“I can’t sleep either,” Michael whispered.
She sat on the edge of his bed and they held each other in the dark.
chapter
6
Sunday morning, Mom kept flinging her arms around Michael and kissing him all over, the way she would kiss Nathaniel. “Oh, Michael! You just told your father you were coming home? Coming back to me? Oh, Michael, I’m so glad to see you! This is so wonderful!”
Michael slid out of her grasp and onto a chair, facing his glass of orange juice.
“Miikooo’s home!” Nathaniel kept yelling. “Got Miikooo atta airport!”
“Yes, you did,” said Kells. “You and your big sister went on a long taxi ride, didn’t you?”
Nathaniel frowned. “No, Daddy. Went onna pane.”
His father swung him in circles. “Michael went on the plane, didn’t he? Did you see it land?”
“Michael, darling,” said Mom, “I can’t find your suitcases. Where are your things?”
Michael studied his orange juice.
“Once Michael decided to come back,” said Lily, “there weren’t many flights to choose from and there wasn’t enough time for packing. Dad’s going to ship his stuff.” I, who hate him, she thought, am giving Dad an out.
“I think some drawers in your bureau never got emptied, Michael,” said Kells. “I’ll find something for you to wear. Come on, men.” He tickled Nathaniel under the chin and motioned to Michael. “Let’s dress for church.”
Kells had never gone to church until he married Mom. He had never expressed an opinion on church. It occurred to Lily that she had no idea what Kells thought about anything.
“Poor Dennis,” said Mom to Lily. “Your poor father must be heartbroken. I should call him and make sure he’s all right.”
Who cared if that snake was all right? What was the matter with Mom? Dennis was the creep she’d divorced, and as it turned out, for excellent reasons. Mom was a fine judge of character. “I think you should leave it alone for a while,” said Lily. “Let it sort itself out. Why don’t we go to the mall this afternoon while Nathaniel is napping and grab Michael a few outfits to tide him over?”
There was nothing Mom liked more than the mall. She grabbed a pencil to make a shopping list and then dropped the pencil to crush Lily in a hug. “I haven’t even thanked you yet, Lily. You were so mature—getting to LaGuardia and managing Nate at the same time. I feel terrible you had to do it alone. But you rose to the occasion. I’m so proud.”
Socks, she wrote at the top of her list.
Mom loved those ten-packs of socks. She felt that if you had fresh clean bright white socks on, all would be well.
But she was wrong. Socks weren’t going to help. I have to tell her what really happened, thought Lily. She’s the mom. She needs to know.
But she could not bring herself to damage her mother’s happiness. Her son had chosen her and he needed socks. What else was there?
Lily went upstairs to fix her hair.
In the boys’ room, Kells was laying out two sets of clothing. “Michael,” he said, “I think Jamie might press you for details. Sometimes it’s good to plan ahead how you’re going to answer difficult questions. Shall we think of a line you can use when Jamie asks how come you’re home?”
Jamie—who believed in perfect fathers—was in Michael’s Sunday school class. And the person who remembered was the stepfather. And the person who was skeptical that Michael had gotten homesick was also the stepfather.
Lily thought, I will not cry.
“The best line,” said Kells, “would be boring and easy to repeat. That way your own words don’t upset you. And then change the subject. For example, ‘Mom couldn’t stand to have me far away, so I’m back. Tell me about third grade, Jamie. What have I missed?’”
During the second verse of the second hymn, the children left the church and went to Sunday school. When she was little, Lily had always been so eager for that second verse to come and never understood why they couldn’t leave on the first verse. What was the point of waiting? So she knew why Jamie leaped off his pew, looked in disgust at Michael—who hardly seemed alive, let alone aware of what verse they were on—and jerked the bottom of Michael’s tie. “Come on!” said Jamie. “What are you waiting for?” A month ago, Michael would have pummeled Jamie into little pieces for yanking him around, but this Sunday, he did not notice.
Morning sun poured through stained-glass lilies and roses. The church was hot. The velvet pew cushions were comfy. People looked sleepy.
