“I saw my mother at Fleurie’s funeral,” he says matter-of-factly, out of the silence.
“She came back?” I ask, trying to match his tone: no big deal.
“Yeah,” he says, listless. “Briefly. To honor Fleurie, she said. And to settle her share with Godfrey. She said she would’ve stayed longer, but all of Fleurie’s sisters and friends were giving her such shit for being a deadbeat mother, deadbeat niece, deadbeat relation, that she couldn’t stand it any longer. She also said she hated Virginia—the South—well, America, in short. She said she didn’t know how to be. La-di-da.”
“How is she?” I ask. “Still beautiful?”
“Oh, yeah, you know. ‘Handsome’s’ the word. Very ‘Forty isn’t fatal.’ Very ‘Wisdom has made me beautiful.’ She’s married now, to some Belgian guy. He’s short; she showed me a picture.”
“Very Hercule Poirot?”
He laughs halfheartedly. “Sure, whatever. She’s a ‘party planner’ now, she says. A hostess or something—whatever that means. She goes into old châteaux and palazzi and decides where the string quartet should go, and where the Japanese lanterns should go, and who should sit next to what ambassador. And then she has three-by-fives about all the guests that she has to memorize, and she goes around all night introducing people.”
“In Amsterdam?” I ask, glad for my recall.
“All over. ‘René and I jump around,’ she says.” He waves his hand up in the air. “They’re in Rome right now. And Paris for half the summer, then Barcelona for the second. Busy, busy. I don’t even know how Fleurie’s friends managed to track her down, and she didn’t tell me. She was … oblique with me, about a lot of things.”
“She was?” I say. Oblique: vague, unknowable, obscure.
“Yeah. She said she was glad I was out of the South. And she said I look like my daddy now, and that scared her.”
“She said that?” I’m surprised. That doesn’t sound like a nice thing for a mother to say to her son.
“Yeah. And then she said she was sorry she left me to my own devices. And she wants to catch up. And did I want to come to France this summer, even though René and I probably wouldn’t get along, because René thinks all Americans are coarse dogs with stunted aesthetic faculties? But maybe I could change his mind.”
“So? Are you gonna go?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Then: “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll just pass through, not make a bother of myself. I wouldn’t want to put off René.”
He says “René” with an exaggerated, guttural accent, pulling up phlegm in his throat when he says it. He coughs and looks at me sheepishly, and we both laugh. It’s getting late; I’m thinking I should go, because I’m swamped with homework tonight, and I can’t afford to be showing up well into the evening anymore, especially after my close call last month. But it’s not so freezing in here anymore; it’s like we warmed up the loft with our fight—like calisthenics—and it’s nice just to be sitting here with him, in coat and gloves, not saying anything, like we did a lot last fall. He’s not even stoned, I think, and I’m grateful for that. He extends his leg and kicks my boot sloppily with his own.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he says.
“Now? I have to get home.”
“Not now,” he says, frowning. “I mean—what are you doing this Saturday?”
“This coming Saturday?” I ask, quickening.
“This very one.”
“Nothing,” I say, even though I promised to take Joani to the mall, to the fabric store to help her buy material for a spring dress, which is going to be her biggest project to date. But I figure there’s a way I can get out of it; I’ll say there’s an open house for prospective Yalies at some alumnus’s house in Wellesley or Marblehead, or something.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he says. “Anywhere—I don’t even care. I’ve got sign-out privileges for the whole day. I’m so sick of this goddamned icebox shack. Let’s get out in the world, Fitzy,” he says, kicking me again.
“Hey,” I say, inspired. “You wanna go to Boston? Or Cambridge? We could go to all the bookstores—and the record stores. And maybe we could have lunch at Au Bon Pain, and see a movie at the Brattle or something?”
“What are you going to say if you see someone you know?”
