New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  For a moment, Callie just sat there, staring out the window and quietly humming a tuneless song. No way did it match the sweetness of her face. She motioned toward the sky, pointing out a snaky line of stars stretching across the night. “Know what constellation that is?”

  In school I’d learned a few things about the heavens—like how there were eighty-eight constellations, and the sun was the only known star in our galaxy that wasn’t part of a constellation. But Callie’s constellation eluded me.

  “Hydra,” she said. “It’s a weird one.”

  I must’ve given her a completely clueless look because she proceeded to tell me the whole story. How Hydra was the largest constellation in the sky. A beast with the body of a hound and one hundred serpentine heads. Had poisonous breath and was so ugly that it caused people to die from seeing it. One of Hercules’s great tasks was to kill it. But when he began fighting it, he discovered that every time he cut off one of its heads, three grew back. Eventually, he had his charioteer, Iolus, burn the headless stumps, which prevented regeneration. The last head, however, was immortal, so after cutting it off, they trapped it under a rock.

  Callie stopped there, shook her head. “Sorry. Sometimes I can talk a lot.” Then she turned in her seat to face me. “How’s school?”

  School was like always, math was Public Enemy Number One. But I excelled in classes like geography, world history, and French; classes that swept me far, far away from Blackwater. “It’s fine I guess.”

  “What about Terry?” she asked. “I don’t see him bothering you anymore.”

  “It’s taken care of,” I said.

  “Good,” said Callie. “I hated how he’d hit you. Especially your face.”

  After that, we stared at each other so intently it almost scared me how I felt like I was falling into her deep watery eyes. Drowning in Pale Jade Rivers Me. Never Want to Resurface Me. But then she looked away and my falling stopped.

  Callie glanced down at her fake leg.

  So did I. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

  At first she didn’t respond.

  “Look,” I said, “if you don’t wanna talk about it—” My words fell away. I didn’t know how to pick them up from there.

  Callie helped me by saying: “It’s fine. I’ve spoken to so many people about it so many times.” She readjusted herself in her seat, then began. “I was with my mom. She was driving to the cleaners. She wanted to get there before it closed so she was in a hurry. Since then, she keeps telling me she never saw the stop sign. Said it was hidden behind a tree. But that’s crazy. We’d driven that road so many times. She should’ve known. Anyway, the last thing I remembered seeing was this car outta the corner of my eye. After that, the doctor telling my parents they’d have to amputate my leg because my femur had been shattered so badly.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. My mom was reckless. But Callie’s situation was far worse. If I’d been telling that story, I would’ve been yelling my head off. She, however, spoke in little more than a whisper.

  Callie let fly a nervous flutter of a laugh. It spilled from her mouth like a tiny bird. “It’s definitely been a big adjustment,” she said.

  “Do you hate her for what happened?” I asked.

  Callie got a look on her face like she’d been asked that question a million times, or had at least considered it that many times herself. “For a while,” she said, “no matter how many times my mom apologized I hated her. Now I don’t know what to think. Sometimes I try to forgive her and everything’s okay. Well, sort of. Then there are other times…” Her whispery voice trailed off like smoke, then began again. “All I know for sure is that my parents argue a lot and aren’t happy here anymore. Neither am I.” She stopped.

  Sure, there was the radio and usual evening Dump sounds. Otherwise, the car had become so quiet I could hear my ears ring.

  Callie leaned into me as if she’d been blown there by an invisible wind. “You can touch it if you like,” she said. “My leg.”

  I must’ve had a look on my face—part fear, part curiosity—that caused Callie to add: “Go ahead. I do it all the time.” She pulled down her sock to reveal a portion of her fake leg.

  I rested a hand on it. It felt like the top of my school desk.

  She guided my hand just above her knee, to that place where fake flesh met real. “You can go higher if you like,” she said.

  Her real flesh was soft, smooth, and warm. As my fingers inched beneath her skirt, her flesh grew warmer and warmer.

