I Can Hear the Mourning Dove

by James Bennett

  It’s especially embarrassing in biology class, so I mostly keep my eyes down. Miss Braverman speaks politely to me, and my stylish lab partner asks me if I’m okay.

  I mumble something, I’m not sure what. I take copious notes of everything Miss Braverman says, even though she’s mostly just summarizing the class outline, which is printed on a handout.

  Mr. Stereo has a new dog. He is a lovely little Doberman pup but his tail and ears are bobbed. His poor tail stump and his ear stumps are wrapped with adhesive tape. It is cruel and unusual punishment and completely unnatural. No animal should be mutilated just to satisfy some human’s sense of style. The poor pup even has a large cardboard disc around his neck to keep him from biting at his tail. I wish Mr. Stereo didn’t have the dog at all; he is ruthless, why should he have the right to own one?

  My mother wants to take me to the mall so I can buy some new school clothes.

  “It’s too late, Mother; school already started.”

  “Please, Grace, let’s just go.”

  I’m not enthused, but she has been nagging me for two days, and I agree to go. On the way, we stop at a supermarket. I remind my mother to buy some cans of applesauce and irregular peach chunks in heavy syrup.

  When we get to Sears, she wants to buy me a racerback bra. They’re on sale.

  “Mother, you know I never wear a bra.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to wear some of the things that other girls wear.”

  “If you’re an A cup and you wear a bra, you’re only doing it for emotional support.”

  My mother laughs. “I only want you to keep an open mind.”

  She laughs because she thinks I was trying to be funny, but I wasn’t. “My mind is too open. Everything is in it. Nothing is left out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing comes first.” Of course I mean all the colors and all the mirrors and all the sale signs and mannequins mixed in everywhere with the real people. There are stereos running and a washing machine or two and twelve television sets in a row showing the Smurfs in different sizes. There is a data level I can’t comprehend or turn down. But how do you communicate about a whizzed-up brain?

  She shows me a rack of sweaters ranging from $34 to $44. Then a rack of paisley print sweatshirts starting at $30.

  “You could get some dark slacks to go with them.”

  “They cost too much and they’re not me. I wish I could tell you what it’s like but I can’t. I can’t get anything sorted out.” My dad would hate these clothes and what they stand for. Fashion is just a way of circulating money. It’s a game you shouldn’t play because it’s a game you can’t win; it’s a walk on the treadmill of the Amerikan way. There is so much noise. I can’t get scrambled, though. I will myself not to get scrambled.

  “Mother, please, let’s go to a smaller store or the voice will come.”

  “All right. Just be calm.”

  “There must be a quiet one, without any stereo.”

  “I’m sure there is. Let’s go find it.”

  We walk straight ahead. My pulse is racing and all the stores make a data glut, but if I keep my eyes front and walk straight I’ll be okay. We go into a store called Glamour Isle. There are mirrors everywhere, even on the ceiling. It makes me tense; it seems to multiply the data. The store specializes in expensive fashions for young women. But I don’t complain; I know my mother wants to do what’s best for me. At least it’s quiet.

  Mother is looking through a rack of sale sweaters. From the corner of my eye, I see a salesgirl approaching; suddenly, my stomach forms a sharp knot. It is DeeDee, my lab partner from biology.

  She has a wide smile. “Hi. It’s a small world, huh?”

  Now what am I going to do? I feel myself flushing madly but there’s no way out. I’m too embarrassed to look her in the eye. “Hi,” I mumble.

  “You know each other?” my mother wants to know.

  “We’re in biology together,” says DeeDee. “We’re lab partners.”

  “How nice,” my mother says. She looks at me like I’m supposed to say something. She doesn’t know that this girl has seen me get scrambled.

  DeeDee starts showing us merchandise. At least it’s an attention shift. She shows us stirrup pants for $18, and fleece-lined stirrup pants for $24, and stirrup pants with matching suspenders for $30.

  “Stirrup pants are in,” she says. “They’re real nice with striped sweaters, whether you wear the suspenders or not.”

