I Can Hear the Mourning Dove

by James Bennett

  I don’t know which is worse, being flat out or getting scrambled. When I get scrambled, it is terrifying and disorienting; when I’m flat out, everything seems dull and hopeless. I was flat out when I tried to kill myself. The truth is, what’s worse is what’s current, but what’s current never lasts.

  The most pleasant thing is the aftermath of being scrambled, after the mist dissipates, when everything I see is spent and like a dream.

  I hear the doorbell ring. It’s only the second time I’ve heard it since we’ve lived here. I can hear my mother talking with someone at the front door, and then she calls up to me.

  “Grace, you’ve got company.”

  I don’t understand; I can feel my pulse quicken.

  “Grace, please come downstairs. Someone is here to see you.”

  I go down slowly. It’s DeeDee, my lab partner. In the store at the mall, she tried to get close.

  “I wrote down your address from your check,” she says to my mother. Then she turns to me. “I thought I’d say hello. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I’m speechless, so my mother says, “It’s very thoughtful of you.”

  The knot is forming in my stomach. This will only make things worse, I tried to warn my mother. This will only prolong the agony. DeeDee will spend just enough time with me to find out how truly weird I am, and then she will realize I’m a good person to avoid. There must be some way to save us both the trouble. Maybe the three of us will just stand here by the door for a minute or two and be polite, and then DeeDee will go home.

  But my mother says, “Grace, why don’t you show DeeDee your room?”

  My room is just a room. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to see it, but we go up anyway. DeeDee sits on the edge of my bed, and I sit on the chair by the desk.

  “We only live about three blocks from here,” she tells me. “Our house is on Roosevelt, about a block on the other side of MacArthur.”

  “The other side of MacArthur is a different world,” I say.

  She says something, but I don’t hear what it is. Her beauty intimidates me. She is wearing olive green shorts with matching top. Her legs are golden brown like the rest of her clear skin; her blond hair is lovely. My own hair, when it’s clean, has a deep red tone in the light, but mostly it’s just mousy and clumpy.

  DeeDee wants to know about my metal sculpture.

  “My dad made it. He welded it.”

  “What does your dad do?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “He died of fulminating leukemia. He was very well and then all of a sudden he was very sick. The whole thing only took six days. Now you see him, now you don’t.” There has to be a better way of talking to someone; why am I saying these things?

  “I’m real sorry,” she says. “Sometimes I put my foot in my mouth.”

  “It’s okay.” I am very uncomfortable. It’s not fair to expect me to make conversation; I hope we’re not going to have long, embarrassing silences.

  I tell her that my mom is teaching at Stevenson School. It seems appropriate for polite conversation.

  “I didn’t go to Stevenson myself,” says DeeDee, “but I have a lot of friends who did.”

  If you have someone in your home, you should get them something. I could offer her some gazpacho, but that’s absurd; it isn’t even cooked yet. I start to panic but then I remember about the Pepsi. “We have Pepsi in our refrigerator,” I say quickly. “I’ll get you one.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Oh yes, please, it’s perfect. I couldn’t offer you any gazpacho, it’s not ready yet.” I go quickly. I get her a Pepsi and pour it into a glass of ice and bring it up. I think DeeDee’s poise is astonishing. She walks directly through the midst of the Surly People and knocks on the door of a stranger. “You must have complete self-assurance,” I tell her.

  “Not really,” she says. She sits up straighter and for the first time, she seems a little uncomfortable. There is some red in her face. She takes a small drink from her glass and says, “Can I be honest with you?”

  I feel my knot forming again. What does she mean?

  “Miss Shapiro asked me if I’d come visit you.”

  Miss Shapiro? Miss Shapiro is the counselor at school.

  DeeDee is holding her glass in both hands. She goes on, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, I’d like to get to know you and all that, but this was her idea.”

  “Miss Shapiro wears too much lipstick and I think she doesn’t have much experience. She probably means well. Are you close to her?”

