by Anya Bateman
“That’s right, it is.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“We said that,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension.
Alex sat up and leaned forward, his eyes bulging. “I mean it! Listen carefully. Once and for all, I am not running. Do . . . you . . . understand?”
“I suppose so.” I was nervous now. When Alex’s eyes start bulging, it generally means negotiations are over.
“Good, because I really DO NOT— and I’m saying these words loudly because you seem to be having some problem registering what I’m saying— I repeat: I DO NOT want to hear ANYMORE about my running for an office.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” He shook his head. “FINE!”
I sighed and plopped down on the floor in the corner in disappointment. All this time I’d been sure my brother was just being coy and that he’d eventually acquiesce. Or maybe I had just been trying to convince myself that I believed he was being coy and would come around. Maybe I’d really known all along that he wasn’t interested. Maybe I’d thought that my wanting it for him badly enough would eventually override his reticence and that my urgency would make up for his lack of enthusiasm. But Alex it appeared, truly and honestly was not interested in running for a school office. I realized now that I was just going to have to acknowledge that fact.
Strangely, after a few minutes, however, something I recognized as relief was seeping into my psyche. If there was really absolutely nothing I could do to convince Alex to enter the race, and Alex honestly was not going to run for a high school office of any kind, the pressure, I realized, was completely off me too. Even though Lyla was out of the picture, there were other people I’d been thinking I’d still need to brownnose and I was getting tired, very tired of brownnosing.
“At least I won’t need to kiss any more skinny little you- know- whats,” I mumbled loudly enough for Alex to hear.
My brother allowed a small laugh to escape. “Yeah, that really wasn’t like you.” I think he too was relieved. I think he thought I was finally letting go of my ambitions for him. It was only partially true.
I’d pretty much abandoned the high school office idea, but I still had plenty of ambition for Alex when it came to a post- high school career. In fact, I was at that very moment thinking beyond high school to college. If Alex could get into a good law school, he’d easily be able to move from law into politics. And wouldn’t Lyla and her lovely friends be clamoring to claim his friendship when my brother was governor of Ohio or even a congressman? Oh boy, would they ever be claiming him as their very bestest friend then! But that brought up another concern.
“So you were kidding about what you said about joining the Church of Jesus Christ of LDS, weren’t you?”
“I’m taking lessons over at James’s house,” Alex said, “on Tuesdays. I’ve been wanting to tell you about it. So far it’s pretty good stuff. Makes a lot of sense.”
“What!” I scrambled out of the corner. This time my eyes were bulging. “I thought you were playing chess on Tuesdays! What are you telling me? Are you serious?”
“I’m not serious about anything right now. I just said I was studying this and that it seems to make sense.”
“Well, I certainly hope you’re not seriously considering making any kind of a commitment because if you join the LDS faith you might as well kiss any kind of a political career good- bye. You leave the accepted conventional Protestant churches and you just don’t make it in this world, my dear brother. You might as well just start growing potatoes in the backyard!” But it was a huge mistake to bring politics up again just minutes after he’d let me know so emphatically that it wasn’t on his agenda.
“Good grief!” Alex shouted. “I feel like there’s some kind of a barnacle attached to me! What’s it going to take, Jana, to convince you that I don’t want to be in politics ever— not even after high school! I thought I told you that. I want to teach math or history someday and help kids get a grip on life. And what makes you think being a Mormon would stop anyone from achieving his political goals anyway? Being Mormon might even help. Maybe people would enjoy seeing some politicians in office with morals for a change. But even if I joined the Mormon faith— which is unlikely— it would never be me running for a political office, okay? It won’t, and I repeat, won’t ever be me. I don’t know why you won’t believe that and give it up! If you want one of us to run for a political office so badly, why don’t you go run yourself!”
There was a long pause. “Because you’ve seen my people skills,” I finally muttered.