“No one I know goes to Boston, except for Phoebe, and she and Charlie are going to some hippie concert up in Vermont for the weekend. And what if we did see someone I knew, anyway?” I add, feeling impetuous. “I’m allowed to have other friends, right? I’m allowed to go into Boston when I feel like it.”
“The world is your oyster.”
“Okay,” I say, standing up. “Okay. Excellent. I’ll pick you up around ten, how’s that? I’ll pull up on the street, okay, and you can watch for the car from here, okay? That way no one will know who you’re going off with.”
“Brilliant,” he says, but he’s not getting up off the ground, and he suddenly seems less excited than he did a minute ago, as if he’s handed the whole project over to me.
“Okay,” I say, slightly confused, still eager. “I’ve gotta get home now, Brooks, okay? I’m glad you saw your mother. I’m glad she wants you to come see her.” I’m wondering if there’s anything else I should say in valediction; he doesn’t seem to be preparing to see me off.
“Would you help me up?” he asks me, extending a hand.
“For God’s sake,” I say, fake-exasperated (We’re getting away, we’re getting away! is what I’m thinking.), and I help him up on his feet. As soon as he’s up, he sinks both his arms around me, taking me by surprise (“Emph!” I go, taking in breath) and pretty soon we’re knocking up against each other, pushing our tongues around in each other’s mouths. “Oh, man,” I exhale, despite myself, and he suddenly withdraws.
“What is it?” I say, looking at him.
“You’re bad news for me.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I exclaim, laughing, even though he’s not. And he looks at me, and shakes his head, and, to my relief, he finally laughs, and says: “Oh, scratch it.”
And then his hands are on my belt buckle, and mine are on his, and our pants snag on our knees for only a second before they make the drop down to our ankles—and then, without trying, we’re doing a funny little dance, right in place. It is funny: it’s like, I’m always forgetting about the sex part, like this is a friendship, like you shouldn’t be doing it in the first place. And then he reminds me, and I’m like Here we go again, and then we’re both working away, and pretty soon it’s over and we’re both a big mess, like now, kneeling here. And that’s when I look at him, and he looks back as if he has no recourse, as if someone pulled all the little pins and pulleys and props out of his face, and it says nothing to me but: “Hey.” And it’s then, with glop everywhere, and him looking so temporarily possessed of nothing, that I love him best.
* * *
Phoebe calls later that night, when I’m plodding my way through a French exercise on the passé simple and anticipating Saturday. (Joani almost wouldn’t speak to me until I told her I’d take her to the fabric store on Sunday.)
“Hi,” she sighs when I pick up the phone in my parents’ bedroom. “It’s over.”
“What’s over?” I ask, but I think I already know.
“What do you think? Me and Charlie. The affair of the century.”
Secretly, I’m ecstatic—I never liked that my two supposed best friends were going out, and I want to tell Phoebe that she was always much too smart for Charlie anyway, even though Charlie is, of course, an “excellent person,” as Phoebe has always insisted. But I don’t. “What happened?” I ask instead.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Phoebe says, sounding bored already. “A lot of things. Do you know, I copied Charlie a beautiful Diane DiPrima poem and he didn’t even know who she was?”
“That’s why you broke up with him?” I laugh, feeling vindicated.
“Well, not just that. A lot of things. I just think we operate on different l
evels, that’s all.”
“Hmmm,” I say, lying low. “Interesting.”
We’re both quiet for a minute, then: “Anyway!” she says brightly. “I guess it’s just me and you again—conspirators in living, right?” (She got that phrase out of some old book.)
“I guess so,” I say, faintly wary. “But I mean, we’re all gonna stay friends, right? I mean, you and Charlie aren’t not speaking, are you?”
“Well,” she fumbles. “He’s a little pissed at me right now, but he’ll probably be over it by tomorrow. You know Charlie. He’s got the memory span of a dog. All that grass.”
“I guess so,” I say, uneasily.
“So, anyway,” she says again. “You wanna go into Cambridge this Saturday? I wanna trade in some records. And we haven’t gone in a long time, you’ve been so busy with college stuff.”
