Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  “No you didn’t. Your mother did.” I pass the chicken fingers and the Mountain Dew across the table.

  She stares at me for a lengthy moment, perplexed. Then I think she gets it because all of a sudden, she smiles and looks down at the food, eyes bulging. “But I shouldn’t.”

  “But you should. It’s okay. Let go.”

  She traces her bottom lip with her tongue, focusing on the plate. “It does look good.”

  I take a bite of General Tso’s. “When isn’t Chinese good?”

  She ventures a smile. “Never,” she says, stabbing a chicken finger with her fork like it’s her mother on that plate.

  * * *

  “Thanks for lunch, James,” Leigh says, smiling, as we enter one of the department stores.

  “Anytime.” In my mind, I hear her say, Thank you for liberating me.

  She moves to a clothing rack. I hover behind. She swipes her hands through the garments, the clearance items, medium long sleeve shirts. She takes a white shirt off the rack, holds it up to her jacket-clad torso, shakes her head, and returns it to its hanger. We move to another section of the store, jeans folded in cubbies lining the wall. She takes a size six from one of the cubbies, then leads me to a rack of sweaters. She scans the selection, brow wrinkling, and chooses a green medium sweater.

  “I’m gonna go try these on,” she says, one arm full.

  “Do I get to see?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “I would.”

  We enter the coed changing room and I sit on the bench outside a booth.

  She unzips her puffy jacket, then presents it to me. “Can you hold this, please?”

  I nod, accept it into my hands and lay it over my lap. “I’m ready for the fashion show. Don’t hold out on me.”

  She chuckles, one foot in the booth. “Don’t worry.” She gives a grin, then closes the door. I hear a zipper unzip, watch her shuffling feet through a slit beneath the door. Her pants fall to her ankles. Hands grab them up. The new jeans arrive at the feet, her hands around the waist. The jeans lift, her hands disappear. I hear a zipper zip. A minute passes, ample time to put on the sweater. I stare at the door, waiting for it to open.

  “Are you okay in there?” I knock from the seat.

  “I don’t like the way I look,” she says.

  “C’mon. I’m sure you look great. Show me.”

  The door unlatches and opens. She steps out of the booth.

  “See.” She spreads her arms. “I look like crap.”

  I examine her outfit. “Are you insane? You like fine.”

  “Just fine?” She puts her hands on her hips.

  Silent, then: “I don’t think those clothes do you justice. They’re too baggy. You could easily wear a smaller size.”

  She snickers. “Smaller size, eh?”

  “I’m serious. You’re a thin girl. You don’t need to be wearing baggy clothing. You’ve got nothing to hide.”

  She checks over her body. “Think so?”

  “I’ll tell you what . . . go back in there,” I say, pointing to the booth, “and take those clothes off. I’ll be back with your size.”

  “Okay,” she says, uncertain. She steps into the booth.

  I leave the dressing room, track down, over the course of two minutes, the same green sweater in a small and the same pair of jeans in a size four.

  “Pssst. Leigh.” I stand outside her booth with the clothing.

  “Is that you?” she answers.

  “I got the stuff,” I say, as if I’m a drug dealer.

  The door opens a crack and her naked arm pokes through. “Thanks,” she says. “Give ’em here.”

  I hand them to her, the dealer giving a free sample. She pulls them in and shuts the door. I sit on the bench, watch her feet step into the size four jeans, hear the zipper zip. Thirty seconds . . .

  She sighs. “I don’t know. I think this stuff’s too tight.”

  “Lemme see.”

  The door opens. She steps before me. The sweater and jeans are pasted on, her breasts well pronounced and perky beneath the sweater, her legs slender in the jeans.

  My hormones go crazy. “Let’s see the other side,” I say.

  She twirls, granting a quick view of her butt, then faces me. “What do you think? Too revealing?”

