“Pete …” Cary ran up to me.
I stared at her. You’re right, Cary, my parents are no better than your parents. Worse, actually. Your parents never hurt anybody but themselves—and you.
“Pete, I don’t know why I said that, it just—it just came out.” She pulled at the string of coral around her neck.
We crossed the street. I wondered who else thought about the bodies. Gene? Cary? Martha?
“Pete, I’m not telling the truth. I’m jealous. I’m jealous of you. Even though your mother’s in jail, she’s here, and you can go to her. Anytime you want to, you can go to her.”
“Oh, yes—and what if I said I was jealous of you, Cary?”
“Don’t try to make me feel better, Pete. I said a mean thing.” She put her hand on my arm. “Are we still friends?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Do you mean it?”
I looked at her, for the first time that afternoon really looked at her. “I mean it.” I leaned my forehead against hers. “Cary, I mean it, I mean it.”
“I never realized how much of a Midwest hick I am,” Martha said, “until Gene told me about all this stuff with your parents, Pete. I mean, I just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t take it in. It was like SMERSH or James Bond or something. Pure fiction.”
“Didn’t you ever think that my parents both being dead was sort of phony?”
“No. Why? No, I believed it. I just—Once I remember thinking it was a little strange you didn’t have any pictures of your parents, but then I thought, Well, it hurts too much. Actually, I still find it hard to believe.”
“Yes. Right.” I remembered the morning in the park when I’d told Cary. She’d been no more prepared than Martha, but after the first doubts, she had believed it as completely as if she could relate to the peculiar parts of my life better than the normal parts. And she didn’t beat the subject to death the way Martha did. Martha couldn’t leave it alone.
“Your mother just left you? … A little kid of eight? … She put a bomb in that lab … but she must have known somebody could get hurt …” Every time, my stomach churned. She kept calling to chew it over. Finally, I blew.
We were in the living room waiting for Gene, waiting to go out to supper before the play. Martha started in. “But didn’t your mother think—”
“Can it! You’ve asked me the same asinine questions a thousand times.”
I saw the hurt, the surprise come over her. My temper tantrums had been reserved for Gene. Not Martha, especially not Martha.
They went out to eat without me. The next day I went by her place and apologized. She hugged me. “No, Pete, it’s my fault. You’ve got every right to be sensitive about—Look, I’m sorry.”
So we left it at that. We were friends again, but I couldn’t help wondering how much of my life would be spent answering those very same questions.
“So Laura wants you to pick up and go?” Gene snapped his fingers. “Just like that? What about school? Don’t you think you should finish the term?”
I crunched a chicken wing between my teeth. “Maybe.”
“Just one more month and then exams.”
“Uh huh.”
“Poor judgment to transfer to another school now.”
“Maybe.” I wiped my fingers down the sides of my jeans.
“Maybe, maybe! Come on, Pete, you can do better than that.” Gene’s eyes bulged. There was a sheen over his face, a greenish cast. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t eat in the living room without a tray. I’ve told you that before.”
I grabbed my plate. “It’s lousy chicken anyway. Undercooked. I think I’ll have the rest of the roast beef.”
“I ate it for lunch.”
“Thanks,” I said bitterly. I slumped back against the couch.
“So what are you going to do?” my uncle said. “I’d like to know.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Gene sighed, big irritated sigh. So instead of irritating my uncle, why wasn’t I upstairs packing my things and writing letters?
First a letter to my mother.
Dear Laura, or should I call you Mom?
I noticed you signed two of your letters that way, but to be totally honest (as you said) I think of you as Laura. And what comes to mind is, Who is Laura? That’s an old song, you know, I heard it on a golden oldie program one night, Laura, Laura, who is Laura—something like that. I got sort of upset and flipped the radio off, so I might not have heard it just right. But you get the idea. Laura, Laura, who is Laura … Dear Laura, dear Mom, dear Mother, I want to come to you—I think. Total honesty, right? Something’s holding me back. Don’t know what it is. Do you? If so, let me in on the secret. Love, Pete. Pardon me, Love, Pax.
