Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  Ha, poor Julie. How long can Dad stay on his best behavior? How long till—?

  Fran interrupts my thoughts. “I found a job. It’s only for the summer, but it’s better than nothing. I’ll be temping for a receptionist at a law firm downtown. I’m hoping they’ll like me and maybe hire me on full time.”

  “You’re not going to teach?” As if any school would hire her after all the publicity.

  “No. But I am going back to law school if I can get a loan, or a grant.”

  “Law school?”

  “Well, I was never crazy about teaching. And I was in law school, back when I met your mom, but—” She stops.

  “You dropped out? Why?”

  Fran sighs. “I don’t want to say anything that’ll embarrass you, Shawna.”

  “Well. You guys already embarrassed me for years,” I quip.

  Her surprised smile fades almost immediately. “I know. We expected that. We talked about it a lot. That, and the way Penny left you.”

  I don’t want to talk about this. “So why’d you drop out of law school?”

  She waits a beat. Then, reluctantly, she says, “I was living here with Aunt Rina when your mom left your dad. She stayed here with us a few weeks, then she found out she was pregnant. She told me she hadn’t, uh, been sleeping with your dad. But I thought it might be his. She wouldn’t tell me one way or another. Just that she wanted an abortion.”

  “What?” My officially Catholic mom wanted an abortion?

  “I know. That was my reaction, too. I was teaching at the time, and going to school at night. But I told her if she’d change her mind, if she had the baby, I’d quit working, quit school, and be the stay-at-home mom.”

  I’m still stuck on the abortion business. “An abortion. God! Why?”

  “I guess she cared so much about her work, her goals, her life in the art world . . .” Fran chokes off, twisting a corner of her drab green shirt into a spiral. “A baby didn’t figure into it. It doesn’t make her a bad person, Shawna.”

  I fall back into the cushions. Schmule almost never existed. He came that close.

  Maybe Fran didn’t give birth to him. But she’s the only reason he’s here.

  “So we moved to New York,” Fran finishes.

  “And Mom had Schmule and gave him your last name.” It’s true—Mom literally gave my baby brother away. “You pretended he was yours.” What did Mom think would happen when Schmule finally saw her name on his birth certificate?

  “He is mine. I loved him before he was born.”

  I stare at her round face, scrubbed shiny, free of makeup. Her gray hair, jammed in a big plastic clip. Her dowdy, functional clothes. So different from Mom with her chic outfits, her perfectly coiffed hair, her allure. How, how did these two ever hook up? Mom, crazy and artistic and self-centered as hell. Fran, so motherly, so grounded in reality. Maybe they saw, and envied, something inside of each other. Something neither of them could hope to be.

  Opposites attract, Uncle Dieter told me at the funeral. First Dad. Then Fran. As if that’s all Mom ever searched for. Somebody different from herself.

  “She should’ve told us,” I whisper. “How could she keep him a secret?”

  Fran starts with the shirt-twisting thing again and I sense the words straining at her lips. Words she’s afraid to say out loud.

  “She hated him,” I answer myself.

  Fran shakes her head unconvincingly. “No, she didn’t.”

  “Yes, she did. She wanted to punish him, right? He always wanted a son.” I shrug helplessly and stare down at my hands. “What better revenge?”

  Fran touches my knee. “Revenge for what? She was more scared of him, I think.” When I shake my head hard, Fran leans closer, her voice tinged with suspicion. “Sweetie. How much do you know?”

  “Enough,” I say softly.

  Arye speaks up from the archway, making us both jump. “Hey, Shawna.”

  Zapped back to Earth, Fran heaves herself to her feet. The corner of her blouse unravels into a rumpled tail. “There you are.” With a glance out the window at the descending dusk, she claps a hand over her mouth. “Uh-oh, the candles. Hurry, hurry!”

  “Wait!” My butt feels rooted to the sofa. “I have something to say.” I shrivel under their curious stares, but I can’t hold back. “What I said that day, when I was talking to Arye? When you walked in on us?” I squeeze out the words I wish I’d said months ago. “If I told you I never meant to say it, I’d be lying. Because I did mean it at the time. I just didn’t mean for you to hear it.”