Dr. Bordon read the text. Luke 11:5–13. The numbers sounded familiar, as if some distant Sunday school teacher had hoped Lily would memorize this.
“Jesus is speaking,” Dr. Bordon said. “And he says to a crowd listening to him, ‘If you had a friend, would you ever go to that friend at midnight and say to him, I need three loaves of bread, for another friend of mine has just arrived, and I have nothing to feed him?’”
Lily didn’t know the story after all. Jesus was apt to be brief, and you’d better be paying attention or it would be over with and you wouldn’t know what it meant. Half the time you wouldn’t know what it meant when you did pay attention. Reb used to say the real miracle was that anybody figured out how to be a Christian to start with.
“‘Your friend inside his house might answer you by saying, Trouble me not! My door is shut—my children are in bed. I cannot get up and give you anything.’”
Lily usually thought of church as entire, separate. A place she liked, but did not carry around with her in the same way, for example, she carried basic math into a restaurant, to figure the tip. Jesus was a remote dusty person in sandals, saying things that ended up on Sunday school walls, along with pictures of happy peasants in Sudan or India, whose lives were improved by a water buffalo donated by Sunday school children.
But this was different. This applied.
For Michael had called upon Dad for bread—meaning love; meaning home. And just like the verse, Dad had answered, “Trouble me not, Michael. I cannot get up and give you anything. My door is shut.” Lily shivered with the accuracy of it.
“‘I, Jesus, say to you,’” read Dr. Bordon, “‘though your friend will not get up and give you what you need—because he is your friend, he will get up, and give you everything you need. And I say to you, Ask and it shall be given. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks—receives. Everyone who seeks—finds. To everyone who knocks—that door will open.’”
Wait a second here, thought Lily. Michael was seeking—and got slapped. Michael knocked—and had the door slammed in his face. And Michael wasn’t just asking. He was begging.
Dr. Bordon continued to read. “‘If a son asks his father for bread, will the father give his son a stone?’”
Yes, thought Lily. He will.
“‘If the son asks for dinner, will the father put a snake in front of him? If the son asks for eggs, will the father offer a scorpion?’”
Yes. Dennis Rosetti: Scorpion Man.
“‘If you, being a bad person, know that you must give good gifts to your children, think how much more your Heavenly Father will give to those who ask Him for gifts.’”
Lily could have torn a hymnbook in half. What are you up to here, Jesus? My father did give his son a stone. He’d do it again. He likes stones. Gives nothing but stones.
Turning the Sunday bulletin to the back page, she busied herself reading announcements, hoping to block out Dr. Bordon and his nonsense. The last Sunday in September, nobody had signed up to do coffee hour. Every week in October the nursery school needed volunteers. The choir was looking for tenors.
Yesterday, Lily informed God, there was fear in my brother’s voice. He was not afraid of the airport. He was afraid of his father. This father you’re so sure wouldn’t give him a stone.
Yesterday, even an eight-year-old didn’t have a friend at midnight. Listen to me, God. Asking doesn’t get you what you want. Knocking on
doors doesn’t open them. And fathers do so give their son a stone when they ask for bread.
You’re no more a father than my real father. I’m done with you, too.
Amanda did not let Lily down. She listened to the whole story, punctuating Lily’s recital with cries of agony and little shouts of “Kill him!”
They were lying on towels at the edge of Amanda’s pool. They had swum back and forth for fifteen minutes, which was nothing for Amanda but more than Lily usually did in a month. Lily had that nice trim feeling that comes from lots of exercise, and as usual she was convinced that from now on she would swim, swim, swim—and as usual she knew perfectly well this was not going to happen.
Amanda shivered. “I don’t want to believe that your dad really did that. I bet he really came back to the airport. I bet he couldn’t actually drive away. He tried to find Michael.”
“No. Because if he had tried, and he didn’t find Michael, he’d have called airport security.” Lily pictured her father driving away. Paying highway tolls. Stopping for takeout. Unlocking an empty apartment. Watching television. Staying up for the eleven o’clock news. Worrying about the situation in the Middle East.