  “I’m in water ballet, and she’s the sponsor. She thought you could use a friend, since you’re new in school and everything. She asked me if I’d visit you and sort of show you the ropes at school. She was going to tell you later on, but it doesn’t seem honest if I don’t say anything. I’m sorry.”

  I can feel myself flushing. This is so embarrassing, but it stands to reason. Why else would a girl like DeeDee try to make contact with someone like me?

  “I’ll leave if you want; I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “No, please.” It’s so confusing, now I’m a project. This could be even worse. She said since I’m new and everything; Miss Shapiro knows my medical history, has she shared it with DeeDee?

  “I’m sorry about the Pepsi,” I blurt out. “I should’ve gotten one for both of us, so you wouldn’t have to drink yours alone. It puts you in an awkward situation. I don’t like Pepsi, though, so it would be phony.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.”

  She drinks some more Pepsi and sets the glass down. She smiles and says, “It must be hard moving away from all your friends and everything.”

  And everything? Why does she say it again? “I’ve never had many friends. It’s hard for me to make friends. After my dad died, Mother took courses to get a current certificate. This is the first teaching job she’s ever had. Please, can you tell me what Miss Shapiro said about me?”

  “She just said you’re new in school and you’ve been in the hospital. She said you’re shy. That’s the whole story. I know it seems kind of artificial, but maybe we can still be friends. If you want.”

  I feel so confused all I can think to do is talk. “I have to repeat the tenth grade,” I blurt out. “I missed too much school last year because I was in the hospital.”

  “Were you sick?” DeeDee asks.

  “Yes, you might say sick. It was a mental hospital.”

  She looks down at her glass. “I’m sorry.”

  It’s so much harder this way. Why did she have to come in the first place? “I was being treated for depression. Last fall, I tried to kill myself. It would have worked, but my mother found me too soon. The doctors said it was a delayed reaction to my father’s death. I’m not sure if doctors really know a lot about mental illness, but they usually act like they do. My father and I were very close, maybe too close. It wasn’t the first time I had depression, but it was the worst; it was the first time I ever tried to kill myself.”

  “Are you better now?”

  “I’m sicker now. I’ve got schizophrenia now, besides the depression.”

  DeeDee’s eyes are still down. I’ve made her uncomfortable. Maybe that’s what I want, maybe that’s why I’m carrying on like this. “I’ve heard of it,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s very terrifying. I wouldn’t know how to explain it. Sometimes my doctor thinks I’ve got schizoaffective disorder. That’s when you’re depressed and schizo at the same time. It’s quite confusing, especially from in here.” It’s so perverse the way I’m blabbing these things she doesn’t need to know. There are tears stinging my eyes. Maybe I just want to make certain she doesn’t come back.

  It seems it will help if we change the subject. “Please, let’s talk about science.” It’s not a smooth transition, but what do I know about social skills?

  She tells me science is her favorite su
bject. After high school, she plans to go to the University of Illinois and then become a science teacher. I can see that she is in control; she will become what she wants to become.

  I tell her that science has never been my best subject, but I like Miss Braverman. She likes Miss Braverman too.

  “Do you have any special interest or do you just like science in general?” I ask.

  “I like botany the best,” says DeeDee. “I grow some shrubs and trees at home.”

  “I’m sure you must be very good at it.” I’m not sure what I mean by that remark, but at least I’m not getting scrambled.

  “Sometimes I think I’d like to have my own nursery,” DeeDee says. “I like to dig in the dirt. It would be fun to grow ornamental trees and shrubs, then sell them for outrageous prices.” She laughs.

  I try to laugh too, but I’m too nervous. My deep breathing causes me to miss some of the conversation; all I know is, she’s talking about the science fair and suitable projects.

  When she has to leave, she says, “Would you like to walk to school together sometime?”

  “I don’t know if I could do that.”

  “Why not? You have to pass my house on your way.”

  “Please, I just wouldn’t know. I’ll give it some serious thought, I really will.”

