Defensive Pessimism
Sarah felt a pressing need to get home after her performance, so we agreed to wait until the following Tuesday to celebrate her amazing debut on the ice. As for the costume and the fighting, all was forgiven on every side. My mother thanked Sarah for protecting me, congratulated Penny on her masterful use of disguise, and even apologized for not being more understanding about Sarah’s need to wear pants. As she looked at me in her spirit of expansive generosity, all she could think to say was, “You’re a trouper, Franklin.”
Trouper indeed. Unlike some people, I returned to school and soldiered on bravely, navigating the potential disasters with an attitude of defensive pessimism that I believe will help me attain a higher spot on the age index than most adolescents. You see, psychologists at Wellesley College have found that anxious types like me, whose low expectations of life have them planning for disaster at every turn, fare better than the cheerful among us (Bernie Lepner comes to mind here). Why? Because we prepare for the worst while they, with their don’t-worry-be-happy way of life, fall headlong into disaster. I proved this theory correct the following day, when I changed my route and ducked into the bathroom near the computer lab. There, assisted by the refreshing sound of the ocean surf through my earphones, I managed to complete my business without incident.
And so the days that followed Sarah Kervick’s masterful display passed as peacefully as could be expected in a place like Pelican View Middle School. Sarah Kervick was not in school on Friday or Monday. Taken by itself, this was not unusual: Mondays and Fridays found her in attendance even less than midweek. But so much had happened to her lately that I wished she had a phone, so that I could call her just to make sure she was okay.
Thankfully, Bernie was back in the lunchroom, saving me from the humiliation of eating alone. Mr. Lepner had been less than pleased with the benefits package offered by the engineering firm that interviewed him, so I’d have Bernie with me for several more weeks at least. Glynnis was in her regular clothes: a crisp, white, button-down, oxford-cloth shirt and a sensible denim skirt whose flounce at the hem brought it a healthy one inch below the tips of her fingers—well within the guidelines laid out in the Pelican View Middle School dress code.
I felt a little flutter in my stomach every time her gaze turned in my direction, successfully ignoring the defensive pessimist in me who suggested that putting all my eggs in one basket was not a good plan.
For this was our most recent topic in health class: healthy vs. unhealthy love. Or, as Miss Mathews would say, “mature vs. immature love.”
“We’ll start by filling out this worksheet. My boyfriend and I did it last night, and it was very interesting. You need to think of at least two relationships to take through the checklist. You can do friends, brothers, sisters, parents, girlfriends…”
“Only two?” piped up Tommy Williams. “I don’t know how I’m gonna pick.”
“Yes, Tommy. Only two.”
On this particular day, our teacher wore a pair of black velour bell-bottoms that skimmed her high-heeled boots. On top, she wore a wraparound sweater that was, well, formfitting.
I kept my head down and scanned Student Handout Six. I wished I could take Glynnis through twice. On one side of the page was a heart filled with the characteristics of mature love. On the other side, a fractured heart displayed the characteristics of immature love. As I scanned the list accompanying the fractured heart, I began to feel a tiny bit unwell.
1. You lose interest in former hobbies and activities.
When was the last time I measured my arms and legs?
2. You depend on this person for all good feelings.
Surely not. I could eke out a good feeling from Gloria on occasion.
3. You ignore the weaknesses of the other person.
That was easy. Glynnis didn’t have any.
4. You are jealous of each other’s friends and time.
Did that red-and-white girl gang qualify as friends?
5. You feel pressure to go against your personal beliefs.
Hadn’t I entertained notions of inviting Glynnis with me to Perkins’ Drug Store for a milk shake?
I sat back and sighed. This new information was troubling. As I flipped over the page, I felt a surge of hope that we would find many more similarities here in the mature-love category. But how could I encourage Glynnis in her hobbies and ambitions when I didn’t know what they were? Was our interest in caring for each other mutual and responsible? I could only vouch for my side of the equation on that one. Would Glynnis respect my values? We’d have to have a conversation first. Was I supportive of her activities and friendships? Well, only if they occurred above the two-inch dense foam recommended by the ACCCA. And even then, with reservations.
