Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  “Okay,” Schmule mumbles. “But don’t be mad at Shawna.”

  Dad refuses to commit himself. “If you’re ready for school, I’ll drive you today. Better gather up your books.”

  Strained pause. “Um, why can’t Shawna take me?”

  “Not today, Sam.”

  Great. Dad’ll never trust me again.

  They catch me lurking, but neither of them says good-bye; Dad breezes past and Schmule trails behind him, staring down at his shoes. As soon as they’re gone I check my phone, and oh, holy hell, I knew it—no freaking service!

  Next he’ll probably steal my car keys. Obviously I won’t be chauffeuring Schmule around any time soon.

  I hear the clatter of broken glass in the kitchen. It’s Klara, emptying a dustpan over the wastebasket. “What’d you do with the picture?”

  Klara smacks a hand to her throat. “Mein Gott! Do not jump out at me like that!”

  “The picture, Klara!”

  “No picture. Just a broken frame.”

  “No picture of my mom?”

  She shakes her curly white head firmly, and then squawks a warning about broken glass as I fish through the trash myself. All I come up with is a handful of coffee grounds. Dad, evidently, already disposed of the wedding picture.

  “Dammit!” I scream.

  Ignoring Klara’s openmouthed stare, I slam out and drive to school in a fury. I know why Dad’s so offended by that picture: Mom and Fran, together, on the happiest day of their lives? An image, I’m sure, Dad can happily live without.

  But it wasn’t his to destroy. Now Schmule has nothing.

  At school, LeeLee bounces frantically by my locker. “Omigod, what happened? I tried calling you, but something’s wrong with your phone!”

  “We got busted, of course. And Dad canceled my phone.”

  “Oh, ma-an. How bad was it?”

  “Bad, bad, bad. He wouldn’t even talk to me this morning.”

  “Sorry,” she says sadly. “I couldn’t think fast enough.”

  “Well, I figured this would happen sooner or—”

  “Oops!” Devon knocks me into LeeLee as he saunters by. “Sorry, girls. I mean, guys.”

  Before LeeLee can interfere, I shout, “Keep your paws to yourself!”

  Unfortunately, he halts. I’d sort of hoped he’d move on. “So I see you two lovebirds are back together?” He kisses the air.

  LeeLee advances with, “Ya know, Connolly—”

  But I step between them. “You’d like me to be a lesbian, wouldn’t you, Devon?” I stare ferociously into those amazing green eyes, wondering how I could’ve fallen for this snake. No, he’s lower than a snake. A snake egg maybe, squashed into slime by a dirty boot. “At least that would explain why I find you so, so putrid.”

  Devon’s face contorts. “You freaks make me sick. Hey, next time you hook up, why don’t you take some pics? Big market on the Web for that kind of stuff.”

  “Yeah,” LeeLee agrees. “And how much of Mommy’s allowance do you spend on it, pig?”

  Devon half raises a fist. I catch his wrist without thinking and lean in close, never mind that I’m practically inhaling my own heart. “Right. You think you’re such a hotshot, pushing girls around?” My voice rises and rises till people in the hall slow and stare. For once I’m glad for the audience. I fling down his arm. “You stay the hell out of my face or I’ll have you arrested for harassment. And then I’ll hire somebody to kick your balls in.”

  Hatred steams from Devon’s green irises, but it’s hatred coupled with something else. Acknowledgment, maybe? Now he knows I’m for real, that I mean every word.

  With a simple “Fuck you two,” he shoves off down the hall.

  LeeLee dissolves into giggles. “Wow. Speaking of balls, I’m impressed!”

  “Thanks,” I say modestly, wishing I’d done this months ago.

  Wishing I hadn’t given him so much power over me.

  I only wish I’d moved that fast when Dad took aim at Schmule.

  95

  “Your brother is upstairs,” Klara informs me when I don’t see Schmule around. “He says he is working on a report and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Armed with cookies and a glass of chocolate milk, I knock on his door with my toe. No answer, so I singsong, “I brought you a snaack!”

