Women called on her, too, though not as many. Most of them came to take tea and to listen to Mom talking about her life before. Their eyes would pop open as they oooh-ed and ahhhh-ed, because Mom’s life was so special. The nurses fussed over her, too. Unlike the other patients, she could choose her meals from a menu, leave the lights on as late as she pleased and, what’s more, she could even smoke in her room, if she closed the door. We were so thrilled that we started making plans, and forgot all about the moving vans.
Because Mom’s head wasn’t the only place that the movers were supposed to be emptying out. Our apartment was getting the same treatment. And that move was almost as depressing as the other one. We had to pack centuries of memories into boxes, sort them and throw some away. That was definitely the hardest part. Dad had found a place to rent on the same street, so Mom wouldn’t be disoriented when she came home, but it was a lot smaller, so we had to fill a ton of garbage cans. The Creep came to help . . . or so he said, but he wasn’t really any help at all. Sometimes he would pull stuff out of the garbage bags and scold us, “You can’t throw this out, it could come in handy someday!” undoing the work we’d had so much trouble doing in the first place. It was a pain, because then we had to put stuff in the garbage again, and say good-bye a second time. We couldn’t keep everything, there just wasn’t enough room at the other place. It was mathematical, Dad said, and he should know. But even I had understood years before that you couldn’t get a whole tubful of water into a plastic bottle. It may have been mathematical, but it didn’t seem to make horse sense to the Senator.
Dad had been putting on a very brave face ever since Mom had been committed. He was always smiling, and he spent a lot of time with me, talking and playing. He kept up with my history lessons and my art lessons and taught me Spanish with an old tape player that had cassettes that purred as they unspooled. He called me señor, and I called him gringo, and we tried to have corridas with Mademoiselle, but it never worked. The red rag was like the stopwatch, she didn’t give a damn about it. She’d glare at it, lowering her head and twisting her neck, and then she’d run off in the opposite direction. Mademoiselle was a lousy toro, but it wasn’t her fault, she hadn’t been raised that way.
After the living room had been cleaned up, Dad and I repainted the walls. Since the apartment had just been sold, he said I could pick whatever color I wanted. I didn’t give a damn though, since we weren’t going to live there anymore. But unlike bullfighting, Mademoiselle Superfluous did care about the wall color, so with her help, I chose pond-scum green. We had a good laugh thinking about the owners’ faces when they walked into their ugly, depressing new living room.
Dad took me to the movies a lot. That way, he could cry in the dark without my seeing it. I could see that his eyes were red at the end of the movie, but I acted like I hadn’t noticed anything. But with the move, he broke down, and started crying in broad daylight—twice. Crying in broad daylight was something else, a whole other level of unhappiness.
The first time, it was because of a photo, the only one Mom forgot to burn. It wasn’t even a particularly good one. The Creep had taken it, as you could see, because it showed the three of us plus our mademoiselle crane, sitting on our terrace in Spain. Mom was perched on the guardrail, laughing her head off, while Dad had his hand in front of his mouth, like he was about to cough. My eyes were closed and I was scratching my cheek. Mademoiselle Superfluous was standing next to me, lifting her beak, but with her back to the camera: the whole concept of posing for photos flew right over her head. Everything was out of focus; even the landscape in the background was blurry. It was an absolutely ordinary photo, but it was the last one, the only one that hadn’t gone up in smoke. That was why Dad started crying in broad daylight, because all we had left of our good old days was one lousy photo.
The second time he cried was in the elevator after we gave the keys to the new owners. On the fourth floor, we had tears in our eyes from laughing so hard at the hilarious look on the new people’s faces. They had walked in on us playing checkers on the tiles in the front hall, with a big bird running every which way and making truly deranged squawking sounds. Their brittle smiles when they thanked us for the scummy, depressing job we’d done on the living room were even funnier. But by the second floor, Dad’s laughter had less joy in it, and by the ground floor, the tears in his eyes weren’t from laughing anymore. They were tears of true misery. He stayed inside the elevator for a long time, while I waited on the landing outside the closed door.