  I shake my head, hormones bouncing. “Perfect,” I say, grinning.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I close my cell phone. White Christmas. I’ve just agreed to see the play with Leigh and her cousin, Meredith, tomorrow. The show will be in Boston. I’ve never attended a play. Thus, I don’t know what to expect. I’m excited, unable to concentrate on my writing, fingers stationary over the keys, eyes unmoving on the screen.

  * * *

  Meredith was recently married and is three months pregnant, Leigh informs me on the ride to Massachusetts. Meredith and her husband, Greg, bought their first home together last month, a modest house in Revere, five miles from downtown Boston. We arrive at the house, get out of the car, lock hands, and take synchronized steps to the front door.

  One, two, three, four . . . One, two, three, four . . .

  No need to knock; a woman—Meredith, I presume—materializes at the door and lets us in. We stand in the humble kitchen.

  “Meredith,” she says, “and you must be James . . .” She shakes my hand, then faces Leigh. They squeak excitedly at one another. They hug.

  “It’s been too long,” says Meredith from within the clinch.

  “Way too long,” Leigh says. They untangle.

  Leigh puts her ear to Meredith’s stomach and says, “Are you in there, little buddy?” She and Meredith laugh, as do I.

  The laughing subsides. Meredith insists on showing us around the house. She leads us out of the kitchen and into the spacious living room, conventionality galore: TV, family photographs adorning the walls, a couch, a coffee table, lamps, drapes, a La-Z-Boy recliner burdened by a football-watching husband. Voices from the TV fill the room.

  “Hon, we have company,” Meredith says. “Can you turn that down, please?”

  Greg grunts, eyes unblinking and glued to the television, feet elevated, a bowl of popcorn on his lap, a soda can on the round accent table by his chair.

  “Hon.” Meredith raises her voice. “I said we have company.”

  His eyes blink, move to us. “Oh. Hey. Sorry.” The zombie speaks. He mutes the TV with a clicker. He sets the bowl on the table, stands, one eye still on the idiot box. He approaches us and offers his hand. “Greg,” he says. We shake loosely.

  “James,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

  He hugs Leigh briefly, says, “Good to see you.” Leigh matches the greeting.

  “I’m showing them around, then we’re off to the play. Are you sure you don’t wanna go?” Her voice is harsh.

  He glances over his shoulder at the television. He nods. “I’m sure.”

  Meredith sighs, shakes her head. He returns to his position on the recliner, undoes the mute with a zap of the remote, eyes fixed on the game, absent from reality.

  Meredith blows out air, says nothing to him. “Let me show you the baby’s room,” she says, hand motioning to a nearby staircase. We walk up the flight and into a room containing a crib, which she tells us all about—where she and her husband picked it up and how its safety rating is far superior to any other crib on the market. She points out a rocker in the corner of the room and says, “My mother used to read me stories from that chair.” She points to the lively walls, talking about the mural she painted over the surface: rainbows and clouds, the sun and flying birds, grasses, trees, and rocks. “I’ll use it to teach my child about nature,” she says.

  I notice there isn’t any mention of her couch potato husband in the equation. “Did Greg help with the mural?” I ask, facing it.

  Meredith sighs, as before. “It was a solo project,” she says, pain in her voice.

  I can see myself living in a place like this, married, expecting the firstborn. I c
an imagine Leigh as the mother, plump and smiling. I don’t sit at the boob tube, ignoring her for a game. I don’t busy myself with whatever while she paints a mural in the baby’s room by herself, brooding, building resentment. The fervor for the marriage doesn’t die away after the honeymoon. It doesn’t disappear as we buy our first home. It certainly doesn’t dissolve upon receiving the news of her pregnancy. I envision Leigh and I painting a mural in the baby’s room, smiling, hearts pleased, satisfied with our marriage.

  That’s how I want it to be.

  * * *

  The theatre’s grand lobby is ornate in every sense. A chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, the walls festooned with elaborate murals of angels riding on clouds. Marble columns, fourteen of them, I count, stand erect on either side of us. The checkered floor leads to a gold-encrusted staircase, which we climb. We end on a dais that blends into the auditorium.