Alex didn’t want to laugh at that— he tried hard not to— but he did anyway. In any event by putting me on the defensive, he’d skillfully diverted my attention from what I considered the main concern: that he would even be looking into the Mormon faith.
-B-
Two days later Alex and I celebrated our birthday quietly— that is if you can call anything Cassie invites herself to as quiet. Our family members stopped by; Ruthie brought balloons. While people visited, James taught our little cousin Reggie the names of several of the chess pieces and kept him happily occupied for a good fifteen minutes. Later Adriana and Butch and Paul stopped by.
“Lyla’s having a huge party tonight at her house,” Adriana was kind enough to let us know. “Practically the whole school’s there— well, those she figures count. Would you believe I got invited? I stopped by there for a minute or two just to see what was gong on.”
“Yeah, we went over for a while too,” Butch added sheepishly.
I nodded and turned to my brother. “Gosh, Alex,” I said sarcastically. “I told Lyla our birthday was coming up so she must be having this party to celebrate. I guess she just kind of forgot to tell us about it.”
“No doubt,” said my brother as he played along. He scooped up Reggie and lifted him to his shoulders. “A surprise party. Surprise! You’re not invited!”
I tried to laugh as I nodded, but I could feel the prickling sensation of tears behind my eyes, and then I had to swallow.
Chapter Ten
•••
The older, gray- haired gentleman who just walked up to the Hertz car rental booth here at the airport looks so much like Uncle Bartholomew that I’m fishing for my glasses again. I’m not sure why I’m bothering, when of course it isn’t Uncle Bartho.
What I wouldn’t give if I could walk up to that man and he really was Uncle Bartho. For a year or so right after my uncle died, I missed him so much that sometimes I imagined I did see him. “Hey Uncle Bartho, you’ve heard of Elvis sightings,” I joked, because when I was alone in my room I still talked to him. “Well, I have Bartho sightings.” Our uncle loved a good joke and I think he would have laughed heartily at that if he could have.
“Uncle Bartho was my savior,” I remember telling Alex one day in ninth grade when we were debating religion. Even before we met James, and even before Alex attended any church, my brother had considered himself a Christian.
“Well, he’s not the savior, but Old Bartho sure pulled us out of a mess,” Alex agreed. “I think God inspired him to fly in that day.”
“I think he came because he loved us and sensed something was wrong,” I said.
“Same thing,” said Alex.
And then I didn’t want to discuss it anymore. All I knew then and now is that for whatever reason Bartho came, it was extremely fortunate he did. Things couldn’t have been much worse. After our father decided to abandon us in order to pursue his personal dreams, which included gambling away even our college funds, our sweet old uncle virtually rescued us from financial doom, its accompanying social humiliation, and even significant danger.
Mom basically fell apart after Dad left. In layman terms she had what’s called a nervous breakdown. Dr. Griffin, my therapist, told me later that there’s technically no such thing and that the term is misleading. I
’m not sure about the “nervous” part of the term, but the “breakdown” part sounded to me like a perfectly accurate description.
It’s amazing how fast things can slide downhill once they start moving in that direction. Yes, they say you never need to look poor, and I’ve learned since that you can find vintage clothing at flea markets and secondhand stores if you know where to look. Even these days I shop at consignment shops once in a while— not because I need to anymore, but because they don’t make things with the quality and the workmanship they once did.
But I was barely thirteen then and I didn’t know that such a thing as a quality secondhand store even existed. On the other hand, even secondhand stores would have declined our maxed-out credit cards. Not that it would have mattered what I wore. I could have worn a five- thousand- dollar Carolina Herrera dress and I would still have looked bad. As if things needed to get worse, not long after Dad left I immediately entered the portals of that infamous “awkward” stage. I grew five inches almost overnight; my complexion turned to dotted Swiss; and I was in need of some major dental work.
