“She’s dying, Augusten.”
The cat made a yowling sound, almost a growl.
I brushed a cobweb off my head and slapped the back of my neck. “What you are doing down here? It’s awful.” The basement was damp, with a dirt floor, stone walls and a low ceiling of exposed beams.
In a calm, tender voice Hope explained. “I’m down here with Freud to keep her company while she passes away.” My first impulse was to laugh. Except the expression on Hope’s face told me she wasn’t kidding. So I said, “Oh-kay,” and I backed away, then walked slowly up the steps, turning the light off before closing the door.
Then I ran as fast as I could upstairs and burst into Natalie’s room.
“Oh my God,” I said. “You will never believe what your crazy sister is doing.” Natalie quickly let her skirt fall, covering her thighs and turned away from the mirror. “What now?” “She’s got the cat trapped in a laundry basket in the basement. She’s gonna kill it.” “What?”
“It’s true. I was just down there. She’s got the thing stuck inside this laundry basket because she says it’s dying and she wants to keep it company or something.” “Are you serious?” She raised her eyebrows in her trademark don’t-fuck-with-me-fashion.
“Totally.”
She grabbed her Canon Al.
“No, not like that. Just lean in and tilt your head up toward the lightbulb,” Natalie directed, the camera gripped in her hands.
I stood by the stairs, not wanting to get more cobwebs in my hair. I’d just taken it two shades lighter and it was very porous. I was concerned that dirt might actually stain the shafts. I wasn’t sure my hair could withstand another processing.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Natalie said.
Hope was posed on her side, her face next to the laundry basket. Harsh light from the bulb overhead created dark, dramatic shadows under her eyes. The flashlight Natalie had aimed through the laundry basket created subtle slats across Hope’s cheekbones. It looked like it would be a great photograph.
Eventually Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs, suspicious. “What are you all doing down there? You better not be smoking pot or engaging in other activities. I won’t allow any of that in my house.” Natalie kept her eye on the eyepiece of the camera and shouted, “Shut up. Leave us alone.” “I’m warning you,” Agnes called. “I’ll speak to the doctor.”
“This was a good idea, Nat,” Hope said. “It’s nice of you to come down here and take our picture. It’s special.” Natalie laughed. “Oh, it’s my pleasure.”
“Cut it out down there!” Agnes screamed. She was even more annoying than usual. I wanted to walk up the stairs and close the door but since I wasn’t her kid and this wasn’t my house, I couldn’t.
Hope said, “She is such a mothermind.”
“Don’t move your mouth.”
A mothermind was a Dr. Finch-ism. It was one part busybody and one part manipulator. It was based on the principle that mothering people is unhealthy after a certain point in life. Like the age of ten. A mothermind wanted to oppress and control you. If a mothermind needed money, she might say, “Do you have ten dollars?” Dr. Finch’s feeling was that it’s none of your business whether or not I have ten dollars. If you need ten dollars, say, “May I have ten dollars,” or “I need ten dollars.” Everyone in the house was paranoid about being seen as a mothermind. And Agnes was the biggest one of all. The Antichrist of mental health and emotional maturity.
After Natalie was satisfied with her pictures, she said, “How long are you going to stay down here?” Hope answered gravely, “As long as I need to.”
Once we were back upstairs in Natalie’s room and had stopped laughing, we wondered if maybe we should call the doctor. “It seems like she’s really serious,” I said. “Like she’s not joking.” “Your hair looks so dry,” Natalie said. “Have you colored it again?”
“This isn’t about my hair,” I said. “But yeah, I did. I had to go a little lighter. I think it looks more natural.” “More natural than your natural color?”
Natalie would never understand, could not understand this basic concept. She barely even washed her hair. Which was one thing I really hated about her. Because she could be so beautiful if she tried, if she wasn’t such a fat and sloppy thing. And as soon as I thought this, I tried to think of something else quickly. Because we were so close that I felt sometimes like she could read my mind.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said.
I knew it. She heard me thinking. “I’m not thinking anything,” I lied.
“What?”
“What?”
“What were you thinking? Your hair was fine.”
Phew. “What about Hope?” I said, changing the subject.
“Let’s let Dad figure it out.”
That evening when the doctor was sitting in the TV room and Hope was still downstairs in the basement with the cat in the laundry hamper, we explained the situation to Finch. He listened carefully, nodding and saying, “Yes,” and “I see.” I have to admit, I was impressed with his professionalism. He looked and sounded exactly like a real psychiatrist. Until he opened his mouth.
“Let’s ask God,” he said.
Automatically, Natalie walked to the fireplace mantle and pulled down the bible. It was sitting next to a framed black-and-white photograph of a movie marquis that read, “Tonight: Velvet Tongue.” “Okay then, let’s ask for guidance.” The doctor closed his eyes.
Natalie fanned the pages and then opened the book.
The doctor put his finger down on the page. He opened his eyes and slid his eyeglasses down from their perch atop his head.
Natalie read the passage his finger had marked. “And in those times, there was no peace.” The doctor guffawed, causing his eyeglasses to slip down his nose. “Well, you see there. That’s your answer. That’s just wonderful.” “I don’t get it,” Natalie said. “What does it mean?” She sat down on the sofa next to her dad.
