Malcolm and Me

by Robin Farmer

  Dad is turned sideways in the driver’s seat, facing me across from him in what used to be my favorite seat. It feels like an electric chair now, and I’m a prisoner counting the minutes. I’m here only because Mom drove me over at Dad’s request.

  It’s unseasonably cold. I pull back my mitten and check my watch. The trolley in front of us boards its last passenger in eight minutes. When it pulls off, Dad will turn on his destination light and move up and open his doors. Then I’m free.

  “So the essay contest is a no-go?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, it’s been over.”

  He sighs and blows on his bare hands.

  I look out the window for Mom’s Bonneville. She’s probably driven to the grocery store around the corner. I watch a man in a short jacket pacing outside a pay phone in use. I absentmindedly pop my gum.

  “You know I don’t like that. Throw it away,” he says, handing me a tissue.

  It takes everything in me not to tell him what I don’t like about his actions. Removing my mitten, I wrap the gum in slow motion. Anything to keep from talking or looking at him. Anything to eat the time.

  A lady bundled in a furry coat and huge colorful scarves knocks on the closed door. Frowning, Dad opens it.

  “I’m on break, you can’t board just yet.” He nods at the trolley parked in front of him. “He’s taking off soon.”

  “I’m not getting on. I just wanted to know if you have a schedule. The driver in front of you is all out,” she says, stepping on board and smiling at us. “This must be your daughter. She looks just like you spit her out.”

  I pretend there’s something on my boot. Then I say, “I am looking more like my mother every day.” Praise God.

  Next thing I know she’s removed a glove, and she’s patting the top of my hair.

  “Look at all this pretty hair. It feels lovely. I bet it keeps you warm,” she coos. “You have enough hair for nine wigs.”

  I respond with a slender smile.

  “How do you care for it at night?”

  “I just braid it. Sometimes I roll the braids up for more body.”

  “You picked a cold night to be riding with your daddy.” The chatterbox takes the schedule from Dad. “Nothing like that father–daughter bond. Wish I could spend time with my father, but the Lord called him home sixteen years ago.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” Dad says.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Good night you two and thanks.” She turns and waves.

  We wave back.

  Then Dad sits near me. He turns my face toward him and I stare at his dimple, trying to keep my expression blank. Empty. Flat. Like how he left me. Us.

  “I know you are mad. I know you are hurt and confused. I wanted to see you, to talk to you. I know you have questions that I may not be ready to answer or have the answers you want to hear. You are still a child. There are some things you won’t understand right now. I asked your mom to bring you here because contrary to what you may believe, I love you. I love Charles. I love all of you.”

  My cheeks burn at the omission of Mom. I meet his eyes. He looks sleepy and sad. And a thousand times guilty. Serves you right.

  He waits for me to speak. I don’t.

  Dad creases his forehead, throws his hands up in a what-do-you-want-from-me gesture.

  Nothing.

  I stare wordlessly.

  “Daddy isn’t perfect. Being an adult is complicated. You are growing up and starting to see a bit of that.”

  His words force me to consider the hurt he caused. The hurt I am trying not to feel. The hurt that’s bubbling into volcanic anger. My father’s skin looks gray, like everything around me.

  “There’s nothing you want to say?” he asks.

  “All this time I thought Mommy was,” my voice catches, “the bad guy.”

  Dad’s face crumbles as he watches tears trail down my cheeks.

  “I don’t want to talk about nothing. I just want to go home. I just—” I bury my head in my lap and heave with sobs so deep I hiccup. Dad pulls me up by the shoulders and wraps me in a bear hug. I am torn between wanting to stay in his arms and recoiling at his attempt to baby me.

  You have a baby girl and I’m not her. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

  But I don’t. And I do. I don’t know how to handle this pain seesawing between my head and heart. “No, stop!” I scream. “I don’t want to be here!”

  Dad loosens his grip and cocks his head at my snot-running face.

  I wiggle away. “Let me off!” I pull the cord that signals you want to exit. Its loud buzzing mixes with my shrill cries. Passengers waiting to board the trolley in front of us turn and stare. When my father fails to move, I stomp my feet. “Let me off. Open the door! I want to get off.”