  Schmule cracks the door and views me guardedly. Then he snatches the treats and plops back down at his desk. Nibbling one-handed, he types with the other, five fingers flying with mind-boggling speed.

  “What’s your report about?” I note with surprise that, since last night, he’s managed to rearrange his entire room; now his furniture and belongings mirror the layout of the room he shared with Arye.

  “The Stockholm syndrome.” He withers me with disdain when I wait for further explanation. “You never heard of that?”

  “Well, are you going to tell me? Or revel in my ignorance?”

  “It’s when prisoners start to identify with their captors. You’ve heard of that girl Patty Hearst, right?” I nod vaguely, pretending to be well informed. “Well, she’s a perfect example.”

  Sharing no more, he just types and munches. I leave with a sigh and throw myself down on my bed. At least Dad didn’t take my extension phone away.

  I call LeeLee and ask, “Who’s Patty Hearst?”

  “Oh, you know. That chick who was kidnapped, like, fifty years ago. Why?”

  “Schmule’s doing a report on the Stockholm syndrome. I just wondered what it was about. I’m too embarrassed to ask him.”

  “Oh, well, she was like this really rich girl—her dad owned a newspaper or something—and she got kidnapped by these radicals who wanted to overthrow the government. They locked her in a closet, and, like, tortured and raped her. Next thing you know she’s holding up banks with machine guns, acting just like them.”

  “If she had a machine gun, why didn’t she escape?”

  “That’s the Stockholm syndrome,” she replies with maddening simplicity. “After being tortured and brainwashed for months or whatever, it was like she was grateful or something when they finally let her out. She identified with them. She did whatever they told her to do.” LeeLee pauses. “Wait. He’s doing a report on this? In fourth grade?”

  “That’s what he said.” I add with a strained laugh, “At least he hasn’t called anyone a Nazi lately. Gotta run,” I add quickly as I hear Dad’s SUV pull up. “The warden’s home early.”

  Dad’s flipping through the mail as I descend the stairs. One of these days I’ll learn to get to the mailbox before him. Lingering over one envelope, he jerks when I say boldly, “If it’s for me, I’m right here. You don’t have to open it.”

  Ignoring me, he throws the mail onto the bar, where I watch him slap together his usual after-work martini. “I need my computer back. And my phone.”

  “You can have them back when you start acting like a responsible adult.”

  Well, at least he’s speaking to me now. But I have to remind myself that this is not Devon. Tread carefully, Shawna. He’s not a snake—he’s a raptor. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You can start by not lying to me. And by respecting my wishes.”

  “I already apologized for lying.” At least I think I did. I don’t quite remember. Or, truthfully, care.

  Again, he ignores me. He stirs his drink so hard, the olive pops out of the glass. I shuffle through the envelopes, buying time—nothing for me—and add it to Dad’s mishmash of assorted junk mail.

  That’s when I spy the return address on a big brown envelope. The brochure Julie told me about, the one from MassArt. Yes, it’s been opened. “I guess you’re mad about this?”

  “I wouldn’t say mad. Disappointed, maybe.”

  “I didn’t ask for this. It was my art teacher’s idea.”

  “Shawna.” Dad picks up the stray olive and pitches it aside. Is it my imagination, or are his hands unsteady? “Why didn’t you tell me you don’t want to go to medical s
chool?”

  “I do want to go! I never said I didn’t.”

  He doesn’t believe me.

  “I just wonder,” I add truthfully, “if I’m cut out for it. I mean, what if I’m not?”

  “Don’t be—” Dad catches himself, and changes this to, “You know you can’t earn a decent living as an artist.”

  “Mom did.” After last night I should know better than to bring up her name. But Dad doesn’t react. I finish feebly, “I’m just weighing my options.”

  “All right. Well.” Dad clears his throat, and continues cordially, “Don’t get defensive, because I’m really very interested. I’d like to know what you think these options are.”

  He can’t even be nice when he’s trying to be nice.

  Thoughtfully, he brushes my hair off my shoulder. Then he turns my face with his hand so I’m forced to look at him. “There are no other options. We’ve planned this your whole life. You’ve been working your tail off to get those grades. And I don’t say this very often, but . . . well, I’m proud of you, Shawna. Very proud.”