Then another letter.
Dear friends of my mother, whoever you are,
It’s wonderful (I suppose) that you’re going to take me in. There’s nothing I want more than to start living with strangers, but that sounds nasty, and actually I really appreciate your offer, at least I know my mother does, and as soon as I get myself in gear, I’ll appreciate it too, and be with you in no time flat. I can’t tell you right now when that will be, but be assured one of these days I’ll make a move. I haven’t figured out yet why I’m so slow, you might even call it reluctant; I really wonder about myself, maybe I’m a total basket case, one of those people who can’t stand getting what they want. Do you think that could be it? Eight years times fifty-two weeks times seven days equals 2,912 days. It’s possible that I wished for my parents’ return on at least 2,812 of those days. So whatsamatter with me? If you can tell me, rush your reply. Sincerely yours, Pete Greenwood, aka Pax Connors.
And finally, the last letter.
Dear Uncle Gene,
Thanks for all the help. We’ve had our ups and downs, I’ve been a nuisance, I know, and lots of times not very nice—you might even say I’ve been pretty rotten to you on occasion, and you’ve always been a gentleman about everything. So, even though you probably think I’m nothing but an ungrateful wretch, it’s been great knowing you and I’m glad for your sake that pretty soon you’re going to see the last of the great American nuisance. Ta ta, see you soon, maybe.
“Well, let me know when you make your plans,” Gene said.
I cleared my throat. “Oh, right. Absolutely. Count on it.”
Thirty-four
Gene was in costume, long black dress and bonnet, when I entered the dressing room. “Hey, here’s my nephew,” he said to the other actors in the room.
“Looks a lot like you,” someone said. Someone else smiled at me.
I bent over Gene. “Can I talk to you? Alone.”
We went out into the corridor. Gene wiped his face. “I don’t have much time before the next scene.”
“I just want to tell you—” I cleared my throat. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going there … I’m going to Laura.”
Gene didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he moved as if to go back into the dressing room. “Why are you telling me now? I’ve got to concentrate on the play. You’re not going this minute.”
“I just wanted to tell you, I made up my mind. We saw this movie in school and—” I moved my shoulders. It sounded so ridiculous. “A movie about some old people and … I made up my mind. So … I’m not going to wait for school to end.”
“You saw a movie about some old people and that made up your mind?”
“I don’t know if I can explain it—”
“Try.”
“They were old—”
“You said that.”
“I mean, all alone. Like, ah, their kids didn’t care about them or anything. Listen, Laura’s going through some heavy stuff. What am I supposed to do, sit around on my duff and say, ‘Do it all alone, Laura. Nice knowing you; now that you’re between a rock and a hard place, don’t count on me for anything.’ Is that what I’m supposed to do?”
“Did I say that? Would I say that? Is that what you think?”
“I don�
��t know what to think. You haven’t helped me figure this one out, that’s all I know.”
“Figure it out yourself. You think I’ve forgotten what you said? Your life is none of my business. Right? Isn’t that what you said?”
We were both yelling. “She needs me! All right? All right? Anyway, I just came to tell you, to let you know. You should be relieved I’m going. You don’t have to think about me anymore. You’re relieved, aren’t you? Come on, Gene. Truth or consequences.”
“Relieved?” He smiled unpleasantly. “I put eight years into you and then you just go away like this? Just like this?” He snatched off the bonnet, then the wig. His bare head stuck out ludicrously from the neck of the black gown. “You goddamn ungrateful kid!” He slapped me in the face.
I threw up my arms.
“Laura left you on my doorstep … she dumped you, a little kid, and I brought you up. I did it, didn’t I? Now she wants you back? The hell with her. The hell with her!” He grabbed me and I thought he was going to hit me again, but he pulled me against him and hugged me. “You can’t just go away like this,” he said. “I love you. I love you, goddamn it, I love you.”