  I watch her down the street through our kitchen window. My mother is cutting blue construction paper letters for her bulletin board at school.

  I watch DeeDee all the way to MacArthur Street. Mr. Stereo has his loud friend and his loud stereo on his patio. His noise is annoying and confusing; I’m trying to think about DeeDee.

  “It was nice of her to visit you,” says my mother.

  “When she graduates from college, she’s going to be a science teacher.”

  “And what about you, Grace? What are you going to do?”

  “I can’t think about that. I don’t dare. I have to think about surviving.”

  “Nonsense. You’re not going to be sick forever. If you had a good friend, I doubt if things would seem so bad. Maybe you and DeeDee will become friends.”

  “I doubt that, Mother. She knows I’m wacko; I told her. She has such poise and her life is so sound.”

  “No one is perfect, Grace. I’m sure she has problems, like anyone else.”

  “The truth is, it wasn’t even her idea to come here. It was Miss Shapiro’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I tell her the story and she says she’s sorry. “I’m sure that’s disappointing,” she says.

  “It’s more than disappointing,” I tell her. “Now she’ll try to spend time with me, but it will be artificial. It will be just another source of discomfort.”

  “It doesn’t have to be; the two of you might still be friends.”

  She doesn’t understand. How could she? “DeeDee doesn’t need friends,” I tell her. “I’m a mission. I’m a project.”

  “Don’t overreact. So she didn’t come to visit you spontaneously. That doesn’t mean the two of you can’t enjoy each other.”

  I can’t understand any of this. My mother is so supportive but the stereo is too loud. I’m going flat out again and I’m tired of talking. Why did DeeDee have to come?

  “Does he have to play that stereo so loud? Can’t we do something?”

  “It’s not as bad as it usually is,” she says. “I could call the landlord, maybe.”

  “Please let’s don’t talk about it, Mother. Can I help you cut out letters?”

  “Sure, if you want. The other scissors are on the telephone stand.”

  9/12

  Dear Diary:

  From my balcony I can see the beer bottles on the ground and in the street. Some of them are broken. There was a party last night in the neighborhood, except I couldn’t really call it a party and I couldn’t really call this a neighborhood. It was more like roving gangs. I watched it all from my niche. There were crowds of college students in the parking lot across the street, playing loud stereos and pouring beer. The Surly People threw beer bottles and firecrackers at them. At two in the morning, my mom called the police. The police came and directed a long line of traffic out onto MacArthur. It reminded me of parking lot traffic at the county fair.

  I put the diary away and go into the bathroom. The next time I see Dr. Rowe, she will ask me about what I’ve written. I don’t know if she wants to know about the Surly People; I could tell her things, but I’m not sure she would want to hear them. The cracked mirror splices my face; I can see my left eye twice and the tip of my nose twice. I need to hurry now; Mother is gone to school and I’m running late.

  I lock the apartment and walk fast. I can’t get to MacArthur Street without passing the IGA parking lot. Lots of Surly People are congregated there, near the curb. They are leaning on their cars, smoking cigarettes, drinking Pepsis, and eating candy bars. They hurl their trash around. They are lighting firecrackers and throwing them at each other.

  They are the usual ones from our parking lot, and also many others. The one called DeWayne is there, and Brenda, and one called Butch, who has his hair cut very short with arrows shaved in it, right down to the scalp. Is he just bizarre, or is he evil?

  I’m very afraid to walk in this place. There must be another route I could take to school, but 14th Street is a dead end. I walk faster; I try to go past the lot without looking to the right or to the left. I hope and pray that they will ignore me, but sometimes they don’t.

  “Woof woof. Hey, woof woof.”

  “Bow wow. Bow wow wow.”

  I can’t look at them. I mustn’t look. There is a burst of laughter, but I walk straight ahead. My heart is pounding wild in my chest and my legs are starting to shake. I shouldn’t have written in the diary; writing in the diary made me late.

