by Aimee Bender
The walls seemed to sag around us. The toast wavered in the air. Hey, I said, slowly. You know, I’m kind of full. Just for today, I said. Let’s do something else. Sherrie’s face squinched into a purse. How about a movie? I said. But why? she said, licking the edge of the peanut-butter knife. What’s interesting about a movie? I could do that with anyone! Please, she said, Glorious Rosie? Just one teeny tiny bite?
That day, I left her house early and leaned against the window glass of the bus, crying a little into the corners of the six-dollar junky cat-eye sunglasses she’d encouraged me to buy. I didn’t feel like seeing anyone else. At the movie stop, I pulled the cord and welcomed the darkness of the theatre, where I sat alone and ate no popcorn and relished the soft velvet of the armrest that I shared with no one and movies are all sight and sound only and a beautiful landscape and I saw what they showed me and nothing else at all. When Sherrie called later and asked me over for the next day for lasagna, I said I had plans.
And, I thought I’d take a break from the food stuff, I said. For a little while. If you want to see a movie this weekend, or do anything else, let me know.
She called me a fickle drug dealer and slammed down the phone.
In this way, for these reasons, despite her grade coddling and gold standard normality, I was grateful for Eliza. When she overheard the tennis girl’s question about food that lunchtime, she didn’t say a thing, but the next day she brought out a twin to her sandwich. We had too much turkey, she said, putting the spare in its wax paper on a sunlit section of cement. It was probably the first time she understood why I might’ve spent an hour at the drinking fountain that long-ago day in third grade. When it looked like she was just going to leave the turkey on the ground, I picked it up. Unwrapped the plastic. Ate it slowly.
If I didn’t focus on how envious I was that this lightness was where she came from, those sandwiches did help me through the rest of the day.
25 It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things. With fresher air, and jasmine blooms, something else new. There was the spring of my food discovery. The spring of my first interactions with my father, and Joseph’s disappearances, and my mother’s affair, which seemed to be ongoing, since I had never tasted the teary residue of a breakup in her meals.
The fifth spring of my brother, in his own apartment, alone.
He had followed through with the daily call requirement. For years, the phone rang at five, usually while my mother was preparing dinner, and they talked about his classes and his day and her classes and her day. He seemed to be enjoying school well enough. He was studying all the time. His grades were good. Since Mom was chopping and stirring as they talked, her meals often took on a tinge of worry and also some kind of ravenous pride. My son, said her dinners, is a beam of pure focus.
He called every day, so if he was still disappearing, he did it on an effective schedule.
Only one time did Joseph fail to call at the appointed hour. When Mom called to see why not, he didn’t pick up. Nor did he answer the following morning. Two days went by and still no response, so Mom drove over, worried, used the spare key, and found his apartment empty. Drove home. Paced. She called on the hour, every hour. No answer. My father, who had never found anything interesting about these disappearances, chalking them up to the private explorations of a twenty-two-year-old young man, tried to calm her down as she roamed the house. The next morning, day three, she drove over again as soon as it was light, and when she arrived at his place, she found Joseph facedown on the floor of his bedroom, limbs spread out like a starfish. His heartbeat slow. Breathing shallow. She called an ambulance and they went to the hospital right away, where they gave him numerous tests and said he was severely dehydrated and weakened but would be all right. Where were you? Mom asked, and the doctors asked, but Joseph just shook his head. Nowhere, he said, and that was the best they could get out of him.
My father did not visit, but sent his usual bunch of tulips and roses to the nurses, to ensure the best of care.
It was in mid-April, after Joseph was comfortably re-set in his apartment, fully irrigated, back to his once-a-day calls, reregistered for a spring advanced quantum-mechanics course at LACC, that my mother lifted up her fork at the dinner table and announced, her arm raised like a statue, that she would be taking a week-long trip with the co-op to Nova Scotia. It’s a very unusual opportunity, she told us, to learn the basics of Japanese carpentry. We will be constructing wooden hinges that take the place of nails, she said. She poked at the mound of potatoes on her plate.
My father was eating very slowly, something he usually did when he was irritable. Streaks of gray flashed through his hair.
How’s the fish? she said.
Fine, he said, pushing on his mouth with a napkin.
Rose, Mom said, turning to me, I’ll only go if you’ll tell me you’ll keep an eye on everyone.