  Callie brushed strands of blonde hair from her mouth. “That feels nice,” she sighed.

  I rested my forehead against hers, breathed in her usual scent. But there was also something new, something electric and fresh—thunderstorms and new babies.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Why did you ask me out?”

  That didn’t take long to answer. Sure, part of me had done it to prove myself to Baby. But mainly, I adored Callie for a very different reason. I gave her another one of my lame lines, only this time in French, which still makes me groan a bit. At the time, however, it was absolutely heartfelt, for real. “Parce que tu es un diamant,” I said.

  Also a student of French, Callie understood that I’d told her she was a diamond. But she didn’t get the full meaning.

  So I explained. “No matter how much life knocks you around, your strength keeps you shining.”

  Callie flashed that wobbly smile of hers that’d always make me weak-kneed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She touched my hand resting on her thigh. “You can go higher if you like.”

  I recalled how she’d treated me back in elementary—the snide comments and ratting me out to teachers. When I reminded her of all those moments, she scrunched up her nose, and said: “It was only because I liked you, Mark. Sorry it came out all wrong.”

  I inched my fingers a little further up her thigh. But when I reached the place where her warmth grew too intense, she shook her head.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “I thought I was ready. You’re the first guy I’ve been with since—”

  I was torn. I’d had my share of making it to second base, sometimes even third, with random girls out at Dump parties. Right then was my chance to do as much, or more, with someone better than all those Dump girls combined.

  “You better stop,” Callie said, her voice cracking.

  Back when I was almost sixteen I thought I knew a lot. Mistook the accumulation of odd facts for true knowledge. I’d acquired a whole laundry list of random information—like if you installed an Indy Car engine into a riding mower, it could cut a half-acre lawn in about 5.6 seconds. Also, the only guy in ZZ Top that didn’t have a beard was the drummer, Frank Beard. And because Grandmother had been suffering from so many heart problems as of late, I’d also learned that cardiovascular disease killed more women every year than the next sixteen causes of death combined. But when it came to knowing what to say or do to make a girl feel better, I was completely clueless. I removed my hand from Callie’s thigh, put my arm around her.

  “Please don’t hate me,” she said.

  I told her I’d never hate her, pulled her close.

  In a small voice, she said: “Maybe we should go.”

  I didn’t argue. I started the car, got us out of the Dump. Luckily it was still somewhat early in the evening, so there wasn’t a police cruiser parked by the entrance—takedown lights blazing—waiting to pop wasted partiers. Sure I’d developed a certain amount of cachet with Blackwater’s finest. But that cred wouldn’t have saved my ass for driving around without a license in Mom’s hijacked Caddy.

  Just as I pulled up to the main road, Callie said: “Go left.”

  “But right’s the way home,” I said.

  Her brow furrowed. Her soft, watery eyes were like blazing bonfires. “
What’re you waiting for? The way you talk about leaving. You want this, too.”

  I sat there, struggling with what to do next. Just then, I recalled another one of my old man’s Irish sayings: “When God made time he made plenty of it.” That was bullshit, I thought. Bruce Lee summed it up better when he said: “If you love life, don’t waste time, for time is what life is made of.” More than wanting to do this for me, I wanted to do it for Callie. I wanted to give her the gift of a long and happy life. “Strap in,” I said.

  She buckled her seatbelt.

  I did the same. Then I punched the gas, spun the wheel to the left. In a kicked-up cloud of dust, we rocketed down the highway.

  Shadowy trees whipped by. So did gun-blasted road signs and deer grazing by the side of the road.

  “Faster,” said Callie.

  The wind rushing in through the open windows had turned her straight and shiny blonde hair into a brilliant and spinning array of firework sparklers. She was laughing. She was the happiest I’d ever seen. I leaned on the gas. The speedometer climbed to seventy. I cranked the radio.

  Whether it was dumb luck, or the Music Gods smiling down on us, Springsteen’s “Born to Run” blasted through the speakers.