  “Roberta, stop making a commotion. I’ll lose my job.” Dad grabs my hand to prevent me from pulling the cord. He wrestles my flailing arms behind my back and I collapse against him, bawling with all my might. Like a baby. A baby girl.

  “Let it out,” Dad whispers.

  He digs out a hanky and wipes my face dry. He kisses my cheek and inside my heart, all the open spaces I did not know remain vibrate.

  “Know this if you don’t know anything else. Daddy loves you and wants the best for you, Charles, and your mother, even if it means we live apart. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I say, feeling light-headed.

  He cups a hand against the window to see past the glare of the interior lights, and peers into the parking lot. “Your mother just pulled up.” His eyes light up. “No school tomorrow. Want to ride with me?”

  I shake my head. “We’re going to pick up Charles. We’re seeing a movie tonight.”

  Dad’s smile lacks joy. He follows me to the door as I pull my hood up.

  “Goodnight. Have a good week at school. Love you.”

  “Night,” I say, stepping off the trolley. On the last step I turn. “I do have a question.”

  His Adam’s apple moves before he says, “What is it?”

  “Do you call your new daughter ‘Pumpkin’?”

  Dad’s eyes turn watery. It seems like forever before he speaks.

  “No,” he says in a half-whisper. “No one can replace you, Roberta.”

  “Talk to you later, Dad.” I step out into the wind and scamper to Mom’s idling car, unsure what to believe, but feeling lighter. Hate is a heavy load to carry.

  CHAPTER 24

  Now that I no longer cut up in class, Geoffrey has taken my spot, waging war against Sister Elizabeth. I suspect the constant bruises and busted body parts he’s getting outside of class have something to do with why he acts out. I can relate. My injuries are invisible but they still caused me to act crazy.

  Bonnie says she heard his father beats him. It’s certain that someone does. I feel sorry for him, even though Sister’s insults sometimes make me laugh out loud. Yesterday, she said he was an imbecile in the strictest of medical terms. I wonder if all the sisters trade insults over dinner at the convent. Sister Elizabeth comes up with the best lines.

  What’s new now is Geoffrey also misbehaves in Mr. Harvey’s class, which is why the entire class has detention today. Geoffrey stuck wads of gum under several desks.

  I’m agitated. I want to cook dinner. Mom still tries to do everything she did before breaking her hand, and it drives me crazy.

  Detention lasts for forty-five minutes, much longer than Sister Elizabeth’s. As we file out, Mr. Harvey calls me over.

  “How you doing, kiddo?”

  “I’m fine. Staying out of trouble.”

  “Just checking. A good friend of mine will teach English at East Catholic High next year. She’s a wonderful teacher. She’ll be heading up either the school newspaper or the yearbook. I told her to be on the lookout for you.”

  “I may not go there. I’m praying Girls Academy accepts me.” I cross my fingers.

  Mr. Harvey knits his brow and rears back in his seat. “They’d be crazy not to accept someone so b
right and talented. You know I will write a glowing recommendation. So you decided after this year no more sisters, eh.”

  “Well . . . I had some unreal stuff happen this year.”

  Mr. Harvey gives me a knowing nod.

  “Plus, my parents are divorcing. Money will be tight.” Dad has two families.

  “Sorry to hear that, kiddo. There are East Catholic scholarships by the way. And why do you think you won’t get into Girls Academy?”

  “I got Fs on my transcript. Girls Academy only accepts top students.”

  He shakes his head. “Conduct and effort aren’t academic subjects. Outside of here they don’t amount to a hill of beans. Yes, they were used against you for the contest. But don’t put too much stock in them. Now, I’ve kept you long enough. Go home.”

  I step into the hallway, and he calls after me.

  “Girls Academy will be lucky to have a student of your caliber grace their doors.” He clenches his fist in a Black Power salute.

  I raise mine, too.

  “Shut the door,” he says. “I’m here for a while. I’m not taking work home today.”

  At the water fountain for a quick drink, I hear, “Pssst.”