He was crying and then I was crying too.
Thirty-five
Dear Laura,
I was so glad to hear from you. Of course I’m going to come, I just have a few loose ends to tie up. Yes, I understand about you and Hal and I—
Dear Laura,
Hello, how are you, this is your son writing you. Yes, I’m coming to see you and stay near you, and help you through this stuff, and get to know you again, all the things you talked about in your—
Dear Laura,
You crook your finger and you expect me to come running—did it ever occur to you that I have a life, too, that I’m not eight years old anymore? Did it ever occur to you that I might be just a little pissed at the way you left me, at the way you and Hal screwed up our family and our life? Did anything ever occur to you except what you want and what you think and the traumas you’re—
Dear Laura,
I’ve been trying to write you and getting myself hot and frustrated, ready to smash a window. You don’t know that about me, do you? I have a vicious temper, but I’ve never been mad at you, no, not you, not you and Hal, but Gene, yes. Uncle Gene, he’s been my whipping boy, I’ve taken my temper out on him for years, and he took it, he took it, Laura, he took it and he went right on being there for me, right on—
Dear Laura,
It’s pretty weird to be writing you in jail. I can’t quite get used to the idea of my mother being in jail, but I guess it’s no more weird than the idea of my mother being underground. I mean, I used to just think about it like you were some kind of terrific superheroine, but lately I’ve been realizing that’s a pretty juvenile attitude. I’ve been realizing quite a lot of stuff since I got your letters. I’m not sure what it all means yet. I’m not sure what it’s going to be like seeing you. Listen, to be truthful—
Dear Laura,
I’m making arrangements so I can come to NYC within the next week or so. I’ve got to get things set about my exams, stuff like that. I’ve written to your friends and I guess I’ll be staying there with them, at least over the summer. Hey, maybe I’ll really love NYC, the Big Apple they call it, maybe I’ll want to take a big bite out of the—
Thirty-six
I had told Gene I wanted to leave right away, but I delayed. I kept busy enough to tell myself I was too busy to leave just yet. Cary and I went to see the play. I wrote my mother (finally). I went around to all my teachers and made arrangements to take my exams by mail. Totie Golden insisted on taking me out to lunch one day. What did I tell her? The same thing I told them all, even Drew. As little as possible. Mostly the old habit of secrecy, but also the whole complicated thing of saying, Look, you thought my parents were dead, but it was all a crock. Actually …
But what I spent the most time on was wondering what I ought to do. Stay with Gene? Go to my mother? As if the question still existed.
My mother writes.
A hasty note just to say that Matt and Emily are waiting impatiently to meet you. But that’s nothing compared to how I feel! I’m getting to know some of the women here and they are all happy for me that you’re coming. I’m trying not to worry about the future right now. We’ll talk about it all, but at the moment what I want is to know you’re near me again.
I put the letter on my bureau. Every morning I read it. And, then, as I lace up my sneakers, as I go down the stairs, as I pour a glass of milk and smear jelly on bread, as if it were a story I’m telling myself, I imagine possible endings to this part of my life.
I wait up for Gene to come home from the theater. “Gene,” I say, as soon as he walks in, “I’m staying. This is my real life. Maybe I didn’t know it before, but now I do. You’ve been father, mother, and uncle to me. I go to school here. I have Cary here, and Martha, my room, you, especially you—I know I’ve never said it before, I didn’t say it that day at the theater, but Gene, I love you too.”
We’re all at the airport, waiting for my flight to be called. At my feet is a small suitcase. My mother needs me. She needs my support, my encouragement, my love. The flight is announced. Gene and I shake hands and I say, “I’ll come back. I promise you that.” “I know,” Gene says. “You’ll visit me. Once a year, you’ll visit me.” I want to say, “Please understand! Don’t you see how it is?” I don’t say it. We shake hands again. Martha kisses me. Cary and I hug. I go on the plane. I look back and see them all at the window, waving.