Sure, I said. I’ll check on Joseph. Can I do the grocery shopping? Who’s going?
About half the co-op, she said. We’re trying to refresh our approach. You’ll call every day?
Sure. Can I use your car?
With an adult, she said.
Dad slid his gaze over to me. Along with watching TV together, driving around in the car with my learner’s permit was another good father/daughter activity from the manual. I was a couple years older than most learner’s permit types, but I’d been slower to the car than my peers.
Okay, I said.
Thank you. Mom smiled at me, warmly. It’s really a special chance, she said. I appreciate it so much. One day I’ll make you a cabin, in a forest, she said, with hinges made only of wood.
I took a bite of the mashed potatoes. Northern California, a well-run potato farm. Mom’s giddy excitement about the upcoming trip, paired with her usual spiral of smallness. I ate it on the side of my mouth. No need, I said, swallowing. I prefer nails, I said. And cities, I said.
My father glanced up, for a second, as if someone had called his name. He reached out an arm, as if to ruffle my hair. Since my hair was not anywhere close, his hand hovered in the air.
Rose, he said. Is so grown up! he said.
She left on a Wednesday. Her car was just sitting in the driveway, so I took it to school anyway, trolling around town after classes ended. Eddie saw me in the school parking lot and asked if he could get a ride to his friend’s house. I let him climb in and we rolled around and kissed on a side street for an hour, but I was in a quieter mood that day, having run into Sherrie in the halls with her arm strung through a new girl’s, and I didn’t feel like doing battle. What’s wrong? he said, after trying to shove his face into mine. Where’s the tank? he said.
What tank?
You, he said, grinning at me. That’s what I call you in my head. The tank.
I sat up. Straightened my T-shirt.
I’m no tank, I said. Someone once said I was seaglass.
Ha! he said. Seaglass. Yeah, right.
He played with the radio buttons for a while. Freckles clustered around his ear and jaw.
So what are you doing after graduation? I asked.
He turned back. Me? he said. School, I guess. Baseball. Why? You want to keep in touch?
Nah, I said.
That’s my girl, he said, nodding. He touched my hair, newly reddish from the latest dye. Drew a finger down my nose. Nice nose, he said.
I sank a little, under his hand.
Oh, stop this sad bullshit, he said, moving closer. Come on! Bring out the tank!
He put his face right up close to mine again but I just didn’t have it in me. We kissed for a few minutes and then I pushed him away.
Time’s up, I said.
Fine, fine, fine, he said, patting down his hair. He checked his face in the side mirror. Can you at least give me a ride to Fountain? he asked.
One click opened the car doors. Tank says you can walk, I said.
In the evenings, my father and I ate dinner quietly in front of the TV together: Wednesday nig
ht, Thursday. Frozen dinners I’d picked out at the grocery store, greatest hits by my favorite factories. One of the best ones, in Indiana, prided itself on a no touch food assembly, which meant every step was monitored by robotic arms, ones that placed the tortillas into the dish, layered them with cheese, dropped dollops of tomato sauce on top, and shoved it all into the giant oven, thus producing an utterly blank enchilada.
After Thursday’s dinner, my father and I piled into the car and drove awkwardly around the blocks, him instructing me how to brake. I pretended like I hadn’t been in the car in weeks and he kept reaching over and putting his hands on the wheel to angle me out of an awkward position. You’re supposed to tell me, I said, elbowing him off.
Right, right, he said. Sorry. Turn left.
The afternoons were getting longer again, stretching. I stayed too long at a stoplight because the sunlight was so pretty, sifting through all the leaves on the sycamore trees lining Sierra Bonita, turning each a pale jade green. The jacaranda trees preparing for their burst of true lavender blue come May.
Go, said Dad.
Sorry, I said.
Two skateboarders crossed in front of us.
Is something wrong? Dad asked, as I angled up Oakwood.
With the car? I tapped the dashboard, lightly. Seems okay to me.
With you, he said. He kept his gaze forward. Page forty-three in the manual: father has heart-to-heart with his daughter.
No, I said.
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. Fast, focused. They carried the same active enthusiasm as his wiggling feet in the TV room, on the ottoman. Our bonding had not progressed much beyond watching TV together, except for these weekly lessons in driving, which were 99 percent technical.
Boys? he said.
What about them?
Any problems there?
I tugged on the steering wheel. Not really, I said.