  Over the music, over the rushing wind, Callie called out, “I hate my mom!”

  “I hate mine, too!” I hollered.

  Once we crossed the train tracks skirting the edge of town, Callie pointed up ahead.

  Within the headlight’s glow was the distant image of the You Are Now Leaving Blackwater sign.

  Right then, I figured it to be the moment Mad Man had referred to—that I’d leave when the time was right. I didn’t let off the gas. We were Code 10-56 to paradise.

  The Blackwater sign drew closer. Throughout my life, that sign had represented a huge obstacle in my mind, marking a border that had imprisoned me. That night, however, I coolly glided out of town with Callie at my side. The ease of it all surprised me. I let fly a whoop, as a crushing weight lifted from me.

  Callie let fly her own whoop. She reached out a hand for mine.

  “You don’t want me to have two on the wheel?” I asked.

  “One’s fine,” she said. She took my free hand in hers.

  I continued driving. Though we were only doing seventy, it felt much faster. Or I should say, I seemed to be moving faster. Like I was a piston, sparking inside life’s great big engine. That engine was well-oiled. It hummed and revved. Was ready to take Callie and me anywhere. And all the roads in front of us were wide open.

  For two sheltered teenagers from the Pine Barrens, we had such big aspirations that evening. We couldn’t stop all our optimistic dreaming out loud.

  “Where to now?” Callie asked.

  “How ’bout LA?” I said.

  Callie stuck a hand out the window, swished it through the mild night air. “What’ll you do there?”

  “Maybe I can become a stunt driver. Or a bongloader to the stars.”

  Callie made an euw face. “Or maybe we can keep driving until we find a place where we can start our own city. We’ll call it No Parentland.”

  “And the skies will be clear,” I said, “no radiation.”

  “And there’ll be tons of stars in the night,” she offered, “so many that we can create our own constellations.”

  Mile marker after mile marker, we continued our dreaming. It was all as fast and frenetic as the wheels against road. Gradually, that energy diminished. The inertia made the world around me feel strange and overwhelming.

  “You okay?” Callie asked.

  I said yeah, but the truth was I wasn’t so sure anymore. I didn’t know how I’d take care of us. Back home, I’d only made cash working crappy summer jobs: cutting lawns, delivering newspapers, selling old socks to Mad Man. As for responsibility, I’d mostly spent the last few years in a wasted haze with Jimmy. In regards to relationships, the only physical intimacy I knew was: Grandmother’s hugs and my old man’s abuse.

  Of course I’d do my best to better my life, I thought. Yet what if it didn’t look much different in another town? Being a fuckup in Anywhere USA might be a small improvement over being one in Blackwater. But I didn’t want to live that way anymore. Still, I had no idea how to change. I couldn’t find that place on a map, even if you drew a straight line to it. That realization scared me so much I slammed on the brakes.

  Callie screamed, braced her hands against the dash.

  I safely skidded over to the side of the road.

  For a moment, we didn’t speak. Just sat there as a kicked-up cloud of dust surrounded the car.

  Tears flooded Callie’s wild eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” I clicked off the radio, looked right at her and spoke the truth. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I’d take care of you and your leg.”

  “Forget my leg,” she cried. “It’s gone.”

  I tried taking her into my arms, but she pulled away. Choked out how she’d never be able to run again. Didn’t trust stop signs. Or her mother. Hated her smile, and how everyone looked at her funny. Couldn’t stop having nightmares about the crash—how her leg was there one moment, then in a flash, gone. Through it all, I didn’t interrupt her. Just let her say all that needed to be said. Once she’d exhausted herself, she collapsed into her seat.

  I collapsed into my own seat, sat staring straight ahead. That first-date Friday night with Callie, I was clueless as how to explain what had just taken place. Some time later, though, I’d recall Callie and me sitting in that Caddy alongside the highway shoulder, totally lost in the dust cloud surrounding us. As it diminished, we could see the wide-open road ahead of us. All that leaving—and everything it meant to Callie and me—was right there. We just didn’t know how to reach it.