  Oh. My. God. Where did this come from?

  Flabbergasted, all I can manage is, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says formally.

  An awkward silence passes, until I take a deep breath. “Dad, I need my computer for school. I need my phone, too. What if I get carjacked? What if I break down on the highway?”

  Dad lifts his glass and studies it closely. “Before yesterday, you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you. I’m disappointed in you. Disappointed in Sam, too. But Sam’s a child. It’s up to you to protect him.”

  Protect him from Fran, he means. Or people like her.

  “But I talked to Julie today. She convinced me you don’t deserve to be grounded. So you can have your computer back. I’ll turn your phone on as well. But—”

  I brace myself, knowing what’s next.

  “—you are not to see, or talk to, anyone in that family. Ever. Again. Do I make myself clear?” I nod, but it’s not enough. “Not Francine. Not her son. Nobody in that house. If I need to go to court to get a restraining order against them, then let me know now. The courts are on my side. I can’t make this any clearer.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say wearily, reluctantly. “I’ll stay away.”

  “From all of them, Shawna.”

  I think of Fran. And then I think about Arye.

  “This goes for both of you,” he stresses. “You and Sam.”

  “I heard you, okay?”

  A brief flash of annoyance—and then, amazingly, he smiles that old “Dad” smile I miss so much. “You’re a good girl. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  96

  So, days pass, and we all play normal. Julie does everything but move in with us. Either she doesn’t believe what I told her that night, or she doesn’t understand it. Or maybe she thinks it’ll never happen to her.

  I hope she’s right.

  I’m more worried about Schmule. Lately he’s been on his best behavior. It’s spooky the way he agrees to go to Mass after Dad essentially begs him, promising he won’t have to participate. Schmule kicks the kneeler throughout the whole service, ignoring Aunt Colleen’s impatient huffs. Afterward, when Father Bernacki extends his hand with a jovial “I remember you, young man!” he stares in horror at the old priest’s vestments and then slinks behind Uncle Dieter as if using him for a shield.

  Spooky, too, the way he’ll sit with Charles, whispering words into those small silky ears. Words he won’t share with me, or with anyone else.

  The spookiest thing of all is the way he’s finally stopped talking about Fran and Arye.

  I still need to let Arye know we can’t see them anymore, that I promised Dad I’d stay far, far away. And I’ve been living in dread that Arye will foolishly call me.

  My cell phone’s out, because yes, it’ll be on the bill. I don’t dare e-mail him; knowing Dad, he probably installed some insidious high-powered spyware the second my laptop was out of my hands.

  So I think about asking LeeLee to make the call, and realize: what I really want is to hear Arye’s voice myself.

  Late at night, with Charles lumped between my ankles, I dial Arye’s number from my extension. Thankfully Arye, not Fran, answers with a sleepy mumble.

  “Don’t call me,” I whisper.

  Instantly awake, he admits, “I almost did. Are you guys okay?”

  “Yes. But I can’t e-mail you anymore. And you can’t call me, no matter what.” I tell him about Dad’s restraining order threat. “Your mom’ll get in trouble. This so isn’t worth it.”

  I don’t say what I’ve been thinking lately—that when I graduate and go off to Kenyon, things might be different. I don’t say it because I know there’s no guarantee that, even then, I’ll be able to defy Dad. He could cut off my allowance, my living expenses. If he cuts off my tuition I’ll be completely screwed.

  I hear his breath in my ear. “It’s okay, Shawna.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  But it’s the way it has to be.

  97

  It’s not like I’m sneaking around looking for weirdness. But I stop, silent, at the kitchen door when I notice Schmule at the sink—first studying the label of his antidepressants, then staring down at his other hand. He glances from one to the other in a funny, aching way. The way Charles stares at a bird he knows he can never catch.

  “What are you doing?” I ask loudly.

  With a yelp, Schmule jumps. A shower of pellets rain into the basin as the pill bottle leaps out of his splayed fingers. “Look what you made me do!”