  Fran doesn’t move. “And now?”

  “It was the worst thing I ever said.” I add miserably, to Arye, “Especially to you. Because it wasn’t just my mom I was talking about.”

  My voice breaks. Fran’s beside me in three quick strides, to draw me into a hug. “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  Did Mom ever hold me like this? I can’t remember a single time.

  “Candles, Mom,” Arye prompts, with a peculiar smile for me. “Two minutes till sundown.”

  But Fran refuses to let go.

  90

  We decide God will forgive Fran for lighting the candles after sundown. When she touches the match to the wicks, I notice the extra candle. Arye meets my questioning glance, and nods. That’s how I know: this new candle is mine.

  After dinner, Fran and I play Scrabble under a kerosene lamp while Arye and Schmule play Battleship on the floor. Fran’s ahead by four points when I slyly turn the vertical “fox” into a horizontal “xero.” The e lands on a triple word space.

  “Don’t you mean z-e-r-o?” Fran asks suspiciously.

  “No. It’s a medical prefix. It means ‘dry.’” I refrain from gloating.

  Schmule, sprawled at my feet, does that same twitchy thing with his eyebrow that Dad likes to do. “Better challenge her, Mom!”

  My cell phone tinkles as Fran whips out the Scrabble dictionary. Okay, I’m not Jewish, and not subject to the same rules against using electricity on Shabbat. But it is their home.

  I duck into the kitchen, flip open my phone, and hear LeeLee shrill, “Where are you?”

  My heart plummets. “Still at Fran’s. Why?”

  “Well, get the hell out of there and get home!”

  “Why? Did Dad call?”

  “Worse. He came over.”

  I stifle my scream. “Why-y?”

  “I don’t know! He didn’t call or anything, he just showed up and started yelling. And when I couldn’t get you or Schmule to come out, he knew, Shawna. I’m sorry. I tried!”

  “What?” Schmule asks hollowly from the kitchen door. I guess he sensed my panic.

  I throw my phone into my purse. “We have to leave.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Tough! Get your stuff. Dad’s onto us.”

  His face blanks out. “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “But—” Shouldn’t I warn her? No, she’ll freak. “Okay. Let’s just go.”

  Shakily, I stammer to Fran that it’s later than I thought, and we have to leave, like, now. She hugs Schmule and me together, and it takes a few seconds to disengage Schmule’s arms.

  “Be a good boy,” she whispers to him.

  “I will,” he answers automatically.

  Arye walks us out to the car and says through my window, “Thanks for coming” with his face so close to mine, I wonder . . . does he want to kiss me?

  Like that’s something I should be thinking about now!

  “I’ll e-mail you,” I promise, rolling up the window.

  “What’re we gonna do?” Schmule asks through white lips.

  “We’re gonna lie, that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  “Lie?”

  “Yes, lie. Dad knows we weren’t at LeeLee’s. We have to come up with something else.” Something believable, dammit. “. . . Okay. I got it. We went to Mom’s grave.”

  “Her grave?”

  “Yes. And we said we’d be at LeeLee’s because we knew he would
n’t approve.”

  “Why wouldn’t he approve?” Schmule asks sensibly.

  “Schmule, in case you haven’t figured this out, Mom’s not exactly Dad’s favorite person in the world.”

  He scrunches his forehead. “Is this the best you can come up with?”

  “Yeah, under the circumstances!”

  All the house lights are on. Julie’s car is in the drive. We wait a few minutes, prolonging the inevitable. Then I reach over to squeeze my brother’s damp fingers.

  “It’ll be okay,” I promise. But he doesn’t squeeze my hand back. “Come on.”

  91

  Dad’s icy tone hits us like an arctic blast before we’re fully into the kitchen. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I feign surprise. “What’s wrong?” Then casually, to Julie, “Oh, hi. Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks.” Across from Dad, Julie taps a spoon around in her glass of iced tea. I note her remote tone, her oddly forced smile.

  “I asked you a question,” Dad growls at me.