  “Hey bow wow, here boy.”

  “Woof woof.”

  They are whistling as if to call a dog. There are more bursts of laughter. I make it to the corner but I have to wait for traffic; there are tears stinging my eyes and I’m starting to shake. I can still hear the loud whistles and the loud laughter. Why do they do this to me? What kind of cruelty is it?

  I make it across the street, choking back my tears. All the way to school, I’ve still got the shakes; my brain is a chain of flashbulbs. Inside the school, I don’t stop at my homeroom, I go straight to the bathroom. I have to pee so bad I’m afraid I’m going to wet my pants.

  I get relief and wash my face in front of the mirror and the mist is coming: I’m going to get scrambled. Somehow, I make it to the library and sit among the stacks. Libraries are such safe places; I am scrambled in the mist but I am safe here. Anyway the aftermath will come and the world will have the aura of a dream.

  When lunchtime comes, DeeDee sits with me. It is the first time I have eaten in the cafeteria instead of the homeroom. Does she sit with me because it’s an assignment, or does she do it of her own free will? It seems demeaning but also comforting not to be alone. Maybe I’ve had so much institutional support I expect to be sponsored everywhere I go.

  My head hurts but I tell DeeDee about the Surly People and the IGA parking lot.

  “That’s just Brenda Chitwood and the hoods that hang around her. Don’t pay any attention to them, they’re not worth it.”

  She has minor static. It’s easy for her to say, her life is so sound she probably has no cavities when she goes to the dentist.

  Two other girls join us, named Maureen and Diane. They start talking about cheerleader tryouts, and it will make me very happy if they simply ignore me altogether. For a while they do, but then Maureen wants to know why I’m spooning gazpacho from a mason jar instead of eating school lunch.

  “I’m vegetarian,” I say quietly. I don’t look up. I really hope the conversation will go back to cheerleading or some other subject.

  “You mean you never eat any meat?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  There is a little static in her voice but I answer the best I can, “I
believe in animal rights. I don’t think we have the right to butcher animals just because we have the power.”

  Diane says, “But you have to have protein. Meat is one of the basic food groups.”

  “There are better sources of protein, sources that don’t include animal fats.” I sound like such a prude. A prune, I mean. I don’t mean to, but I’m so afraid when I talk to strangers. How can you hope to make friends if you behave like a prune? My dad was so good at this sort of thing—he could speak his mind and be warm and natural at the same time.

  Maureen says, “You mean you never eat a Big Mac or anything?”

  I don’t have an answer. Mercifully, a cafeteria monitor asks us to move to make room for other people.

  It is the next day, I think. I’m getting pretty sound on my days, maybe the medicine is helping me establish basic orientation. I lock the apartment and walk to the curb but there are beer bottles on the ground. I face the end of the street, clear to MacArthur. There is the IGA lot and I freeze; my heart starts to pound and my eyes are popping like flashbulbs. I need to get more sleep at night.

  I look again to MacArthur Street. The clouds have swirled a deadly canopy over 14th Street. A tunnel. I can’t walk that way. I just can’t, I just can’t.

  I walk up the parking lot past the dumpster, where I find a break in the chain link fence I can squeeze through. On the other side of the fence is a huge field of overgrown weeds and trash. With deep, deep breathing I start walking across the field, in the direction of the tract houses on the far side.

  The clouds are flung around and I hear the noisy sky chatter. Sometimes words come and sometimes sentences. I have found an alternate route; it will take me at least three blocks out of my way, but there will be no Surly People.

  This doesn’t change a thing. The Surly People will not go away.

  But I will go away from them; I won’t have to endure their cruelty.

  It is a mistake to think so. There are legions of them. The forces of darkness are everywhere.

  The sky persists; it follows me on my walk across the field. The sun is the eye in the sky; it sees into every corner. I feel like a character in a Greek tragedy, and the sky is the chorus. But my life is too pitiful to be tragic. DeeDee will wait for me in front of her house, but I won’t come.