“I’ve been busy! You’ve been busy—with Charlie. That’s why we haven’t done anything lately.”
“Well, whatever. I guess we’re both to blame. Anyway, you wanna go?”
“I can’t,” I say shortly. “I promised Joani I’d take her fabric shopping, so she can make her big dress.”
“Well, let’s take her with us. We can go to the fabric store on the way in, or on the way back. C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll introduce Joani to bohemia. Maybe we can get her to shave her head and get a nose ring.”
“I can’t. When I go out with Joani, I’ve totally got to focus on her. She takes up all my energy.”
“Oh,” Phoebe says, sounding taken aback. “Well, what about Sunday?”
“I gotta go to my aunt’s house,” I say, completely rifling. “It’s my cousin Bethie Lynn’s birthday.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
“Sorry.”
“Whatever.” Neither of us says anything, which is really bizarre, because when Phoebe and I talk, there’s usually never a quiet moment. Finally, she says, “So, are you psyched to sit on my social activist mother’s Unitarian panel?” (Phoebe’s mother has organized a “racial healing” panel at their church, scheduled for two weeks from now, in which she hopes to bring all the mothers of Leicester over into West Mendhem so everyone can start finding “common ground” and defuse the mounting revoution.)
“That should be pretty funny,” I say.
“It should be, now that you’re the new voice of peace and love. If only everyone knew that you’re a total Ivy League yuppie-in-the-making.”
“I’m not a yuppie!” I snap. “I hate them. Wanting to make a lot of money and wanting to live in an intellectual community are two different things.”
“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Phoebe says. “I was only kidding. I don’t think you’re a yuppie.”
“Good, ’cause I’m not.”
Another pause. I’m starting to feel vaguely sick to my stomach; I don’t like the way our conversation is going, but I don’t know how to end it. Finally, she speaks again: “So, did you hear the latest town proposal to deal with the crime and everything?”
“No, what is it?” I ask sullenly. (They still haven’t found the Kerrie Lanouette killer, although there have now been about nine suspects, all Puerto Rican, and they’ve all been smeared all over the front page of the Leicester Tribune, one after another, only to be released, or whatever, because their fingerprints didn’t match up, or something.)
“Now these selectmen are saying they want to change the borders of West Mendhem, and pull them back from Leicester, so that when the Leicester people start moving into the fringes of West Mendhem, they won’t be in West Mendhem. They’ll still be in Leicester. Can you believe that?”
“They’re total bigots,” I say absently. “They’ll never do it. You just can’t change borders. Don’t you have to go through the state for that?”
“They say it’s not because they’re racists, it’s because of property value.” Phoebe sneers. “Like they’re two different things.”
“Hm.” Then we’re not talking again.
“Eric?” she finally says.
“Yeah?”
“Do you hate me or something?”
I’m startled. “What?”
“Well—like—I mean, ever since the Charlie thing, I feel like you’ve kind of come to—hate me, or something. And it’s really fucking me up, okay, ’cause fuck Charlie! You’re my best friend. I love you, okay?” She’s choking on her words, and in a minute, she’s crying, her jagged sobs excruciatingly distinct through the phone wires. The minute she says, “I love you,” this weird wave comes over me, and in a second, my eyes are welling up and I’m closing the bedroom door so Joani won’t hear me crying. And suddenly I hate myself for being short with Phoebe, and I want to talk to her—really, really talk—so bad, it’s like I’ve got a knife in my chest.
“Okay?” she’s saying again. “Are you even listening?”
“Feeb, Feeb,” I’m saying into the line. “I’m here. I don’t hate you. I swear to God that has nothing to do with it. You’re my best friend, too.”
“Well, then, why have you been such an asshole to me? It’s like you’re trying to punish me or something, and I love you, okay? I love you more than Charlie—you fucking idiot!”
“Oh, Feeb, I know it. Look—I’m sorry I’ve been this way, but you have nothing to do with it.”