“Well,” he began in his throaty baritone, “I think what God is saying is that these are very stressful times for everybody, including Hope. Maybe especially Hope. This business with the cat,” he waved his hand dismissively in the air, “is just stress. I say ignore her. It’ll resolve itself.” Resolution came later that week in the form of death. Opinions were mixed as to the exact cause. According to Hope, the cat died of “kitty leukemia and old age.” According to me, the cat died of “being trapped in a laundry basket in the basement for four days without food or water.” Part of me felt sad for the cat, but only a very small part. I was learning that if I lived slightly in the future—what will happen next?—I didn’t have to feel so much about what was going on in the present.
A week later I walked into the kitchen to see Hope sitting in the chair next to the stove. She had a vacant look in her eyes and was holding a snow shovel. It was summer.
“What are you doing with that?”
She continued to stare straight ahead, oblivious to me.
“Hope,” I said, waving my hand in front of her face. “What are you doing with a snow shovel?” She started and looked up at me. “Oh, hi Augusten.”
I stared at her and said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
I grabbed the handle of the shovel. “What are you doing with this?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Freud’s alive.”
“What?!”
“It’s true. I was walking home and just as I got to the back door, I heard her crying under the tree.” Hope had buried the cat under the single tree in the yard. A week ago. “Hope, the cat is not alive. You did not hear the cat crying.” She broke into tears. “But I did. I heard her. Oh my God, I buried her alive.” She stood suddenly. “I have to go get her.” “No,” I said. “You don’t.” I blocked her from the door.
“But I heard her. She was calling out for me.”
Hope stood trembling, clutching the handle of the shovel. That’s when I noticed she was also wearing a stocking cap and
a green wool coat. Something in her brain had shortcircuited. She was now prepared for Christmas.
The minute she walked outside, I phoned Dr. Finch at the office. One of his patients, Suzanne, answered the phone. Finch liked her voice so much he sometimes lured her into playing receptionist when Hope was out of the office.
“I need to talk to him.”
“You can’t, he’s with a patient,” she said, pouring on thick her professional receptionist voice, even though she was really just a crazy housewife who liked to cut herself with a paring knife.
“Go get him, Suzanne. It’s an emergency.”
“What is it?” Suzanne thrived on drama and crisis. Which is no doubt why she ended up in the emergency room every other week.
“It’s Hope. Just put him on.”
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll go get him.”
When Finch picked up the phone I told him that Hope was out back digging the cat up.
“Put her on the phone,” he shouted.
I balanced the handset on top of the phone and went to the door to call Hope. “Your father wants to talk to you,” I shouted.
She was at the tree, hunched over the shovel, digging. She turned. “Okay.” She dropped the shovel and ran inside.
I don’t know what he said to her. But I watched and she nodded. “Yes, Dad.” She nodded some more. “Okay, Dad.” A calmness overcame her face and when she hung up all she said was, “I’m going to go to my room and take a nap.”
I WOULD DYE FOR YOU
P
LEASE. HOPE’S CUNT IS LIKE FORT KNOX. NOBODY GETS IN.”
“I heard that,” Hope called from the kitchen. ”And I don’t want you talking about me when I’m not there.”
Bookman yelled back at her over his shoulder, “We’re not talking about you. We’re talking about your cunt.”
Hope walked stiffly into the room. She spoke sharply in a low voice. “I don’t like you using the C-word in connection to me. It’s rude and offensive.”
In her hand, she held a raw hot dog.
“Take it easy, sister,” Bookman said, adopting a condescending tone. “We were just discussing your love life. Or lack thereof.”
“My love life is none of your beeswax,” she huffed. “Besides, haven’t the two of you got better things to do than sit around all afternoon talking about me?” She bit into the frankfurter.
“Seriously, Hope,” Neil said, leaning back against the sofa and placing his arm around me. “Being in love is fantastic. It’s the best thing there is. You should try it.”
Hope sneered. “I’d hardly call you an expert.”
His hands slammed down on his thighs and I could feel his muscles tense against mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She leaned against the windowsill and chewed slowly, casually. “It means I’d hardly call you an expert on love, that’s all.”
“Are you saying my relationship with Augusten isn’t love?”
“I’m saying your ’relationship’ with Augusten, who is fourteen by the way, is not a mature love, no.”
“Bullshit,” he screamed. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”
I hated being caught in the midst of their sibling rivalry. And they weren’t even real siblings.
I had been having a good time sitting on the couch next to Neil, just talking. I liked feeling his grown-up arm against my skinny one. And I liked that he didn’t seem interested in anything except me. But when he got intense like this, when he got crazy, shaking like he was now, I didn’t like him. It was like there were two Bookmans. The one I liked and the other one that was hidden.
“No, it’s not bullshit, Neil. It’s the truth. And if you’re not man enough to take the truth, you have no business being with a child.”
“I’m not a child, Hope,” I snapped. “I’m fourteen.”
“I’m sorry, Augusten. I know you’re not. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re very mature. I just meant that, well, it’s different when you’re older. Love is different. More mature.”