The new apartment was charming, but not nearly as much fun as the old one. There were only two bedrooms, and the hall was so narrow that we had to hug the walls if we crossed paths in it, and so short that we’d bump into the front door before we’d even picked up speed when we raced. All that was left of the ivy hutch was the ivy; the hutch itself was too big for the living room. With the ivy on the floor and the hutch in the dump, both halves had lost their charm. Trying to fit the big blue overstuffed couch, red club chairs, sand-filled table and city-sticker trunk into the living room meant rearranging everything over and over—a jigsaw-puzzle party that went on for days—before we finally admitted that it wasn’t possible. So we banished the sticker trunk to the basement to grow moldy. The big dining table wouldn’t fit in either, so we replaced it with a smaller one that wasn’t big enough for any dinner guests at all. There was only room for Mom (when she got back), Dad, me and the Creep, who, despite his best efforts, still couldn’t balance a place setting on his stomach. I mean, we could put one there—we checked at every meal—but only for a second or two, and then everything would slide off, every time.
In my room, all I had was one medium-sized bed, because if I’d brought the big one—let alone all three—there wouldn’t have been a square inch left over for my stuff. We could still play darts with Claude François, but we couldn’t back up very far, so the darts all landed smack in the middle of his face. Even Claude wasn’t as much fun to play with in that place. The lush, exotic jungle of potted plants in the kitchen had disappeared; now there was just one itsy-bitsy little tub of mint for Dad and the Creep’s cocktails.
The bathroom was ridiculously tiny. The Creep could barely even breathe in it. He’d walk in sideways, like a crab, and come out as red as a lobster. We could hear him swearing every time he knocked something over, and afterward, he’d start yelling again because he’d knocked even more stuff over trying to pick the first things up. For him, taking a shower was worse than getting drafted.
As for the poor Prussian cavalier, he was propped up against the wall, with none of the respect due to his rank. He had won tons of battles, his chest was covered in medals, and there he was, plopped on the floor like a vulgar dishrag, with nothing to look at but a rack draped with shabby socks and clumps of wet laundry. That really got me down in the dumps, worse than if I’d had the mumps.
The view from that place was depressing for all of us, for that matter. It faced a courtyard, so there wasn’t a lot of sunlight, and we could see the neighbors across the way wandering around their rooms or watching the telly, although they actually seemed to spend more time gaping at the Creep and me playing Russian Droolette or balancing plates on his belly. And at Mademoiselle, who did her vocalizing very early in the morning, waking the whole building up. The minute she opened her beak, the lights in the building all switched on in the blink of an eye.
Mademoiselle was down in the dumps, too. She pecked at the walls as though she wanted to knock them down, making little holes everywhere. She was so bored that she would tuck her head under her wing and go to sleep in the middle of the day. Whether it was Mom’s brain or our furniture, no one was really enjoying our moves.
Fortunately, Mom finally got a grip on things. One Friday evening when we arrived at the clinic, the hallways were empty. All the doors were open, but the beds were deserted. There wasn’t a single mentally decapitated person in view. Even Air Bubble had floated away. Wandering all over the clinic, we finally heard som
e noise—music and shouting—coming from the dining hall. When we opened the door, we saw things we had never seen before. All the mentally decapitated people were dancing in their Sunday best. Some of them were slow-dancing in pairs; others gyrated alone, screaming wildly at the top of their lungs. There was even one who was rubbing himself against a pillar and laughing like a regular madman. “Mr. Bojangles” was on replay on the turntable, which had surely never spun for such loony tunes before. Lord knows we had seen some crazy things in our apartment, but this was taking it to another level.
Mom was standing on a table, singing, clapping spoon castanets and stamping her feet like a flamenco dancer, while Sven sat in front of her, playing air piano. They were doing it so well that it really seemed like “Bojangles” was coming out of his hands and her mouth. Even Air Bubble was nodding her head to the rhythm, sitting in a wheelchair and looking more content than I’d ever seen her.