  She knows what’s in; it would be so natural for her. I don’t have much interest in the clothes, but a lot in her. Where does a person get such composure? She doesn’t have a moment of fear, even though she’s never spoken with my mother before. Her skin has a healthy tan glow and her hair is thick and rich and blond. I would like to stand in a corner somewhere and watch her.

  She shows us some knee-length sweater dresses. I would never wear one, but I like the colors, turquoise, peach, plum, powder blue. “These are good with stirrup pants,” says DeeDee. “If you had black stirrup pants, any of these colors would be nice.”

  I can’t stand the attention. I turn away. My lump is dissolving, but I’m still tense. I would like to be left alone. Her life must be very sound, but do I look like the kind of person who wears a sweater skimp?

  Mother and I sort through the racks of fifty- and sixty-dollar designer jeans. I have to choose something to get this over with. I finally find a pair of brushed denim Levis, and a yellow Looney Tunes tee shirt for $3.99 on a sale table.

  DeeDee does the cash register and takes my mother’s check. As soon as she looks at the check she says, “Hey, it’s a small world again. We live in the same neighborhood.”

  “We do?” asks my mother.

  “We live on Roosevelt, about a block and a half west of MacArthur. We’re neighbors, practically.”

  She is looking at me but I don’t look up. I don’t want this; if only I could wear my old blue jeans and Uncle Larry’s fatigue jacket and somehow turn invisible.

  DeeDee is putting the clothes in a Glamour Isle shopping bag. “It’s nice to meet you,” she tells my mother. And then she says to me, “I’ll see you Monday.” But she is talking with static.

  The clothes are in the bag, so I put the bag under my arm. “See you Monday,” I murmur. I walk quickly out of the store, watching my toes; I am taking tiny, rapid steps. Mother chases after me and catches up on a wooden bench which forms an octagon around some potted trees.

  “I don’t want this to be an ordeal for you, Grace; I really don’t.”

  “I know.” I’m gulping air.

  “Shopping for something new can be a real pick-me-up if you could only loosen up. Besides, you can’t go for the rest of your life in tee shirts and blue jeans and your uncle’s fatigue jacket.”

  “I know, Mother, but please don’t talk about Uncle Larry. I know you’re right, but the problem’s not a matter of understanding. I need some deep breaths.”

  “Maybe it is a problem of understanding,” she says. “The girl in the store was just being friendly. Don’t shut her out.”

  “She was getting too close. It would never work. I could never have a friend named DeeDee.”

  “You won’t have any friends at all if you don’t try.”

  “I couldn’t explain it to you. A girl named DeeDee could stand naked in the locker room without a moment of stress.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Please drop it, Mother. Can’t you see I need to breathe? It just wouldn’t work. She wouldn’t like me if she got to know me. No one does. When you’re crazy wild, you don’t have friends.”

  “I want you to stop it. You’re not crazy wild.”

  We have lunch at McDonald’s. Mother has a cheeseburger, and I have the chefs salad. I have to pick out the little chunks of ham and the bacon bits. I don’t know if the bacon bits are really a meat byproduct or if they’re something artificial, but I’m not taking any chances. I eat about half the salad.<
br />
  When we get home, I sit out on the balcony, in my niche. It is a hot, hot Saturday afternoon. I am mostly hidden but I have a field of vision between the draped towels.

  Mr. Stereo has his pup tied to a scrawny tree near his patio. The tree grows in a small seam of gravel between this parking lot and the next one. I know it is a Russian olive tree because I looked it up in a tree book my dad and I used to use in the woods and fields. Such a lovely name for such a pitiful, lonely, shapeless tree. How could it be otherwise? Its soil is gravel and litter. I can’t imagine an olive growing on it and I’m sure it will never have a mourning dove in its branches.

  Watching the Surly People is like digging at a festering wound; it frightens me and yet I can’t stop myself. I could hide in my room, I suppose, but the sky blows around and speaks with a firm whisper: It’s important to know everything. The Surly People are no accident.