  Chapter 11

  That summer between eleventh and twelfth grade was filled with all kinds of bizarre shit: Richard W. Miller became the first FBI agent convicted of espionage. Cyanide-laced, Extra-Strength Tylenol was in supermarkets. President Reagan’s “Just Say No” to drugs was everywhere. That summer was also when I got a call from Mom.

  “Get over here,” she said. “Now.”

  That one puzzled me. Since she’d left home, I’d only seen her a couple times. Each visit had amounted to nothing more than the two of us sitting on her couch, drowning in silences, unable to discuss the past. But with this call, Mom had that old music in her voice—honey-slow and sweet. It was the music that had made my old man fall in love with her. And though it was the music that made me miss her all over again, I had my doubts. Through a lumped-up throat, I said: “Gimme one good reason.”

  “I’ve got a plan,” said Mom. “A way for you to make some money.”

  “Money?” I said.

  “Money,” she said.

  I recalled how Mom used to sit at the kitchen table around tax time, armed with a calculator, punching in numbers, going through the figures aloud. How she’d rake in over $40,000 a year in commission. Add to that her $9,000 monthly check, and her average monthly “love check” which was around $2,600. That was pretty good, but there were expenses: leadership conferences, career conferences, incentives, customer gifts, postage. The list went on and on. When she was done with all her calculations, she was lucky to end up with little over $30,000.

  When I reminded Mom of this, she got all defensive, and said: “Now you listen, young man.”

  Then she threw back in my face the bits and pieces of my life she’d heard through the strained and infrequent phone calls with my old man. Her laundry list summed up my summer: working odd jobs weeding and cutting lawns, evenings spent hanging with Jimmy or Callie, the occasional bus ride to the Toms River Branch of the Ocean County Library to search out nuclear power articles. And when I wasn’t doing those things, I was at home alone, watching the tube, cleanin
g the house, raiding the fridge. And when I wasn’t alone, my old man and I—back to our old ways—were often arguing. “Some money,” Mom added, “might change all that.”

  Part of me figured she was lying through her teeth. But another part of me wanted to believe her. If for no other reason, the extra cash could finally allow me to take Callie out on a real date, and to also afford me a set of wheels. “Fine,” I said, overcoming my lumped-up throat. “I’ll be right over.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Once through the front door, Mom barely uttered a hello. Like our previous visits, she didn’t even offer a hug. Decked out in a pearl-white blouse, fuchsia skirt, silver high-heeled pumps, and still sporting the remnants of a tan from her last Mary Kay–sponsored vacation to the Bahamas, all she said was: “Well? What do you think?” She spread her arms out wide, as if she were Vanna White displaying a solved puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. Except with Mom, all she was displaying was her lousy living room.

  Gone were the off-white walls, driftwood coffee table, and bile-green ruffled curtains my old man had said filled the room when he’d brought over the divorce papers for her to sign. Currently, Mom’s living room reflected her desire to express her true inner self. The walls screamed pink. There was crap all over them. Mom pointed out each and every adornment.

  On one wall was a poster for the Broadway play, Cats. Mounted on another wall were hand-stained shelves sporting barf-inducing Hummel figurines; photos of women’s rights activists Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug; cosmetics executives Mary Kay Ash, Elizabeth Arden, Estée Lauder; along with photos of Mom receiving this Mary Kay award and that Mary Kay award. On still another wall was a cheesy Nagel print, featuring a mysterious hooded woman with a horse. By her living room window, covered in pale yellow curtains, was an oversized sofa, featuring a garish Laura Ashley floral print. Displayed on a sparkling glass-topped coffee table were copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Broken Patterns: Professional Women and the Quest for a New Feminine Identity. But the real kick in the ass was a framed poster for Terms of Endearment, which I’d later discover had been a movie about a mother/daughter relationship.