My mental and emotional state was in even worse shape than my appearance. Mom had begged Alex and me not to tell anyone what was happening. I might have turned to my aunts anyway had they even been living in the country, but Ruthie was in Europe at the time with Flashy Floyd, her nightmare of an ex, and Nadine and Charles were still in Brazil. I tried the best I could to pull together the pieces and play the role of adult, but I lacked the experience and the tools required.
Eighth graders have a way of finding out things, though, and soon word got around that our family had been booted out of our home and we were living in a seedy motel and that our mother had had a meltdown. Alex had a little easier time of it. His naturally positive “Things are going to get better” attitude helped him remain in fairly decent shape. Of course, Alex was never actually hungry. He had friends, and they fed him. Sometimes he ate at their houses and other times they shared a pizza or a sandwich with him. He’d wrap the leftovers in a napkin and bring home whatever he could, but there was never enough.
I’m pretty sure Alex never fully realized how bad things really were. I was the one who opened the mail, looked through Mom’s papers, and made the phone calls. I was the one who conned free food from the Giant Eagle and made promises I knew I couldn’t keep to the motel manager.
Needless to say it was a tremendous relief when Uncle Bartho showed up. The sweet old man packed us up immediately. I think he’d already seen the vermin hanging around outside. “You’re outta here!” he said. I’d never heard words that thrilled me more. He moved us into a decent place in a good neighborhood and immediately got Mom psychiatric help. Then he had his secretary schedule appointments for me with a dermatologist, an orthodontist, and an optometrist. He also registered me into the Cotillion, one of Cleveland’s finest finishing schools. Best of all, he bought us groceries.
Every time he came to town Bartho would drop by the nice, almost new, condo he’d leased for us to see how we were doing. Talking around the big cigar in his mouth, he’d say, “Know any kids ‘round here who might want to go to a Cavaliers’ game?” or “Who wants to take in a movie?” He took us to Les Mis for our birthday. “You have pretty good taste, Missy,” he said to me after a shopping spree. “Maybe you’ll become a fashion buyer or designer.”
“I think I can do better than that,” I told him. It must have sounded pretty arrogant coming from somebody he’d basically just hauled out of the trash, but Bartho seemed amused by my attitude. I quite often amused him. What can I say? He liked me.
“I’m guessing you could be just about anything you set out to be,” he told me. Yes, the dear old man did his best to salvage my ego as well. And Mom’s.
After she was feeling better, Uncle Bartho helped our mother land a decent job with an affiliate of Harper and Row publishing. It was well- paying work she loved with good benefits and a nice atmosphere. Thanks to her talent not only with syntax but also with people, Mom began advancing almost immediately. “I don’t know how we’re ever going to repay you, Bartho,” I heard her tell him one night.
“You don’t need to repay me,” Uncle Bartho answered. “I’m your brother.” His next words are still etched on my soul, “And you know how crazy I am about those kids of yours. I couldn’t love them more if they were my own.”
Then on a normal everyday Thursday afternoon, Uncle Bartho suffered a heart attack, just like that. His gardener rushed him to the emergency room at the nearest hospital and called us from there. We booked a flight immediately and hurried into the surgery ward only to discover we were too late. I’ll never forget the doctor’s mouth forming the words, “We’re sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
Dr. Lancaster explained to us that three of Uncle Bartho’s arteries had become blocked. He drew a diagram for us so that we would understand. Only we didn’t understand. How could our uncle who was so necessary and dear to us suddenly be gone? He hadn’t even said good- bye.
I took on the responsibility of informing the other family members of Uncle Bartho’s death. After getting a hold of them, I discovered that Alex and Mom and I weren’t the only ones Uncle Bartho had helped through some challenging times. He’d been in the process of helping Ruthie break free of her nasty marital mess, and he’d bailed out Nadine’s family right after her husband’s printing business went under.
But even in death, Uncle Bartho did not abandon us. There was no red tape and no waiting to receive our inheritance. He’d put everything in a trust fund and we were immediately provided for financially. It was a good feeling to know we had enough to live well, a decent car we could count on, and even a sound system that worked. But we didn’t have him.