  How the sky finds its quiet voice in the midst of all this noise I do not know. Mr. Stereo’s patio speaker is loud and there are two or three others blaring in the parking lot. Every once in a while someone sets off a firecracker or a whole string of them.

  At least a dozen people have found spots for sunbathing in the parking lot. Some of them are sitting in lawn chairs and others are lying on the hoods or tops of cars. Everyone drinks beer and smokes cigarettes. Every once in a while, a new car arrives, spilling out stereo noise and loud people. The people stay long enough to drink a beer or two, and then they leave, their engines roaring and their tires squealing.

  A girl named Brenda and her friend Irene are sunbathing on top of an old, corroded Dodge. The car radio is loud through the open windows. Five or six boys are draped over the car or leaning up against it. Somehow, they can enjoy their own noise and screen out the rest. Most of them go to West High; I have seen them there. One of them, whose name is DeWayne, is working on a motorcycle next to the car. His shirt is off and one side of his face is disfigured with burn-scar tissue. One of his eyebrows curves up instead of down; he frightens me. It isn’t hard to know information about them. They spray their lives around like a hose.

  The girl named Brenda sits up on top of the car. The top of her bikini is untied and for a moment her large breasts swing free. She covers herself nonchalantly and reties the top while DeWayne lights her cigarette. I wonder if anything ever intimidates her. There must be something in me which admires the Surly People and their fearless assault on life.

  It could be that the trash is worse than the noise. The noise comes and goes but the trash is constant. The beer bottles are everywhere, and the beer cans, the pop cans, Styrofoam Big Mac boxes, broken glass, cigarette packs, candy wrappers. It would take most of a notebook to make a complete list. There are discarded rolls of carpet which slope away from the dumpster like foothills.

  It would be rewarding to take a garbage bag and pick up litter, but I am afraid.

  After supper, I do some homework at the kitchen table. I can see through the open back door that Mr. Stereo’s pup has wrapped his chain around the tree many times so he has no slack.

  If I fixed the chain, the dog would have some freedom of movement. The only people in the parking lot are on the far side, and Mr. Stereo is not on his patio. But he would be able to watch me through his kitchen window. My pulse starts to race just thinking about it. But even in the Surly World there must be some small space for compassion.

  Shall I part my hair behind?

  Do I dare to eat a peach?

  There can’t be any harm in fixing the chain, I decide. I ease myself out the door and walk to the tree. The pup jumps up and down with enthusiasm and tries to wag his tail stump. Without looking to the right or left, I fix the chain.

  When I start back to the door, I find that the pup can now reach the very edge of our patio. I squat down and he puts his front paws up on my knee. The cardboard disc he wears whacks my chin. I scratch him along the chin while he licks my face. For a moment, I have a peaceful, lovely feeling.

  Suddenly, Mr. Stereo is standing over us. I sense his presence before he speaks; maybe I have seen his shadow out of the corner of my eye.

  “Don’t be doin’ that.”

  His voice is charged with static and my heart starts to pound. I don’t dare look up; the fear freezes me. The panic takes me, because if I get scrambled, I won’t be able to move at all.

  “I said, don’t be doin’ that. I’m trainin’ him to be a watchdog.”

  His voice is like the shorted radio; the words pop in and out. I’m paralyzed with panic. As soon as I let go of the dog I try to say, “I didn’t mean any harm,” but my mouth is dry as cotton and the words catch in my throat. I am starting to shake. I am absurd squatting here, and if I freeze here any longer it will only get worse. I can’t look in his face.

  Somehow, I get to my feet and make it inside. I close the back door and lean back against it, trying to get my breath. My heart is pounding like a hammer; surely it will split my chest open. My life can’t be like this, all I did was fix the chain. What he means by watchdog training is probably something cruel.

  I am so faint I get on the floor on my hands and knees. Mother is doing laundry in the basement. I pray to die of a heart attack, here and now. Please don’t come upstairs, Mother. I don’t want you to find me like this, and I could never explain about the dog’s chain. If only I could be an insect. The mist is coming and I can’t stop it.