  An usher welcomes us, peeks at our tickets, and brings us to our box seats. As in the lobby, this auditorium also contains columns—more than I’d like to count. There are frescoes of clouds and Greek gods. Ornaments and arches consume the top of the stage, which is currently clothed with a blue velvet curtain. Balconies are everywhere.

  I’m sitting between Meredith and Leigh. Leigh marvels at our surroundings, the pure opulence; she’s eyeing the stage area, open-mouthed.

  Eight o’clock arrives, the curtain lifts, and the play commences. The play holds my attention. I find it visually pleasing and enjoyable to the ears. My favorite parts of the play, however, have nothing to do with the play itself but with the audience, when they applaud. I envy the performers on stage. Night after night, they get to step onto a stage, the spotlight shining on them, people cheering for their words. The performer inside me wants that.

  I enjoyed the words of encouragement I received from Arthur, Mitch, Barbara, and Leigh, but I’m thinking of praise on a larger scale, my work eulogized daily, the spotlight on my face. I sit in my sanctuary night after night and type. No one watches. No one claps. No one whistles or cheers. It is only me, my laptop, a plethora of ideas thrown onto a page.

  I envisage myself alone on the stage before me, sitting on a stool, the laptop on my lap. I start to write. The auditorium is packed; they came to see James Frost, the renowned writer. Every few minutes, the audience breaks into thunderous applause, whistling and cheering and clapping for my talents. I feel loved. Totally. Purely. Loved. At the end of my typing performance, I stand and bow. The horde goes wild, gives me a standing ovation. I lift my head to them, sucking in the praise, letting it fill me up—then, waving, I walk off the stage with my laptop.

  Only it doesn’t end there. The clapping, whistling, and cheering is unrelenting, and I have no choice but to go back out onto the stage and give them the encore. I sit on the stool once again and start typing. I hear “ooohs” and “ahhs” from the onlookers, their projected amazement. I stop, then write, stop, then write again. The suspense leaves them gasping. I close my eyes, hands stopped over the keyboard, then I pound at the keys rapidly, so quickly that they can’t keep up. I continue like this for five minutes, then, without warning, come to a dead stop. One person claps. Followed by another. Then everyone joins in, a booming applause. I stand, laptop cradled by my side, and bow. I march off the stage and to my amazement, they’re still applauding. They want more. I walk onto the stage for a last time and give them the notorious curtain call. I bow, blow kisses, wave to all sides of the auditorium.

  In reality, however, I’m just part of the audience.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Though Christmas is for many people a time of joy, it hasn’t been that way for me in a long time, ever since Dad and Mom divorced and Sis and I took sides and went our separate ways with our parent of choice. Our entire family hasn’t been together for Christmas since then. Thus, instead of joy on this day, I find sadness. Sadness for what I once had and don’t have anymore. Sadness for what our family once had and doesn’t have anymore.

  I receive presents from Mom and Sis each Christmas, but that’s not the same as having them here at the house. Last year, for instance, I got a sweater from Mom and a wristwatch from Sis. The year before, they gave me a gift certificate for the movies and a pair of sunglasses. Searching for some correlation between the gifts, I thought about wearing the glasses to a movie but decided against it. I was convinced that if they intended for me to look like a blind person, they would’ve sent a walking cane. All of these presents, and all the gifts before, I’d give back in a heartbeat if, for once, they could be here for Christmas. They wouldn’t even have to bring anything, just themselves and my niece.

  That’s a utopian idea, unfortunately. In this reality, I have Dad, who’s sitting on the floor before the Christmas tree. In about an hour, Leigh will arrive, and I’ll have her as well.

  I stand from the couch and join Dad on the floor, my legs crossed Indian-style. We open presents, this Christmas morning, the two of us in the living room. I get several books and DVDs I’ve been wanting and also an iPod, 30GB, black and sleek, accompanied by an iTunes gift card so that I can download some music and a movie or two. I thank him for the gifts. Dad gets a sweater, blue and white stripes, hip for a man his age. It took me an hour to pick that out at Macy’s.

