower curtain, something clattered.
Nora stopped scratching and listened, heard only the splash of water against the tub. Something—maybe her hairbrush—must have slipped off the counter. Except brushes didn’t just fall on their own. Nora leaned forward and peered around the shower curtain. The mirror, clouded with steam, showed no reflections. Her towel was draped over the counter, and a clump of dirty clothes remained on the floor. Her hairbrush was beside the sink.
She turned the water off, reached for her towel. Watched the last soapy bubbles swirl around the drain. Her ankle no longer itched, but blood dripped where her nails had ripped skin.
Something clicked. A door closing?
Nora whisked the shower curtain open. Steam fogged the room, dimming a shapeless damp ghost that blurred her brother’s form. Nora screamed and, in a heartbeat, covered her body with the towel.
Tommy wore his idiot grin, amused.
“What the hell, Tommy?” she shrieked, securing the towel.
“It’s about damn time you get out of there.”
“Get out!” she sputtered. “What are—Why are you in here?”
“Why do you think? I’m waiting for a bus?” Clutching the strap of his camera case, he took a step back. “I needed to piss.”
She could always tell when he was lying. His eyes shimmied and his lips pursed ever so slightly.
“Are you kidding? While I’m in the shower?”
“I had to go.”
“Bullshit.” She clutched the towel.
“Why else would I come in here? To sneak a peek? What, at you?” He forced a laugh. “Don’t make me puke.”
“Wait—” She eyed his camera. “Were you taking pictures?”
“I’d rather eat glass than look at your flat chest and skinny butt. You’re insane.” He stepped toward the door, his hand tight around his camera strap.
She didn’t move, just stood there holding up her towel. “Where are you going? I thought you needed to use the bathroom.”
He stopped, didn’t look up. “I did.”
“What? While I was in here? Liar. You didn’t. You spied on me in the shower. Admit it.”
“You’re full of shit.” His smirk failed, and his face reddened. “So what if I came in? I had to take a piss and couldn’t wait three hours for you to get done with one of your Guinness book showers.”
Something hot and furious erupted in Nora’s chest. She wasn’t a little kid anymore. She was twelve years old. She’d already had two periods and owned a training bra. How dare he?
Nora charged into her room and slammed the door. Her mother would be home from work any minute, so she practiced what she’d say. She phrased it carefully so that her mother wouldn’t dismiss her as a tattle tale, pronouncing that everything was okay, and Nora was just overreacting. That Tommy hadn’t done anything wrong, that family was family and Nora had to be flexible. She rehearsed in front of her mirror, revising and rewording until she came up with lines that she thought worked.
“Mom, I’m uncomfortable about something and need to ask you how to handle it.” Starting that way didn’t blame Tommy for anything, might even flatter her mom because Nora was asking her advice.
By the time her mother came home from work, though, Nora had begun to doubt herself. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she really did take long showers and Tommy really had needed to use the toilet. Maybe he hadn’t sneaked a peek or taken pictures. Maybe she was going to get him in trouble for no reason.
She replayed her shower, the itching, the steamy heat, the unexplained sounds. The look on Tommy’s face when she’d opened the curtain and found him standing there, tongue-tied for an excuse. No, she wasn’t wrong. For sure, he’d done something sneaky. Nora took a last look in her mirror, practiced her lines once more, and headed down the hall to deliver them.
Her mother was in her bedroom, still in the rumpled clothes she’d worn to work. Her rose-colored slacks matched the paint on the walls, the print on the floral bedspread, and the tones of her nail polish and lipstick.
“Mom?” Nora began. “Something’s bothering me.” She hesitated when her mother didn’t look up.
Her mom stood beside her dad’s open closet, one of his suits draped o
ver her arm and a piece of paper in her hand. She stared at the paper, her shoulders wilting, hair hanging limp around her cheeks. Nora couldn’t see her face.
Nora began again. “I need to ask your advice.”
Still her mother didn’t move, didn’t answer. What was so important about that piece of paper? Was it a phone message? A receipt?
“Mom, Tommy spied on me. In the shower.” Well, so much for rehearsing. The words had burst out on their own.
Her mother looked in Nora’s direction but seemed to be looking into the distance, not at her. Her face was gray, her mouth slack. Her hand grasped the paper.
Nora’s chest fluttered. “Mom? Are you okay?” Had something bad happened? Had someone died?
“What? Yes. Of course, I’m fine.” Finally, her mother registered Nora’s presence. She stuffed the paper into the pocket of her slacks. “Take my advice, Nora. Don’t look for trouble unless you’re prepared to find it.”
Nora blinked. Was her mother trying to say that by telling on Tommy, she was looking for trouble?
“I’m not the one looking for trouble, Mom. Tommy is. Can you talk to him?”
Her mother’s eyes jolted, refocusing on the clothes she was gathering. “Nora, can we talk later? I’ve got to get your father’s suits to the cleaners.”
“Mom. He came in while I was in the shower.”
“I’m sure he had a reason, dear. Don’t be so dramatic.” She rifled through the closet, removing a blazer. She paused for a
nanosecond before reaching into its pockets.
“Dramatic? Tommy follows me around with his stupid camera. I get no privacy—”
“Nora, stop.” Her mother tossed the suit and blazer onto her bed and ran a hand through her hair, exposing the gray roots. “I work all day and come home to cook and do chores. All I ask of you is that you get along with your brother. You’re not little kids anymore, I can’t referee and solve all your petty disagreements. If you and Tommy have a problem, you’re old enough to work it out yourselves.”