  Schmule shrinks. My arms creep around his small shoulders. “We were at LeeLee’s, remember?”

  “Try again. I went over there myself and you most certainly were not there.”

  Stifling my indignation, I calmly ask, “Why were you checking up on me?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions here, Shawna. Where—were—you? I’m giving you ten seconds to answer.”

  Evil Shawna, who’s been flying under the radar, pops out of nowhere. Yes, I’m happy to see her. “Then what, Dad? What’re you gonna do? Kill me?”

  Dad’s face turns purple with rage and disbelief. He starts to rise, but Julie holds up a hand. “Jack, just let them tell the story.”

  Dad sinks back. Folds his arms. Waits.

  I look him in the eye. “We went to visit Mom’s grave.”

  “Her grave?” No answer required, so I wisely keep quiet. Dad turns his fiery glare to Schmule instead. “Sam? Is that true?”

  Schmule, bones rigid under my arm, doesn’t bat an eye. “Yes, sir.”

  “You went to your mother’s grave.”

  “Yes, sir. We knew you wouldn’t approve,” he recites.

  “You were there all evening?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the dark?”

  “. . . Yes, sir.”

  Exasperated, I break in. “He answered you already. I’m sorry, okay? But we wanted to see her grave and we knew you’d go postal. We’re back now. Can we ple-ease be excused?”

  Instead, Dad stands—I duck as he passes me—and sails out of the kitchen. Almost immediately, he returns. An indistinguishable blur flies through the air as he slams something on the corner of the kitchen table. Glass explodes. I slap a hand over my mouth. Schmule whimpers.

  The picture of Mom and Fran, their wedding picture, lies on the floor in a twist of metal and shattered glass.

  “Jack!” Julie cries, springing up.

  Dad, oddly composed considering his performance, asks Schmule, “Would you like to explain this?” Schmule says nothing. “Where did you get that picture?”

  “Leave him alone,” I interrupt. “It’s just a picture of Mom and—”

  “I’m not blind. I know who’s in the picture. I’m asking your brother where he got it, and when he got it.”

  When he got it? My heart thwacks. “He probably brought it with the rest of his stuff.”

  “Stop it, Shawna. You’re only making it worse. I know he didn’t bring it when he came here, because I went through all his things.”

  Why am I not surprised?

  “You went through my stuff?” Schmule asks faintly. “You mean you looked at everything, like, to see what I had?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That sucks!” Schmule shouts. “You had no right.”

  “I had every right, young man. This is my house. You did not have that picture when you got here, and frankly, I’m outraged that you’d bring such a thing into this house.” Dad aims a halfhearted kick at the rubble on the tiles. I see a flash of Mom and Fran, faces ignited with happiness. “It’s disgusting and offensive, and I can’t believe you’d be so disrespectful.”

  Schmule smacks a fist into his palm. “I am not disrespectful. You’re disrespectful! You went through my stuff,” he repeats, as if unable to believe it. “Why were you even in my room? Even my mom never pokes around in my stuff. My real mom!” he shouts. “My real, real mom.”

  I watch Dad’s hand move again, in slow motion this time, and land flat on the side of Schmule’s head. Schmule stumbles into me and I have to catch him under the arms to keep him from falling. Julie stares, undoubtedly believing she’s trapped in a sideshow.

  Schmule shoves me roughly. “Leave me alone!” he screams, and bolts from the room.

  “How could you hit him?” I shriek at Dad.

  Dad wags a finger under my nose. “Don’t you raise your voice to me. I know where Sam got that picture and I know where you two went tonight. Did you think I’d never figure it out? Did either of you think I could be that stupid?”

  “No, Dad! I’m the stupid one, remember?”

  “Well,” he shoots back. “This just proves my point.”

  I face Dad. But it’s Julie I’m speaking to. “Remember this, okay? This is who you’re marrying. He hits people. He hits them, and he hurts them.”

  “I do no such thing!” Enraged, Dad advances. I pray he’ll hit me, too, so I can prove my point. His hand, at the last second, flops to his side. “I never touched you, Shawna. I never hurt you in your life.”