  Three

  My first time in evening group is disorienting. I’ve never been in the hospital annex before, and I don’t know any of the people. All the group members are teenagers; I think some of them may go to my high school, but I don’t see any faces I recognize.

  We sit on folding chairs in a small circle in a large room. I can see the hospital across the courtyard; the light is on in Dr. Rowe’s office. It might be so reassuring to be back in the hospital but I know I’m not supposed to think that way.

  Most of the people in the group speak of drugs and alcohol, which I know nothing about. The group leader, Mr. Carlson, seems old and tired. A girl named Wanda is monopolizing the conversation. She is fat and overbearing, smoking one cigarette after another; she talks about her stepfather’s abuse and her own drinking problem. At least her problems are real.

  It would be a relief if they just ignored me, but I know they won’t. Sooner or later, I’ll have to talk. It would be too embarrassing to talk about my hospital history, and where would I begin? I got scrambled twice the first day of school. It would be so desperate to try and talk about Mr. Stereo’s pup.

  Just when it seems as if Wanda will monopolize the conversation right to the end, Mr. Carlson cuts her off and turns to me.

  “Grace, is there something you’d like to share with the group?”

  I can feel myself starting to shake. I keep my face down.

  “Since this is your first night, maybe you’d like to tell us a little bit about yourself.”

  He has static. If I clamp my hands between my knees, it may help. My brain is racing wildly, I have to say something. I swallow and say, “I hope we don’t have to dissect frogs.”

  God, what an insane remark! Nobody says anything and I can feel my face burning.

  Mr. Carlson asks me what I mean.

  “In biology. My lab partner says there’s no dissection until second semester. But what if there is? I don’t think I could stand it.”

  Wanda speaks up immediately. She says students have rights. “I read about this girl in California,” she says loudly. “Her and her mother sued the high school because it was against their religion to dissect animals. They won their case, too.”

  Stand up for your rights. It seems like such a thought, but Wanda would probably be capable of it.

  Mr. Carlson smiles at me. “If you don’t feel like going to court, maybe you could just speak to your counselor at school. There should be a way for you to transfer to another science class.”

  I nod my head but don’t speak. He seems kind.

  “In any case
, it sounds like you’ve got plenty of time to sort it out, maybe an entire semester.”

  I nod again. My breathing is mostly restored. Mr. Carlson’s life is so sound, is there a secret elixir? Since our time is up, I won’t have to talk anymore.

  In the TV lounge, I find my mother. She is working on lesson plans.

  “How did it go?” she wants to know.

  “Mr. Carlson is nice,” I say. “I didn’t get scrambled.”

  “You’ll feel more comfortable when you get to know the other people.”

  “It sounds logical, Mother.”

  “Give it some time.”

  “Can we go home now? I’m so tired.”

  When Mother and I make gazpacho, I mince the vegetables while she seasons the broth. She is adding garlic, oregano, and basil to two quarts of tomato juice, while I am mincing onions, cucumbers, celery, and green peppers. Gazpacho is good to pack in a lunch because you can eat it cold.

  I am listless with the knife. In the hospital, sharp objects are off-limits, even ballpoints. I have been flat out for almost a week. It is Mother’s idea to make the soup; she hopes it will help me snap out of it.

  “Gazpacho was one of Dad’s favorites,” I say.

  “I know, Grace.”

  “You loved him, didn’t you, Mother?”

  “Of course I loved him.”

  “I’d like to use the mason jar for my soup. You can use the Thermos.”

  “That’s fine with me; I like the Thermos better anyway.”

  As soon as we put the gazpacho to simmer, I go up to my room. I look at my nails; some of them are long and some are short, but the long ones are dirty. I could clean them with the nail brush, but they still wouldn’t be the same size. I could cut the long ones so that they would all be the same size, but where would I find the nail clippers? They’re never where they’re supposed to be, and I don’t have the energy to hunt for them. When I’m flat out, my entire body is drained of every spark of energy. Nothing matters, nothing makes any difference, nothing is worth the effort.