As I used my portable paper punch to ready the handout for my notebook, it struck me that every one of the qualities of mature love was exhibited by my mother toward Sarah Kervick. Did she not support Sarah in her goals, and respect her wishes? Was she not proud to introduce Sarah to her friends? They might need a bit of work on disagreeing constructively, but there was no doubt that their relationship landed them squarely within the intact heart of mutual admiration, respect, and affection.
Fabulous. Instead of me being ready to date Glynnis Powell, my mother and Sarah Kervick were the ones set to engage in a mature relationship.
“All right, then,” Miss Mathews said, clearing her throat. “I need to collect your babies and the records you kept of the time you spent with them.”
I cast a glance over my shoulder at Glynnis Powell and saw the same pained expression that I myself wore. Their baby sat crookedly on the desk in front of her, the marker eyes and mouth smeared, the brown bag spattered with dark stains.
I had reconstructed Keds using a bag of flour from my mother’s pantry and a heavy application of transparent packing tape to the brown paper.
It was probably due to Miss Mathews’ inexperience as a teacher that she allowed the whole class to comment on the condition of the babies without regard for the feelings of the other students. As she checked in with each pair, she held the baby up like an obstetrical nurse showing it off to a teary band of relatives.
“This bag is not creased at all. Look at how plump he is.” She smiled at all of us…relating. “And this one here seems like she got excellent care. Oh look, you even read to her. Well, she’s going to be a smart one.
“Tommy, what happened to your baby?”
Tommy Williams stood up, obviously relishing the opportunity for an audience.
“Well, it’s like this, Miss Mathews. Tommy Jr. and I were having a little quality time in the lunchroom…. I was so busy taking care of his needs and all, I didn’t notice that some joker had shook up my Coke…”
“You sprayed your infant son, your namesake, with Coca-Cola?”
“That gets the rust off pennies,” Marvin Howerton added without raising his hand.
“Well, I…”
All eyes were on the jokester. Only I understood the pain this was causing Glynnis. Her normally excellent posture was slumped and defeated, her eyes downcast.
I felt the uncontrollable urge to act. My hand shot up. “Miss Mathews,” I interjected. “It seems evident that in some cases the quality of the infant’s care will vary wildly, depending on which parent he is with.”
I was gratified by a look of obvious relief from Glynnis.
“Really, Franklin?” Miss Mathews came over to my desk.
“And who gets the credit for”—she scanned our sheet to find the baby’s name—“Keds?”
The class burst into laughter, and I felt a piercing pang of embarrassment on behalf of our little one. I knew well how a name could color your world. Miss Mathews picked up Keds and ran her fingers along the creased expanse of packing tape that held the boy together.
“Well, Franklin?”
On a different day, in a different lifetime, I might have informed Miss Mathews that if I ever did have a baby with Sarah
Kervick, I would not let the child out of my sight. But I had no intention of embarrassing Sarah. It was better to focus on the fact that I had removed the attention from Glynnis and, in an extremely mature act of love, contributed to her comfort by denying my own.
“The baby has had some early setbacks,” I admitted. “It’s nothing a little physical therapy can’t cure.”
“Really?” Miss Mathews turned the baby over, revealing his flour-bag bottom. “I’ve been wondering…Robin Hood brand? Hold Keds for a minute, won’t you, Franklin?”
I got a sinking feeling as she walked back up the aisle to her desk. I don’t know whether my blushing started as a result of Miss Mathews bending over to pluck something from her bottom desk drawer, or if it was in anticipation of future humiliations.
“As you know, all the babies in this assignment were born into Gold Medal flour bags. I just wonder if what you’re handing in is not the baby you took home with you, and if this”—Miss Mathews held aloft a splintered and splayed Gold Medal flour bag whose ragged ends were stiff with flour paste—“is the real Keds.”