Neil burst into a riot of malicious laughter. “And what do you, Miss Iceberg, know about mature love? When was the last time you had anything in your twat besides a tampon?”
“That’s enough, Bookman,” Hope shouted. “I’m not going to listen to you when you’re talking like a teenage boy—and acting like one.” She stormed from the room, fuming.
Neil leaned back against the couch and put on a fake smile. “That shook her up. She’s such a prude.”
“Yeah, she can be,” I said. “But I like her. She’s pretty normal and everything.”
“You think Hope’s normal?”
“Well, yeah. Pretty much.”
“She’s thirty. She lives at home. She works for her father. And she hasn’t had a boyfriend since she was twenty-two. You think that’s normal?”
Well, when he put it like that.
But I wasn’t talking about those things. I meant, she had a good heart and she wasn’t insane. The not being insane part, that was a lot around here. “I like her,” I said.
“I like her too. She’s my spiritual sister for crying out loud. But she pisses me off. She really gets under my skin.” Then he faced me and his eyes softened, pupils dilating. “I don’t like anybody saying my love for you is anything less than miraculous.”
I liked his attention. But I also felt like there was something sick and wrong about it. Like it might make me sick later. I thought of my grandmother, my father’s mother. How when I used to visit her in Georgia she would always let me eat all the cookies and frozen egg rolls I wanted. “Go ahead, sweetheart, there’s more,” she would say. And it seemed okay because she was a grown-up, and I wanted all the Chips Ahoy! cookies in the bag. But I always ended up feeling extremely sick afterward. I looked at Bookman, his eyes swollen with emotion. “Thanks, that’s sweet.”
“It’s not sweet, my man. It’s the truth. The love I have for you is every bit as valid and as powerful and as healthy as the love any man would feel for any other man.”
“Yeah,” I said, not quite believing him, but also not wanting to question him because I didn’t want him to fly into a rage.
“Did you read my letter?”
He was talking about the sixteen-page letter he’d slipped under my door last night. I’d read the first page, then skipped to the end. It went on and on and on about how profound this thing between us is, how it’s “blindingly intense” and “allconsuming” and how “nothing else matters so much as the fire of life behind your eyes and between your legs.” I mean, I liked that he felt so strongly about me. But I worried he felt too strongly about me. I guess it scared me in some way. I was a little afraid of things when they got too intense because my mother was one of those things that got too intense and then she exploded.
“I read it, yeah. Thanks. You said a lot of great things.” I hoped he didn’t quiz me on specifics.
“Oh, come here, you,” he said and pulled me up against him. Bookman held me so hard that sometimes I felt he’d mash my internal organs together and bruise something. It wasn’t like he was holding me so much as trying to hold onto something.
*
That night when the house was asleep, Bookman sneaked down to my room. I was already in bed but I wasn’t asleep because I knew he’d come. I liked it when we met at night, after everyone else went to sleep.
“Did that feel good?” he asked as we lay side by side, naked on my twin bed, bought secondhand from Hope. My own bed was in my mother’s apartment with throw pillows on it, a place where she could sit and read over a stanza. Or where I could sleep when I was staying with her.
“Yeah, that felt great,” I said. Sometimes I still couldn’t get over the fact that I didn’t have to use Playgirl magazine to jerk off with anymore. I had my own real, live, adult man pet. It felt like I was one of those lottery winners with so much money the plunger ball in the back of the toilet was made of solid gold.
It was like an extravagance.
I could say, sit like this, and he’d sit like that. Or, what if we try this? And we’d try that. He was like this fantastic, twenty-four-hour-a-day vessel available for my exploration.
“If you left me, I’d kill myself,” he said.
Except when he said things like that and I hated him again.
“No you wouldn’t,” I tried to tell him. “Don’t say that.”
“But God.” He broke down, crying softly. “It’s so true. Don’t you see, Augusten? You’re everything to me.”
Bookman was everything to me, too. But not in the same way. He was the only thing. Nobody else paid me attention like Bookman did. Nobody else told me I was smart and funny and sweet. Nobody else made me come three times in one day. But I knew I liked him, even loved him, despite the fact of him.
Despite his personality, I guess.
He was like Playgirl’s Mr. October come to life. But I think I would have been happier if the only thing that came out of his mouth was the sound of a turning page.
By morning, Bookman was still in my room.
And we were still talking about how much he loved me and needed me. I wanted to kick him out; tell him he had to leave because I had to sleep. But I couldn’t. I had to listen because, after all, it was all about me.
And then I got an idea. Maybe I could still spend quality time with him and practice for beauty school. “Can I do something to your hair?” I said.
“What do you want to do?”
I eyed the box—unopened—of Clairol Nice ’N Easy Ash Blonde that was on my bookshelf next to one of the doctor’s old stuffed owls. “Just brighten it up a little.”
He smiled. “You mean warmer like yours?” And he buried his face in my curls.
“Yeah,” I said. “Like that, sort of.”
He splayed his arms out on the bed. “I’m all yours, sir. Do with me what you may.”
Running With Scissors Page 16