  “Get them out, quick!”

  “I can’t. They’re wet.”

  I peer into the sink in time to see the foamy glob of pills dissolve into the drain. Great.

  “Don’t tell Dad,” he begs, scooping the bottle out of the sink.

  I catch his wrist as he aims for the wastebasket. “I have to tell him. Now he’ll have to call for a refill, and explain.” Schmule yanks his arm away as I add, “What were you doing with them, anyway?”

  He sends me a killer glare. “What do you think I was doing?”

  “That’s not an answer!” I yell as he charges out of the room.

  Dad’s not happy about this. “From now on,” he says later, “I want someone to hand you your pills.”

  “It was an accident,” Schmule insists. He wisely avoids blaming it on me. “Like you never dropped anything in your life?”

  I hold my breath, but Dad doesn’t fly into him. “It’s a new rule, Sam. If I’m not here, either Klara or Shawna will give them to you. Understand?”

  Schmule jiggles a foot. “Yeah. Whatever.”

  Even that snarky “whatever” doesn’t set my father off. I stare in amazement as Dad strides away without further comment. Then I glance back at Schmule, who throws me a smug, metal-mouthed grin.

  98

  When Dad flies to Tampa for a three-day conference—Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday—Evil Shawna flips into gear.

  I know it’s crazy. I know it’s dangerous. I know it goes against every iota of self-preservation I possess, and I can’t believe I’m considering it.

  But why not? Nobody has to know. Schmule can see Fran, I can see Arye, and nobody’ll find out. With Dad a thousand miles away, it’s utterly impossible.

  I don’t mention my dastardly plan in advance. I drive Schmule to Dr. Silverberg’s office on Tuesday and flip through a raggedy copy of People for fifty minutes. My moist fingers stick to the pages.

  “See you next week, Sam,” the receptionist chirps.

  Schmule stomps out as I inform her, “His name is Schmule!” and then take off after him.

  Inside the car, Schmule pulls out his Game Boy. The beeping drives me crazy, and I suspect he’s annoying me on purpose. I let it go. “What did the doc say?”

  “You ask me that every week and I always tell you the same thing.”

  “Which is?”

>   “MYOB.”

  Gritting my teeth with every beep-beep-beep, I head down Cedar Road. Instead of making my usual left toward Shaker Heights, I continue north. Schmule, zapping aliens, pays no attention.

  “Schmoo. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Like if I said no, that’d stop you?”

  “Did you tell Dr. Silverberg that Dad hit you that night?”

  His flying thumbs slow for a microsecond. “You think I want Dad to go to jail?”

  I notice he now says “Dad” even when Dad’s not around. “I doubt if he’d go to jail. I just wondered if you’d—”

  “Shut up, Shawna. I didn’t say anything. Yeesh!”

  My relief turns into a peculiar disappointment. If Dr. Silverberg knew Dad hit Schmule that night, would it make a difference? Dad can’t deny it; both Julie and I saw it. If Fran takes Dad back to court, would it help her case?

  I stop for a red light at Lee Road and continue on toward Coventry. Only when I make the unexpected right turn does Schmule lift his head. By then Fran’s house is two blocks away.

  “What are you doing?” he howls, dropping his Game Boy on the floor.

  “You know what I’m doing. I’m taking you to see your mom.”

  “NO! Turn around right now!”

  What the—? “Wait. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “He’ll catch us. He’ll find out!”

  “He’s in Florida.”

  “What if somebody sees us?” Without waiting for any reassurance, he grabs and wrenches the steering wheel—hard! “No. I said no!” One tire slams the curb as Schmule’s door flies open. “I’ll jump! I swear it! I don’t care if I die!”

  I yank the steering wheel back and scrunch the brakes. “Stop it!” The chorus of horn blasts behind me turns my blood to sludge.

  “Go back! Go back!” One Nike, untied, dangles from the car. “Please, go back!”

  So there’s nothing I can do but turn around and go back.

  99

  Something dreadful has been released within the walls of my home. Something horrifying and unstoppable, something I can’t put a name to.