They get better, he said, hopefully. His voice trailed off. Or do you know what you’re interested in? he asked, after a pause.
No, I said. Most people don’t at seventeen.
That’s not true, he said. A lot of people have a little idea, he said.
Well, I said. I do not have a little idea.
I turned onto Stanley, then Rosewood. Deliberately ran a stop sign but he didn’t say anything. His forehead was crushed together with effort.
I ran a second stop sign.
Oops, I said. Stop back there.
Full brake, he said, scratching his eyebrow. No rolling stop or they’ll ticket you.
I turned onto Fairfax. Dad reached out his window to adjust the right-side mirror.
Why don’t you go on up to Sunset, he said, and then make a right.
Okay, I said, accelerating.
Is school all right? Dad said, pointing at the yellow light. Slow, he said.
I hummed at the red light. The car motor, humming.
Fine, I said.
You like it?
Not really, I said.
Why not?
I don’t know, I said.
I turned onto Sunset. Want a burger? Dad asked as we passed All American Burger.
No. You?
No, he said, looking at it longingly. He pointed out the window. Right on La Brea, he said.
I turned, as instructed. Rambled down, through green lights. After a few blocks, I made another turn, onto Willoughby, and drove past the Department of Water and Power building to the curb outside our house where I slid the car right into the driveway.
Nice, said Dad.
He glued his eyes on my hand as I put the car in park, then pulled up on the parking brake.
You’re nearly ready for the test, he said. One more round and I think you’re set.
We sat in the car, facing the low branches of the big ficus tree. He didn’t make a move to go and I didn’t either and for a while we just sat there, staring at the corroded handle on the garage door, with the useless string tied to it for no reason.
Two-toned leaves brushed against the windshield. I had a flash of remembering George outside, in his cap and gown. A vision, of an earlier time.
Your brother, he said.
I waited. He shook his head.
Thanks for the lesson, I offered.
His eyes swept around the car. Outside, the motion-sensor porch light clicked on as a neighbor trotted past with her dog.
You have things to offer, he said, gruffly.
Offer who?
Just to offer, he said. The world.
He didn’t move, and I felt it would be rude to move, so together we continued to stare stiffly out the windshield. A ficus twig tripped down the glass, onto the wipers.
Hey, I heard this story, I said.
He glanced over, eager. A story?
About a kid at school, I said. Want to hear?
Please, he said.
I leaned back, into the firmness of the car seat.
There’s this kid, I said. In my English class? Who was failing, last year. I guess he lives in a kind of run-down neighborhood, over by Dodger Stadium, and he didn’t know he needed glasses, and he saw everything blurry.
I bet he couldn’t read, Dad said. His hands calmed a little with the entrance of narrative, and he reached out the side again to re-adjust the right-side mirror. You can see this?
It’s fine, I said. Should I keep going?
Go, he said. Go on.
Anyway, I said, yes. He couldn’t read. That was the problem. The teachers brought him into testing, and he couldn’t read a word, and he never talked in English class, and he got bad grades for years, and he didn’t even understand how anyone could do this magical mysterious action called reading, and finally one of the teachers said they should test his eyes, and they took him to the eye doctor.
Dad shook his head. That’s the first thing they should check, he said. This crap school system, he said.
I pulled the keys from the ignition.
Well, I said. So they found out he had terrible vision, and he got glasses, and all the teachers stood around him while he tried them on.
Was he a smart kid? asked Dad.
Smart, I said. Definitely. And on went his glasses, perfect prescription, right? And he wore them and suddenly he could read, and not only that, the very act of reading suddenly seemed to him something possible, not like the rest of the world was way ahead of him in this impossible way.
A heartwarming story, Dad said, nodding. I like it. When’s our show on?
Ten minutes, I said. Anyway, it’s not over.
Why not? said Dad, his hand on the door handle. I like where it ended, he said. Let’s end it there.
The kid goes home, right? I said. With his glasses. And his new reading book. And his mom greets him at the door. She’s smiling, because the school called with the good news. But he can see she’s really tired. He hasn’t seen her in years, clearly: years! And she’s totally exhausted, there are these dark circles under her eyes and when she smiles it looks like one of her teeth is a little brown box. They can’t afford the dentist. Right? And his house? It’s a wreck. One side is falling down, and there are cockroaches running across the floor and there’s a big hole in the wall that he thought was a painting.