  At the opposite end of the hall, six classmates crawl in a line outside Sister Elizabeth’s room. Geoffrey, crouching like a cat burglar, is against the wall moving slowly toward the edge of the slightly ajar door. He peeks through it for a few seconds, then jerks his head back and slaps his knee.

  I glance around. Every other class is gone. School let out nearly an hour ago, so whatever they gawk at better be worth it. I tiptoe toward the creepy crawlers then kneel.

  Donna whispers so low I can barely hear her. “Wait for the signal.” She eyes Geoffrey, who is behaving like a chunky James Bond.

  “Someone in there doing it?” I whisper.

  “Even better.” Donna grins.

  Geoffrey motions it’s my turn to see what everyone here has witnessed.

  I inch forward, imagining myself a panther stalking prey. I ease myself along the wall and pause in front of the door. Chalk dust dances in the sunlight of the open space.

  Familiar and squeaky small noises greet my ear. Kids are having sex? That’s so nasty. I’ve never actually witnessed anyone doing it. I just heard my parents, even when they turned the music up. But that was a long time ago.

  I pause before peeking in. I’m not sure how I feel about actually seeing this. Then I recognize the sounds. Someone is crying. What loser is using the classroom for crybaby central without shutting the door? I look back at my detention crew. They smile like game show contestants. Geoffrey winks and mouths, “Hurry up.”

  Pulling my massive telltale hair back from my forehead, I peep inside. Hunched over her desk, Sister Elizabeth sobs while holding a crumpled tissue in one hand and clutching her rosary beads in the other. Sister’s glasses rest before her on the desk. How is she so oblivious to our prying eyes? The hushed titters and whispers? She’s totally off her game.

  A current of weirdness swooshes through me and I stiffen. That happens when I see something shocking. Sister blows her nose. Her gold ring glistens in the afternoon sun.

  Blood rushing, I survey the funky state of the room. Dirty erasers line unwashed blackboards. Rows of desks form squiggly lines on a littered floor. No trace of Sister’s demand for order.

  A part of me wants to whoop with glee, but another part says no. I turn away. What could force Sister, of all people, to fall to pieces here? But then, if not for detention, our floor would be empty at this hour. She’d be free to cry all she wants in peace. Has she done this before?

  Retracing my crawl, I point toward the other end of the hall.

  “Be quiet, Mr. Harvey is still marking papers,” I whisper.

  Geoffrey follows me with a joker-sized smile.

  Out of earshot of our teachers, I turn to Geoffrey. “Is she being transferred?” I ask.

  Geoffrey smirks. “Never thought we’d see the penguin lose her cookies. Man, if this had happened during recess, we could have sold tickets.” Geoffrey whips out his palm for me to slap him five. “Too bad I found out too late.”

  “Found out what?” I ask, leaving his palm hanging.

  “She has feelings. Her brother kicked the bucket.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My cousin heard Sister Benard talking about it outside the faculty room. Get this, no one knows why she only visited him in the hospital once. He’s been in and out since school started. Who does that? She’s a strange fish.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand. Heat fires up my cheeks. “Her brother died?” I ask. “That’s the punchline?” I glare at my classmates. “Get out of here!” I grunt. “Or I’m telling.”

  Everyone except Geoffrey scatters. They look back at me with questioning eyes. A frown punctuates Geoffrey’s doughy face. He folds his arms and stands wide-legged like a pint-sized Mr. Clean.

  “What’s come over you? You’re acting nuts.”

  He clearly does not know me. Maybe I am a stranger to myself, too.

  “You hate that battle-axe. Why spoil the fun? It’s not like she hasn’t made you cry.”

  I point to Mr. Harvey’s room, disgust etch-a-sketching all over my face. “Go or I’m reporting you.”

  “Forget you.” Geoffrey throws up his hands and storms off. “You’ve been weird lately.”

  I stand there, mind racing. I think about Charles. I think about Malcolm. I think about the story we discussed in reading class that ended with the boy waiting at the traffic light. I said then in class that he was thinking about which way to go. Now I wonder: When he finally moved, was he astonished by the direction he chose?