Only Yogurt was upset, because the election had been postponed. He was driving everyone crazy, telling the dancers they had to go vote, because if they didn’t, there wouldn’t be anyone to govern them the following week. He even tugged at Mom’s skirt to try to get her to come down from the table. So she grabbed the sugar bowl that was by her feet and dumped it over his head. Then she called to the other nutcases to help her sweeten Yogurt up. The mentally decapitated all came running over to pour sugar on him, dancing around him like Sioux and chanting, “Sugar for Yogurt, Sugar for Yogurt!”
He just stood there without moving a muscle, waiting to be sweetened, as though there weren’t a single nerve in his whole presidential body. Air Bubble watched the whole thing with a big grin, because she was fed up with his presidential nonsense, too. When Mom caught sight of Dad and me, she jumped off the table. Spinning like a top, she whirled over to tell us, “Tonight, my darlings, I’m celebrating the end of my treatment. This whole wretched business is over!”
7.
Precisely four years ago, Mom was kidnapped. It was a real shock to everyone at the clinic. The staff couldn’t understand what had happened. They were used to patients trying to run away, but they had never had a kidnapping before. Despite the signs of struggle in the room, the window broken from the outside and the blood on the sheets, they hadn’t seen or heard a thing. They were terribly sorry, and we were perfectly willing to believe them. Both the patients who had moved out and the mentally decapitated were totally discombobulated. Well, even more than usual, anyway.
Some of them had surprising reactions. The little bald guy with the wrinkly face was 100 percent convinced it was his fault. Crying and scratching his head all day long, he was a truly sorry sight to see. The poor old man tried to turn himself in several times, but anyone could see he was incapable of kidnapping a fly. Another patient was furious that Mom had left without the presents he’d given her. He banged his fists on the walls, cursing her. We were sympathetic at first, but after a while, it really got on our nerves. Insulting my mother was no way to express his sorrow. He even tore up all the drawings he’d given her, which was actually a relief, because that way, we didn’t have to bring them back to the apartment. It was bedlam there already.
Yogurt was convinced that a government agency had gotten back at her for demeaning him with the sugar. He kept going up to people to tell them that they’d better not treat him like that anymore, and that the next time anyone was rude to him, the rebels would be kidnapped and tortured. He swaggered around with his chest puffed out and his neck all stiff and straight, like someone who wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. To really milk the crisis for everything it was worth, he tried to rally people to his side, but nobody wanted to unite behind His Dairyness. There’s a limit to everything.
As for Sven, he pounded his chest, laughing hilariously and pointing at us, then wandered off with his arms flapping, singing in Swedish, Italian or German, we weren’t really sure which, but he seemed happy. Then he came back, clapped, pointed to the sky and flew off again, singing some more. Before we left, he gave us a kiss good-bye, scratching our cheeks with his tooth, and splattering us with spittle as he whispered prayers. Sven was far and away the most endearing of the mentally decapitated.
The police couldn’t figure out what had happened. They came to examine the room. The window really had been broken from the outside, and the blood really was Mom’s. The overturned chair and broken vase indicated that there had been a terrible struggle, but they couldn’t find a single footprint in the grass below her window. Their inquiries didn’t yield any leads. The staff hadn’t noticed anyone acting strangely near the building. The police decreed that we could take the staff’s word for it, because noticing people acting strangely was their job.
They questioned us a first time, trying to find out if Mom had any enemies, but we said no—except for a tax assessor, everybody liked her. The tax-assessor lead didn’t get them anywhere, so it was soon dropped. They questioned us a second time, but nothing came of that either. Mostly because we had kidnapped Mom ourselves, at her insistence, and even we weren’t foolish enough to give evidence against ourselves.