Not worrying about Michael.
“I bet your father is suffering,” said Amanda. “Think of him, hundreds of miles from here, all day, all night, picturing his little boy alone and scared.”
Lily took off her sunglasses and stared at Amanda.
“Right,” said Amanda. “If he cared, he wouldn’t have left his little boy alone and scared to start with. How come your mom and Kells haven’t gotten to the bottom of this?”
“They’re e-mailing. Thank you, Dennis, for agreeing to ship Michael’s stuff. Best—Judith.”
“So she didn’t ask your father what happened and your father didn’t say. Did Michael tell you?”
“I don’t think anything happened. I think Michael was just more effort than Dad felt like. You know little boys. Michael needed laundry and breakfast and dinner and help with his reading and chauffeuring and games and attention and conversation and snacks. And he said to me on the plane, he said—oh, Amanda!—he said, I thought we would play catch.”
“Poor Michael. How’s he doing?”
“He sort of isn’t doing. Just sitting there.” Lily felt strangely heavy, hanging on to everything that hurt Michael. No wonder Michael is just sitting there, she thought. He’s weighted down.
Amanda slathered sunscreen on her legs and arms. “Still, Lily. Just because Dennis Rosetti is totally worthless, I’m not sure it means that God is. Let’s not say it out loud. God might strike us down.”
“If God planned to strike anybody,” said Lily, “and if there’s any justice in this world, He’d strike Dad. But no, Dad is fine.”
“Well, you’re right,” said Amanda. “That is not fair.” She smacked the sunscreen bottle down on the tiles. She got on her knees. Then she tilted her head back and glared straight up into the sky.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m praying. I’m watching closely so God can’t wiggle to the side and pretend He doesn’t see me. God!” she yelled. Slippery with sunscreen, ponytail wet and tight, sunglasses sliding around, long thin arms sticking straight up like a gymnast about to break her back, she pointed accusingly upward. “God! Give us revenge! I suggest a slick spot on the road. Dennis Rosetti driving too fast and braking too late! A man who abandons his third grader at the airport, God, deserves to suffer and suffer and suffer and suffer! Or die. You choose.”
Amanda lay back down on her towel.
“Amen,” said Lily Rosetti.
chapter
7
Who could have guessed that hate would be so fierce, so alive?
Lily had thought of “hate” as a verb for clothing (I hate pink) or school (I hate essays) or weather (I hate when it’s this hot). What a misuse of the word. Hate was a burning wilderness. It occupied her like an army.
And the thing she could not get over was that Dennis Rosetti had no hate because he had no interest. His interest in Michael wasn’t even enough for short-term parking.
Her Amen to Amanda’s prayer pounded like a snare drum in her ears and made it impossible to think. School, which had always been friendly and bland, was a carnivore, chewing on her. And for the first semester in their lives, Lily and Amanda had no classes together and did not see each other during the day. It was like walking without a floor.
If this was life, Lily was staying home to watch television for the next fifty years.
She was thinner. She knew it was because her pulse wouldn’t stop racing.
Only in church did her heart slow down. The next Sunday, for his sermon, Dr. Bordon discussed a sentence Jesus had spoken. I will not leave you comfortless. In the original Greek, explained Dr. Bordon, “comfortless” was literally “orphaned.”
It was true. Michael was comfortless and might just as well be orphaned. A sister wasn’t enough. A mother wasn’t enough. A stepfather was meaningless. Michael Rosetti had no father.
Dr. Bordon implied that Jesus could fill the void. Lily thought probably you had to be a grown-up for that to work. No amount of church would comfort an eight-year-old for the loss of his father.
In the course of the week, Michael had become, in military terms, a noncombatant: a person who didn’t—wouldn’t—couldn’t fight. All he was, was there. He didn’t fail in school. In fact, because he sat still instead of yelling and running and arguing and getting into trouble, he did quite well. Teachers liked him more. After all, half the boys in school were given Ritalin to calm them down, so teachers were trained to believe that a semicomatose boy was a good boy.