  CHAPTER 25

  Grinning so hard he’s squinting, Charles hugs Mom and rushes out the front door. His excitement feels like a betrayal. I peek out the kitchen window. Dad’s horn beeps twice as he drives off to shop for Easter suits—as in plural. As in one for himself to accompany us to Mass like he used to. What in the Sam Hill?

  My stomach clenches. Except for me, everyone has a short memory about my father’s sinful ways. Why is it an option he’s even invited?

  Coast clear, Mom gestures for me to remove Charles’s Easter basket from its hiding spot in the storage bin by the sink. There’s enough candy for five baskets. Mom insists that I share in the bounty despite the number of silver fillings hugging my back teeth. I insisted I’m too old for a basket. I’m giving in, but she doesn’t know it. I need to hold out longer. For general principle and all.

  “When are you getting your Easter outfit?” I ask.

  Cleaning the oven, she pauses to examine her handiwork. Then grins at me.

  “Anything I wear looks new since I haven’t been to church in a while.” She shrugs, removes her gloves and examines her healed hand.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Not too bad.”

  I pile the basket and assorted candy packages on the table, debating how much to say about my father, the bold-faced liar. “Still, everyone else,” I pause to emphasize my point, “is getting something new to wear.”

  Stooping in front of the oven, Mom looks back at me. “What’s eating you?”

  “I just don’t understand how you can talk to him like he is not a bold-faced liar. Act so nice like nothing happened.” My stomach hardens.

  “It’s called maturity—something I hope you experience sooner than later.” Her voice has an edge, and her eye twitches. She checks the gleaming oven for nonexistent missed spots.

  Instantly I feel bad. I didn’t mean to insult Mom. I’m always on her side.

  “It’s just that he was so heart-stoppingly wrong. You are a saint to forgive him,” I snap my fingers, “just like that.” I’m trembling.

  “Heart-stoppingly? Yup, you’re my little poet.”

  Mom rises, shuts the oven door and adds water into a small pan. “Forgiveness is a process. And no matter what, he is your father. We—you, Charles, and I—will always hav
e a relationship with your father. Of course, my relationship changes.” Mom looks like she wants to say more.

  I do, but don’t. ’Cause, immaturity. I’m thirteen, not thirty. I sit at the table.

  “When is your grandmother taking you shopping for your outfit?”

  “Tomorrow. Are you still mad at her since she knew Daddy’s secret?”

  “She didn’t know everything. We’re cool. I’ve learned to let go what’s gone.”

  Her words stop me cold. Mom talks like a poet sometimes. I want to tell her. Instead I change the subject.

  “I don’t even want to go to church.” I shift into my Thinker pose, based on the statue I finally saw at the Rodin Museum on Benjamin Franklin Parkway on a field trip. “You think God cares that so many people only come to church on Easter and Christmas? All decked out in their finery, folks who normally wouldn’t be caught anywhere there like my father—” I stop, instantly regretting mentioning him. Mom searches my face.

  “People go to church for different reasons on holy days and holidays,” she says.

  “That’s why I stopped,” I say. “I just wasn’t feeling . . .” I shrug. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  Mom nods and gazes with affection at the packages of yellow marshmallow chicks eyeing the ceiling. They remind me of the song, “Yellow Bird.”

  “Do you think Sister became a nun because some guy broke her heart?”

  Mom tilts her head, pondering my question, then tosses her head back and howls like I just told one of Charles’s jokes. Shoulders shaking, she struggles to catch her breath. Her laughter lifts my sagging spirit. I join in, my high-pitched chortles mixing with Mom’s squeals. We sound like a laugh track on helium. We rock back and forth, cracking up a good while before Mom regains her composure. I can’t recall the last time we belly laughed until our stomach muscles felt sore.

  “I don’t think it works like that,” Mom says, setting aside a packet of purple dye and wiping her eyes. “Men can make women do all kinds of things, but I’d like to think really important decisions like that are deeply personal. More women are choosing how they want to live and work. Even though the Equal Rights Amendment didn’t pass, change is in the air. Your generation will benefit from a shift in thinking about what women want and need.”