As I analyze it now, I wonder if part of the reason I was so intent on getting Alex involved in politics was because Uncle Bartho had specifically mentioned that as a good possibility for my brother. Maybe I felt that if I could get Alex to run for an office, I’d be honoring our sweet old uncle’s wishes. On the other hand, maybe Alex was right. Maybe my intent was much more self- centered than that. Maybe I hoped that if Alex made it to the top that as his twin I’d automatically be hoisted up there as well.
That week of our birthday, I had no choice but to come to the conclusion that no matter how much I wanted Alex’s political career to blossom, it just wasn’t important to the one person it needed to be important to: Alex. He didn’t plan to run for anything, not now, not ever. And well, ultimately it was up to him, not me. I knew Alex well enough to know you could only push him so far and then he’d start coming at you in reverse. It was dis appointing, yes, but life, as I’d already discovered, was often disappointing. To Alex’s relief, on the night of our birthday, I let him know that I finally accepted his decision.
The next day, however, my brother shared some news that threw me into a complete tailspin.
Chapter Eleven
•••
“You heard me right. James is running for president of Fairport,” Alex said. “He told me last night.”
“Has he lost his mind?” I felt as if somebody had just kickboxed me in the stomach.
“Nope, he definitely still has it.”
“Well, apparently, he doesn’t.” I pulled myself forward in the leather chair where I had once again been reading. “I can’t believe James would do something that ridiculous.” But then, with great clarity and discomfort, I realized that I could see it. While amazingly bright in some ways, James was naïve, innocent, and completely idealistic in others. Panic set in. “Alex, you need to talk him out of this and the sooner the better. You and I know that James will be shark bait if he tries to run for president. He’ll be eaten alive.” Alex had to know what I meant. With Lyla and her groupies at Fairport’s helm, students had become about as compassionate as great whites.
“Don’t think I didn’t try. He’s pretty committed.” Alex pulled a piece of toast out of the toaster, flipped a knife from the drawer, and reached for the
peanut butter. “He signed up at that meeting yesterday.”
“But why? Why would he do something so self- destructive?” And how, I wondered, could Alex be going about his ordinary life, spreading peanut butter on toast, at a time like this?
“He says he doesn’t like the direction things are heading at Fairport.”
“That sounds like him.” Rather than “Is it smart?” James’s first question was always, “Is it right?”
“Hey, we should be glad. Look at it this way. Somebody’s running who actually has some principles.” My brother took a large bite of his toast, then grabbed a napkin from the napkin holder.
“He’ll need a lot more than principles to survive something like this,” I said, astounded that Alex was taking all this so lightly. I pulled my denim jacket from the back of the kitchen chair, grabbed my coffee cup and practically slammed it into the dishwasher. It was only two in the afternoon and an hour too early for my Saturday chess date with James, but I needed to get over to his house and I needed to get there fast! “Maybe you’re going to stand there acting as if this is nothing, but I’m heading to James’s right now,” I told my brother. “This is an emergency!”
“Wait, I’ll go with you.” Alex calmly folded the remainder of his toast in half, wrapped it in the napkin, then pulled his Cleveland Indians cap from the pantry handle. “I promised James we’d powwow before you two start your chess game today.”
“Powwow about what?”
“Ummm . . .” Alex left his fingers pressed against his cap a little longer than necessary. “I agreed to be his campaign manager.”
I lifted my face to the ceiling and shook my head with incredulity, mouthing the words, Oh, my heavenly stars! Then I lowered my head and said aloud, “Then you’ve both completely lost your minds!”
-B-
“Listen, James, Alex may be too nice to say anything, but I’m not!” I said about ten or fifteen minutes later after barging into James’s house without knocking. “I think you need to know that if you run for president of Fairport, you might as well just stroll down the hall with a bull’s- eye attached to your back.”