I hardly thought the heightened sense of drama with which she produced the evidence was necessary. Once again, I felt myself longing for a teacher who was not so eager to win the other students’ approval. It was some comfort to see Glynnis through the laughing crowd, engaging in a sympathetic blush.
As we filed out of class, I felt the delicate touch of her hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, Franklin, I’m so sorry about…well, anyway, thank you for—” She broke off, unable to speak.
I smiled and bowed my head slightly. “It was nothing.”
That was not the only upsetting incident of the day. The second one occurred in Mr. Spansky’s science class. He was demonstrating the various properties of liquids and gases, and he held out a lit candle in one hand and a teaspoon full of crushed ice in the other. I noticed that he rocked back and forth slightly. One glance at his feet revealed two well-polished shoes beneath the knife-edge creases of his khaki pants. One shoe, however, had the sort of wedge you might see on a woman’s sandal.
As I looked again at his face, I noticed that a little furrow of focus had appeared between his eyebrows. Did I not have that very same crease? I tentatively fingered the space just above the bridge of my nose, keeping my eyes on Mr. Spansky, who continued to have difficulty centering the spoon over the flame.
“It might be easier to center this if my legs weren’t different lengths.”
The combination of my mouth dropping open and Mr. Spansky’s tongue being forced to enunciate a th and an s in quick succession produced a most unfavorable result.
Needless to say, I spent the next period in the nurse’s office gargling with hydrogen peroxide and searching WebMD.com for the effects of foreign saliva being introduced into one’s mouth. Though I was dismissed by Mr. Fiegel, I felt sick until the end of the day.
I honestly don’t know whether my nausea was due to the fact that Mr. Spansky’s spit bubble had come in contact with my tongue or my discovery that we had more in common than a tendency to be clean. One of his legs was shorter than the other!
In addition, we shared the same general build, and the same color of hair and eyes. Was it possible that the need to ensure lengthy contact between soap and water by singing the “Happy Birthday” song could be genetically encoded?
These disturbing thoughts followed me home. What I wanted to do was talk to Gloria, but her assistant, Miss Tweedell, said she was in a meeting until after four. That was too late.
At four o’clock, we were on our way to pick up Sarah for our celebration. Though I’d be relieved to know she was okay, I was not exactly in the mood to celebrate. Hadn’t she abandoned me to navigate the hostile halls of Pelican View Middle these last days all on my own? What kind of partner is that? As we sat in the van, bouncing along in silence, I wondered if a restaurant named Bad Guys Pizza could have a clean health-inspection record. I also fretted, for the very first time, about whether discovering my father—my real, true, flesh-and-blood father—would be a disappointment; would, in fact, be worse than not knowing. Again, this was cause for a long and engaged discussion with Gloria. But, alas, it was time for an Al Capone pizza and a mobster milk shake.
As my mother pulled the van into the clearing, we both knew immediately that something was wrong. Very wrong. There was an eerie silence, for one thing. No barking dogs. No radio. No television. As we looked at each other and then at the yard in front of us, a gust of wind surrounded the van, stirring up a cloud of dust that swirled through the air toward Sarah’s trailer and caught the screen door, banging it open.
I had never actually set foot inside Sarah Kervick’s trailer. Now, as my mother pounded on the door and it swung inward at the pressure of her fist, I saw how small a space it really was. And how cold. It felt colder than being outside. One step and we were in the living room. A couch, a chair, both leaking foam, filled the space. A few more careful steps in one direction and we stood at the doorway to the bedroom. There was only one. In the other direction lay the kitchen. We looked around without speaking. It seemed like some great hand had taken hold of the Kervicks’ possessions and dashed them up against the wall of the trailer. I had to tiptoe through a minefield: a rusted wrench, a Car and Driver magazine covered with oily fingerprints, a dirty athletic sock, an upended box of toothpicks…it was very hazardous.
My mother made a noise that couldn’t be categorized as belonging to the English language and headed for the kitchen.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Don’t touch anything.”
She squinted at me. “Why not?”
Any kid who has seen his share of cop shows would surely identify this as a crime scene. I gestured at the mess. “This seems like a matter for the police.”