Lily could hardly stand to look at her brother. He seemed middle-aged to her, as if any moment he would chair a committee or open a checking account.
Lily raced home from school every day to intercept the mail. If Mom got home first, Lily had to follow her trail, because Mom started opening mail in the front hall and continued as she moved, chucking junk mail or ripped envelopes in any wastebasket or on any surface, dropping letters on any table, setting bills near any telephone, taping anything that caught her eye to the refrigerator.
Day after day, the bill didn’t come.
After school, Michael didn’t get on his bike anymore and ride over to Jamie’s. He didn’t start projects in the cellar or hide things in the attic. He didn’t talk about school and he didn’t listen when Lily and Mom did.
On Wednesday of the second week, Mom and Nathaniel were in the kitchen arguing over snacks when Lily got home, and Michael was sitting at the table not taking sides.
“I wanna duice box,” Nathaniel shouted. “I wanna sfig noonans.”
“Lily, darling, I have to practice,” said Mom, meaning, “You handle snacks.” She zoomed down into the cellar, where she practiced her trumpet. Kells had put foam tiles and insulation into the cellar ceiling to absorb the sound, but if you stood over where Mom was playing, your feet vibrated.
When Nathaniel was born, Mom used to pop him into a baby backpack and take him down to the cellar with her, which was supposed to imbue his little baby heart with a love of music. Nathaniel now covered his ears whenever he saw a brass instrument.
Lily gave Nathaniel a four-pack of Fig Newtons.
“I wike sfig noonans,” Nathaniel informed them. His little fingers struggled with the cellophane wrapper. “Opennuh cookie, Wiwwy.”
She opened the pack for him and threw the plastic into the garbage. There lay the credit card bill, unopened.
“Frow it onna foor,” Nathaniel told Lily.
“Don’t throw it on the floor! Eat it!”
“No. It’s onna foor now.”
“It’s on the floor because you threw it there. Don’t throw anything else on the floor. I can’t stand it when my shoes stick.”
“Foos stick,” said Nate happily. “Foos stick foos stick foos stick!”
A normal Michael would have licked it up off the floor. A normal Michael woul
d have shrieked “Foos stick” for the next half hour too. This Michael wasn’t listening.
Lily could not retrieve the bill while the boys were there. Searching through the garbage for interesting envelopes was not a habit she wanted Nathaniel to develop. “Michael, start Nate’s new video for him, okay?”
The new video was a particularly sappy Clifford. It was one of the million things that had made Michael want to live someplace else. A normal Michael would have taken Nathaniel outside to experiment with throwing stuff down storm drains, leaping off the carport roof or rolling each other around the yard inside the trash barrels.
This Michael sighed, nodded and followed Nate over to the television, as if the toddler were the one in charge.
Lily fished out the envelope, wiped it clean with a paper towel and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. Then she turned on the kitchen computer to see what e-mails had arrived.
Reb e-mailed like a person planning to publish a ten-volume diary. The very first afternoon at college she had met a great great great guy named Freddie. Within hours, Reb knew Freddie was perfect. In days, she and Freddie were a perfect couple. Lily knew more about Freddie than she did about the President.
This time a word popped out at her. In the header listing other addresses to whom Reb was sending the same message (her three best friends from high school, her favorite high school teacher, a cousin, Mom, Lily) Lily saw the address “denrose.”
She was stunned. The snake knew the very same details about Reb’s life that Lily did. But then she read the latest installment of her sister’s perfect life with the perfect guy on the perfect campus with the perfect roommates and the perfect professors and she was filled with an unexpected joy.
Her sister was not comfortless. Had not been orphaned. Didn’t even know that Michael and Lily had lost a parent. In fact, swept up in the wonderful new world of college, Reb seemed not to remember that Michael and Lily might also have a life. She didn’t write, “How’s third grade, Michael?” She didn’t write, “How awful not to have Amanda in any classes!”
A Friend at Midnight Page 6