The motion-sensor light clicked off. Dad’s profile, washed in darkness.
You’re making this up, aren’t you, he said.
No, I said.
What’s the guy’s name?
John, I said.
John what?
John Barbaducci, I said, after a pause.
Dad coughed. Barbaducci, he said. That is the most made-up name I ever heard. Abe Lincoln, just why don’t you call the guy George Washington. So, he said. Fine. Keep going. The kid hates what he sees.
So he steps on his glasses, I said.
Jesus! Dad said, hitting the dashboard. I knew something like that was coming. Now I hate this story, he said. So then he falls behind, correct?
He doesn’t learn to read anymore, I said. But he gets by. He
registers as half blind and gets disability.
Oh, now, that is an awful story, said Dad, shaking his head. Awful. He opened his car door.
I stepped out too. Locked the doors.
Nice work with the turn signal, said Dad. Just don’t forget those side mirrors.
I thought it was a good story, I said.
It’s a terrible story, he said, heading to the door. He gets disability and he’s not even disabled! That’s the kind of thing lawyers go nuts about. He thought the hole was a painting?
He fumbled in his pocket at the door.
Here, I said, handing over his ring of keys.
He coughed again, into his hand. I know it’s bullshit, he said, opening the door, stepping in. I know you’re trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it is. Okay? I don’t think like that. What are you trying to tell me?
Nothing, I said. It was just a guy at my school.
What’s his name again?
John, I said. I grimaced a little, against my will.
John what?
We faced each other, in the hallway. Dad folded his arms.
John Barbelucci, I said.
With a crow, he slapped the homemade pine key-table, fixed at the entryway, made in Mom’s first year of carpentry.
There! he said. He glared at me. You said Ducci, before. I’m sure of it.
Lucci, I said.
Ducci.
Do you have a tape recorder? I said.
I’m sure of it! he said. Close the door, he said.
I shut and locked the door behind us.
So can you read? he said, striding into the TV room. Is that what this is all about?
I kicked off my shoes, and Dad hung his jacket over the back of a chair.
I can read, I said.
It was eight o’clock, on the dot. Both of us zoomed to check the clock. I poured myself a glass of juice, and without a word, we took our spots on either side of the sofa and Dad clicked the TV to our favorite medical program and we rejoiced in the saving of the woman with the heart problem, whose eyes were so large and lovely.
26 Dad went to work on Friday morning without a word about our discussion, his usual honk waking me up at seven-forty. I drove myself to school, but I didn’t feel like seeing anyone at lunch, so I left before noon and drove home. Took a nap on the sofa and thought about the weekend ahead. Eliza had invited me over to watch a horror movie double feature with the downhill girls. Sherrie would be there, and the last time I’d seen her at a social event she burst into tears when she saw me and ran out of the room. You’re upset, I’d yelled after her, meanly. Now, maybe, she’d bring the new friend. Eliza had just kissed her big student-body crush, under the pinstriped awning by the cafeteria. She said it felt like sailing. Sailing? Several of the girls at the party had had sex, something which sounded appealing but only if it could happen with blindfolds in a time warp plus amnesia. I told Eliza I wasn’t sure if I could go; that I might have to go to Pasadena to visit George in the dorm instead, to help him with a school-wide prank involving graduates and umbrellas. Of course, she’d said, her face melting a little. All morning, I was in an unsettled mood, in part from the conversation with my father, mostly from everything, and I wandered into the kitchen and picked up the phone and called George’s number in Pasadena for the hell of it. Maybe I could make it true after all. His machine picked up, and I left a rambly message about how I had a car if he needed anything, that I’d be glad to come to Pasadena if he needed help running any errands or anything, that I was free on Saturday, that I could do his laundry if he was busy, and I had a car if he needed help with anything at all. Halfway through, he picked up, out of breath. Hey! he said. Rose! All okay? I stumbled around the words. Told him I had a car if he needed anything. I have a car, too, he said, gently. How are you? he asked. I mumbled something about being a senior. I thought I heard a woman’s voice, in the background. Everything okay, Rose? he said. I miss you, I told him, in a voice that went up too high, rolling in the upper registers, an awful wheedle. You too, he said. There was a long pause. Anything else? he said, as kindly as he could. No, I said. Sorry to bother you. You’re never a bother! he said, too quickly.