“Oh, please, Franklin,” she said, pressing the heel of her hand against her eye. Was that a tear that glistened on her cheek? “For once, spare me the dramatics.” She kicked at the kitchen chair that lay in her path. “Don’t you remember what he said about never staying in one place long?”
“But the mess, surely…”
“It’s called a quick getaway.” After a glance into the tiny kitchen, she pushed past me and—to my horror—sat down on the chair. Something under the cushion made her reach beneath it. For her trouble, she was rewarded with one of Sarah Kervick’s practice softballs, which she jammed into her jacket pocket.
She put her head in her hands, kneading her temples. “Knowing him, somebody else owns all this anyway.”
The wind that rattled around the trailer carried with it a low keening noise, as if the great outdoors were expressing my mother’s misery. She looked up at me in shocked surprise.
“Oh my God, Franklin, the dogs!” Rushing for the door, she kicked at a tangle of coat hangers and was gone before I could think of a reasonable argument to stop her.
Have I made it clear that Sarah’s dogs did not hold the same place in my affections as in my mother’s? Therefore, I did not rush headlong after her. Instead—to my surprise—I waded boldly into the bedroom. It was about the size of our laundry room, and clearly it belonged to Sarah. A narrow bed folded down from the wall and bumped up against an unfinished dresser. On the slice of wall between the tiny window and the bed, Sarah had taped pictures of women skaters she’d torn from the ridiculously overpriced “mag-alogs” my mother purchased for her at the skating rink. There was a photo, too. I had to sit on the bed to see it properly. Taken during my mother’s camera-crazy phase last baseball season, it was a picture of me in my baseball uniform and my mother, a bat perched jauntily on her shoulder. There was something strange about the photograph…the ink had smudged across my mother’s chest.
With my keen awareness of the physics of movement, I knew immediately—calculating the position of her body at rest, the arc of her arm, and the length of her fingers—that this was the spot where Sarah Kervick touched the picture before she went to sleep each night.
I sat
there on that bed, not thinking about germs or potential injury from the rusting bed frame, not thinking at all, but knowing that a crime had been committed here. Because Sarah Kervick would not willingly leave without saying good-bye to my mother.
And then I saw something—a shape tangled in the blanket—that confirmed my suspicions. I tugged it up on my lap and unraveled the mess to reveal one of Sarah Kervick’s figure skates.
I heard my mother’s whistle, the one that had long ago called us in from the outfield at the Paul I. Phillips Recreation Center, and jumped up, reflexively hiding the skate behind my back. I was being summoned. I did not want my mother to see the skate. It was selfish, I know, but I had never seen my mother bawl before, and I wanted to be spared the trauma. For just as Franklin Delano Donuthead has principles to live by, we both knew that Sarah Kervick and her ice skates would never willingly be parted.
I couldn’t leave it behind. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t. I glanced wildly around the room, my gaze landing on Sarah Kervick’s backpack in the corner, partially hidden under a worn…teddy bear? With a stealth I didn’t know I was capable of, I stuffed the skate and, for some reason, the teddy bear into the backpack, which was already partially filled with assignments and books, and zipped it up. I hefted it onto my back—equally distributing the weight across both shoulders—and stepped carefully to avoid contact with anything that might have been handled by Kervick the Elder.
Outside, my mother stood in the dusty yard. She seemed to be studying the latest rusted heap Mr. Kervick was fixing up. It sat like some giant beast, its mouth propped open, the ever-present transistor radio swaying under the hood like a broken tooth.
“She said this would happen,” my mother said quietly.
“She said she would look up one day and I wouldn’t be there.” Pulling the softball out of her pocket, my mother tossed it in the air a few times as if feeling its weight. “I was really mad about it at the time, but Sarah was right. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up and I won’t be there.”
With one swift move, she rocketed the softball at Mr. Kervick’s radio, squarely meeting her mark and, through a handy demonstration of the transfer of energy, sent it flying into the dust.
Donutheart Page 11