Fantasy immobilizes me. I must go. I have to stay. My mother is waiting. I’m going to hurt Gene too much … what a seesaw! I’m seasick, my thoughts pitch and rock and I can’t make a move.
One day I dig the scraps from the manila envelope out of my wastebasket and spend hours piecing and Scotch-taping them together. Some I get back almost whole, some remain fragments.
“Pete,” Gene says at breakfast one morning, “would it make it easier if I drove you?”
“Drove me?”
“Sure, we’ll have a nice trip in the Volvo.”
“I can take the bus.”
“It’s a ten hour trip. Forget it. We can afford a plane ticket. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.” He hesitates. “Last week, when you came to see me in the theater? I was unfair to you. I put the pressure on. Consider it off. I want you to do what’s right for you.”
“I don’t know what’s right for me!” I say miserably.
“You’ve missed Laura.”
“Yes. And … no. I mean I have, but I keep wondering who it is I missed. I don’t know her, Gene. Part of me doesn’t even believe she’s back. Anyway, she’s someone different, and so am I. Yeah, I want to see her, but—” I push aside my plate. “Damn it! Damn it, Gene. Do you think it’s easy just going?”
“No, I don’t think that. You have friends here, Cary—”
“And you? I guess you think that part is easy for me.”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think.”
“Well, we never—we don’t say things to each other, but—” My throat thickens. “You know what you said to me?” I put out my hand. “I say it back to you. Gene, I love you.”
The night after the play closes, Gene takes Martha and me out to dinner. “A farewell dinner for you, Pete.”
“My name is Pax.” I didn’t know I was going to say it. I don’t know if I mean it. Why is my name Pax any more than Pete? I have to think about this. Pax Martin Gandhi Connors—that’s a whole lot of name. That’s a whole lot of responsibility. I kind of like it, when I step aside and think about it. But I want to be sure that I don’t carry those names around lightly. I pretty much believe in what Gandhi and Martin Luther King believed in—nonviolence, not hurting other people. I believe it, but I don’t know if I’m up to living that way. Maybe I’m just an ordinary Pete after all.
Gene drinks a lot of wine at the dinner. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without h
im,” he says, putting his arm around me. He doesn’t use my name all evening. “Martha!” he cries. “I want a kid, I want a child.”
“Is that a proposal, sir?”
“Okay,” Gene says, “okay, let’s talk about it.” No one laughs.
“Cary, hi, I’m going tomorrow.”
“We have to write each other.”
“I will if you will.”
“I will, Pete. And I’m going to come visit you, don’t forget that.”
“I thought I was supposed to visit you.”
“I’m not going to wait for you, friend. What if you forget?”
“I definitely won’t.”
“Good-bye, Pete.”
“Cary—”
“No, I’m going to hang up right now. You too.”
In the car with Gene, we drive east into the sunrise. With each hour, I’m miles closer to my mother. Why do I feel numb? Feel nothing? Sleep so much and, even when awake, feel that I’m dreaming? For all these years, above all else, I waited for this moment to arrive. This happy moment. This happy ending.
We stay overnight in a motel stuck between two highways. All night the trucks roar past and the man in the room next door coughs. “No, I slept all right,” Gene says as we eat breakfast in a diner, but there are heavy lines under his eyes. We drive again. I say I wish I had my license. Gene agrees with me. We talk about school, college, Cary, Martha. Everything, in fact, but my mother.
“New York City ahead,” Gene says, throwing money into the toll basket.
I look out the window. Soon I’ll see her. It’s true. I’ll see my mother. A great wave of happiness blows over me. “Gene!” I turn to him to tell him, to share the moment. He looks at me and smiles. And then I want to cry, I want to say, Don’t take me there, Gene. Take me home!
Home? Where’s that? Home to my mother? Home to Gene? At that moment, I finally understand that there is no ending for my story … no perfect ending … no little-Pax-happy-at-last ending.
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