When we got back to Mom’s room after the party in the dining hall, she told us in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to live at the clinic anymore. The doctors had told her that she would never be entirely cured, and she didn’t want to go on munching pills forever, especially if it wasn’t even doing her any good. “Besides, I’ve always been a little crazy, so a little more or a little less isn’t going to change your love for me, right?” Dad and I glanced at each other. We both thought that what she’d said showed real horse sense. Besides, we were tired of coming to the clinic every day, of waiting hopelessly for her to return, of her still-empty place at the table and of our dance parties in the living room that were always getting postponed. There was a multitude of other reasons why things couldn’t go on the way they were. Because of the clinic’s flaking walls, which made us queasy, and the Bojangles song, which sounded strange in the ward and made us uneasy; because Mademoiselle Superfluous kept making a fuss. And last but not least, because I was starting to get jealous. Of the daft people and the staff people who had Mom with them all day long, unlike us. I was fed up with sharing her, the rest was a blur. We had to undo it, that’s all there was to it. I had been thinking that it was criminally negligent to just stand there and wait for the pills to move everything out of Mom’s mind, when Dad started to respond, sounding both worried and excited at the same time.
“I totally agree, my dear Verity! We can’t allow you to mess with this clinic much longer; the other patients’ mental health is at stake! With the excitement and joy you’re bringing these lunatics, their mood’s going to make big upticks, and then I’ll have to worry about your suitors for real! The only problem is that I really don’t see how we’re going to convince the doctors to release you, or even to decrease your treatment. We’re going to have to come up with a real whopper of a lie!” he exclaimed, closing one eye to stare into the hole in his pipe, as though the answer might be inside it.
“George, you happy fool! Haven’t we always lived by our own rules? Who said anything about asking permission from some clinic physician? Besides, the best treatment for me would be to be with you two more frequently, instead of spending my time with all these loose screws—they’re giving me the blues. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to wind up howling at the moon, or hastening my own doom, like the last unfortunate occupant of this room. But I’m not going to let that happen, don’t worry. I’ve figured it all out, but we have to hurry. You two are going to abduct me, that’s all there is to it!” Then she clapped her hands with joy, the way she used to.
“Abduct you? You’ll have to instruct me. You mean kidnap you, is that it?” Dad asked, choking with surprise, as he fanned the smoke to peer into Mom’s eyes.
“That’s right, a family kidnapping! I’ve been preparing it for days. It’s a first-rate lie, you’ll see. I’ve figured the whole thing out down to a T. It’ll go like clock
work; I haven’t left anything to chance!” Mom said, with an excited little dance. She spoke softly, stroking Dad’s hair with a conspiratorial air. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes saying, But, what if . . . ?, while hers brimmed with excitement at the idea of mischief. His face seemed to thaw, as though he were slowly warming up to her crazy idea. Then, his mind suddenly made up, Dad, who was no slouch when it came to lying, whispered surreptitiously, “Hats off, my dear Reese! This will be your masterpiece! Tell us how you’ve planned it!” he demanded, as the flames danced over his pipe in a small conflagration, and his eyes twinkled with determination.
Mom really did have everything planned down to the last detail. She had swiped a vial of her own blood the last time they had done blood work. After several nights of observation, she knew that the night watchman left his station every evening at midnight to do his rounds, then stepped out for a smoke on the grounds. That was when we should arrive, she told us. We could stroll right through the front door, as pretty as you please. But Mom really wanted it to be quixotic, you know, so we had to make it look like we’d come in through the window.
Dad and I thought that made sense. Walking out the front door was too mundane for a kidnapping, and even with her pills, Mom still hated anything mundane. If she had wanted to, she could have strolled right out the front door while the watchman was on his rounds, but that wouldn’t have been a kidnapping, and it would have wreaked havoc on all her careful planning. At five minutes to midnight, she was going to spill her blood on the sheets, carefully lay a chair on its side and break a vase, using her pillow to muffle the sound. Then she would open the window and smash it—with a towel this time—from the outside, so it would look like a break-in. At five past twelve, we were to show up with stockings on our heads to kidnap her—with her consent—and then we would all tiptoe out the front door for the main event. “What a brilliant plan, my Lulu. So when do you foresee our kidnapping you?” Dad asked, his eyes staring off into the distance, probably trying to rehearse the sequence in his mind.
Waiting for Bojangles Page 6