  “No, Dad. You only hurt Mom.”

  92

  He hurt me, Shawna. You saw him do it.

  Yes, Mom.

  Now you know why I couldn’t stay.

  You could’ve taken me with you. Why would you leave me behind?

  I wanted to take you! He wouldn’t let me. He said he’d drag me through court. He’d expose Fran and me. He’d never let me see you again.

  You didn’t want me anyway. You didn’t even want Schmule. You never would’ve had him if Fran hadn’t talked you into it.

  I didn’t know Schmule then. Schmule was the unknown. You, I always loved.

  But you left me with him! How did you know he wouldn’t hurt me?

  Because he loves you.

  He doesn’t love me. He owns me. The same way he owns Schmule.

  He loves you, Shawna. He loves you more than I could ever love you myself.

  How do I know you’re telling me the truth?

  The answer never comes.

  93

  Unsurprisingly, my laptop is already gone by the time I get upstairs. So is my old PC. I dial Fran’s number immediately from my cell. It’ll show up if Dad checks, but hey, I’m already screwed. By tomorrow I probably won’t have phone access, either.

  Arye answers instantly. “LeeLee called and told me what happened. Is everything okay?”

  “No.” I burst into sobs. “Everything’s not okay. It was just, well, just horrible!”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

  “Dad took my computers. I can’t even e-mail you. So if I want to call you I’ll have to sneak around, maybe use a pay phone, and—”

  “Can we meet somewhere?” He whispers this, as if he’s afraid Dad has magical powers and might overhear. That wouldn’t surprise me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe when things settle down. Or. . . maybe never,” I add hopelessly.

  “Don’t say that. Just call me when you can.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  Promises mean nothing, Mom once said.

  I tiptoe to Schmule’s room. Door shut, room silent beyond. I hear Dad and Julie discussing us downstairs. What’s next on the agenda? A restraining order for Fran? Boot camp for me? Military school for Schmule? God, they’d eat him alive.

  I push open the door. Curled up in bed, my brother faces the wall, bare feet sticking out as usual from under the covers. “Are you awake?” I sit on the edge of his mattres
s and rub his back. “I’m sorry, Schmoo.”

  He twitches under my hand. “Me too.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “For not hiding that picture. I stuck it in with my underwear. I didn’t think he’d look there,” Schmule adds resentfully.

  “That’s my fault. I should’ve warned you better.” Why didn’t I? I should have known Dad would go ballistic if he saw that picture. How could I let Schmule bring it into the house?

  Hindsight, blah, blah. Because it never occurred to me Dad would root through Schmule’s belongings in search of contraband. Now I wonder, does he not stop with my mail? Does he paw through my room, too?

  Schmule draws an imaginary picture on the wall with a fingertip. “Who cares? I’m glad I made him mad. Maybe he’ll send me away.”

  “Back to Fran, you mean?”

  “No, to fucking South Africa.”

  A chill sinks over me, a terrible premonition. “Dad’ll never send you back.”

  “Huh.” His finger moves faster. First up and down, up and down, then around in a circle, then up and down two more times. In the dim light from the hall I can see what he’s writing: the word “Mom,” over and over on the wall.

  M-O-M . . . M-O-M . . . M-O-M.

  94

  In the morning, Schmule executes a perfect turnaround. He apologizes to Dad for sneaking over to Fran’s. I huddle on the stairs, listening in astonishment, trying to hear over Klara bashing dishes around in the kitchen.

  “So don’t be mad at Shawna. Okay, Dad?”

  Ah, “Dad.” The magic word.

  “I made her do it. It was my idea.”

  An outright lie, to Dad’s face, no less.

  “I just wanted to see my mom. I miss her, ya know?”

  Dad finally speaks, but not unpleasantly, “Sam, please. You know she is not your mom.”

  No argument. Not a word of protest. “. . . I know.”

  “And your sister should have known better than to pull such a stunt.”

  Schmule lies again without hesitation. “I made her.”

  “No, you didn’t ‘make’ her. Shawna’s seventeen. I expect better behavior out of her. And from you, too,” Dad adds, softening more.