“Well, then what the fuck is it?”
My heart is booming in my throat; I feel like I’m getting near that precipice I’ve backed away from before, but this time I feel closer to it than ever before. “It’s just—I’m really fucked up, all right? I don’t know what’s going on in my life.”
“Well, why?” she says, and I’m thinking Shit, shit, shit!, watching myself on the precipice, advancing a step, retreating two, like some manic dance. “I mean, you’re, like, the smartest person I know,” she goes on. “You’re, like, number three in your class and you’re probably going to fucking Yale next year. You’re gonna be some great writer or cultural critic or something. I don’t even know if I can get into some stupid commune farm college in Vermont. So—what? Eric, why are you bawling all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know!” I spit into the phone. “It’s like—I don’t even know who I am. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”
“Do you think you’re manic-depressive? My mother is, you know.”
I want to scream into the phone, “No, you idiot, I’m not manic-depressive”—and so forth. But I don’t. “Maybe I am.” I pull back, pull myself together. “I don’t even know anymore.”
“Look,” she says. “I want to get the fuck out of here, too. I hate this stupid town. So let’s just stick together, okay? We’ve only got a few months left.”
“I know,” I say, dead.
“So can we please be platonic lovers again?”
“We’ll always be.”
“I really need you, Eric. Don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. You know we’re best friends.”
“I know. I just needed to hear it.” We’re silent again; then she starts laughing. “Oh my God! Did you see when Goody Farnham came into class today, and she had all those little sesame seeds caught in her teeth? I thought I was gonna puke! Charlie kept, like, picking at his teeth right in front of her, and she was totally oblivious—”
“Feeb?”
“Yeah?”
“Joani’s calling,” I lied. “She needs my help with homework or something.”
“Oh. Okay. You wanna meet in the library tomorrow before homeroom? I’ve got some new poems to show you.”
“Okay.”
“All right, darling. Good night. I’m glad we talked.”
“So am I. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
For a long time, I just sit there on my parents’ bed, staring at a picture on their wall. It’s from when we all went to Disney World, when Brenda was about ten and I was seven and Joani was only about two. We’re all three making faces at the camera: Brenda and me pulling on the fronts of our T-shirts, pretending we have boobs, and Joani sticking out her
tongue. I remember on that trip, I was dying to go into the Haunted Mansion, but when we finally did, I covered my eyes the whole way and screamed, I was so terrified. Now I just look at that picture—I look at myself at seven—and I stare and stare, looking for a clue.
Ten
“It must be exciting for you to go to Boston, cradle of democracy,” he says in his usual je m’en fiche drawl, passing me a bruised pear and a biscuit that he stole from the St. Banner dining hall. This, as I pull onto 93 South on this unseasonably warm January morning with the ice melting off the blasted granite on either side of the highway, as we sit next to each other in my mother’s hatchback—my seatbelt strapped, his not—as we make our great getaway.
Snot-ass, I think, accepting the breakfast awkwardly with one hand as he fiddles with the dial on the radio, changing it from my favorite alternative music station to a classical one. But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “It’s actually no big deal. I go in a lot. I know my way around pretty well.”
“It’s sort of like your Athens, isn’t it?” he persists. “Your Mecca?” He’s settled the dial on some horrible modern piece, Bartók or something, the kind of thing I cringed from when I used to take piano lessons.
I sigh, pointedly, to let him know I’m not amused. “If you want to think of it that way, fine.”
“My, my,” he says through a mouthful of biscuit. “Not a morning person, are you?”
“Not with a prick,” I say, pulling into the left lane and accelerating.
“Good Lord! Why the ad hominem attack?”
“Well, why do you have to be such a jerk, Brooks? ‘It must be exciting for you to go to Boston,’ listen to you! You know, we’re alway from St. Banner and we’re away from West Mendhem. You can ease up, okay?”
Getting Off Clean Page 24