  “This is nice,” he says, holding the sweater up to his chest. “Sure it won’t look too young on me, though?”

  “You’ll look cool.”

  “And this isn’t just for younger people, right?”

  I give the sweater a look. “Dad, it’ll look good on you. Trust me.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “It’ll last you a long time and you can wear it on dates. The ladies will like it.” I smile. “It’s stylish.”

  Dad also receives a new winter jacket, a gray Columbia that cost me one hundred twenty-five bucks.

  “That will last you a long time, too,” I say, watching his stolid face, his hand limply holding the jacket.

  Dad sets everything—the crumpled wrapping paper, the boxes, his gifts—on the carpet beside him. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you, James.”

  My blood pumps. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been trying to think of ways to tell you but I’m not sure there’s a good way to break it to you.”

  Cancer? Some other life threatening disease? “Is it something bad?”

  He’s pokerfaced. “Not necessarily.”

  Okay. Not cancer. A curable tumor? “Well, what is it? Spill it.”

  He heaves a sigh, then folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be staying in New Hampshire.”

  Leaving on a jet plane? “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of living in New England, of pushing the same mop and broom day after day, of shoveling snow, of the lack of sunshine, of only a few months of warmth. Of paying almost fifteen hundred dollars a month for a house that I don’t even like.” His eyes are morose. “I don’t wanna be here much longer. It’s time for a change.”

  I shiver. I had once thought he would do janitorial work until the day he died. I guess I’m not much of a fortune teller. “How long have you been thinking about this?” I ask.

  “Month or two.”

  “Where would you go? What would you do?”

  “Idaho sounds nice. There’s more sun out there, and housing is much less expensive than these parts.” He’s done his homework.

  “But there’s nothing in Idaho. What are you gonna do? Become a farmer?” I mock the idea because I hate it.

  “There’s California, too.” His face lights up. “I’ve been looking at San Diego. According to a couple Web sites, that part of California is one of the nicest places to live in the United States. The most sunshine, the best average temp.”

  “What would you do there? Become a surfer?” I can see him now, enclothed in flowery board shorts, shirtless, chest shaved, holding a board, a gnarly-dude hairdo c
ompleting the package.

  “Very funny,” he says. “I’m not sure yet. There’s a ton of jobs over there. It’s the eighth largest city in America, if I remember correctly. One thing’s for sure, I don’t wanna clean up after people anymore. I’ve done that my whole life. I’m tired. You understand?”

  I’m terrified. “I guess.”

  “I could always work for the Padres. They have plenty of job openings. I’d sell hotdogs if I have to. Whatever I gotta do to pay rent.”

  What about me? What am I gonna do for work if you close down your company and leave? Where am I gonna live? “There’s no way you’d consider staying in New England?” I ask.

  “I don’t see it happening.”

  I think of Mom and Sis, how they live so far away, in Nevada. I can’t bear the thought of Dad moving across country, too. “I’d miss you,” I say. Now, please, reconsider.

  “I know you would.” He doesn’t return the sentiments.

  I wanted him to say, “Ooops, that’s right; I can’t leave you behind. What was I thinking? I was being selfish. Sorry about that, James.”

  Dad speaks. “We’re both adults here. We can make it on our own.” He implies that he’s done his part, his job, and enough is enough.

  “But I don’t know if I can make it on my own,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, if you leave, I won’t have a job. Second, if you leave and I get another job, I won’t be able to find one that pays as well as you pay me. And third, if you leave, I could work two jobs and maybe live alone, but then I wouldn’t have any time to write, and you know that’s what I want to do with my life.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I could leave you the company . . . but I know how you feel about cleaning.”

  I don’t say anything.

  He says, “That’s what I thought.”

  “What about Christmases?” I ask, tears mounting.

  “What about them?”

  “Will I get to see you or will I just get presents in the mail?” Sunglasses and movie tickets . . .