It’s stupid how it wounds me. I look around to see if anyone noticed the exchange, and for once I’m grateful to realize I’m invisible. It’s easy to slip out of the dining room, then outside onto the wide porch that runs along the back of the country club. I stand there a long time, watching the snow fill up the golf course, wishing that, somewhere along the line, I’d learned to be bad.
I think of Brady’s dad’s wedding dinner here, a few years ago. Mr. Burton didn’t come right out and say so, but I knew he had invited me to help keep Brady in line. It was during our freshman year, when Brady acted so horrible all the time that Mr. Burton wouldn’t take him anywhere unless I went along. He was convinced I had a calming effect. Well, if I did, it didn’t work that night. Brady sneaked a whole bottle of champagne from the waiter’s cart and got blasted in the rest room. He faked it okay until it was time for the toasts. Even I thought he was hanging in there. Then he stood up. He raised the one glass of champagne his dad had allowed, grinned that goofy grin of his, and only managed to get out, “Dad, Cara—” before he puked onto his dessert plate.
“He’s been feeling sick for a few days now,” I told Mr. Burton, who wanted desperately to believe me. “The flu, probably. It’s been going around.”
Now, standing in the freezing cold, I realize I should’ve paid more attention to how Brady managed to get what he wanted by being an asshole instead of following him around like a stupid lackey, trying to make things right. Still, I know exactly what he’d tell me if he were here. Kristin will like you if she thinks you’re as pissed off about the wedding as she is. She’ll be crazy about you if she thinks you hate her dad as much as she hates your mom. Dude, tell her what she wants to hear.
But I could never do that. And I might fantasize about going back into the dining room and doing something outrageously bad, but even if Brady were here to egg me on, I wouldn’t go through with it. It’s better not to think of him. Tonight, here, he wouldn’t be any help.
Just go back, I tell myself. Just get through it.
“You were awfully quiet at dinner,” Mom says later.
“Tired, I guess. All that packing.”
“I know,” she says. “This is all so stressful, isn’t it? Living in this mess the past few weeks. And now trying to please all these people we don’t even know. God, I hate that.”
“Yeah, well maybe we ought to take some pointers from Kristin,” I say. “Don’t try to please them. Be rotten instead; then they fall all over themselves trying to please you.”
Mom sighs. “She was difficult at dinner, wasn’t she? When Mother told me the girls had ridden over with you, I’d hoped—what happened, Jackson? How was it that you ended up driving them over in the first place?”
I tell her about finding Kristin in the empty bedroom, about the way she followed me downstairs and shadowed me while we decorated the tree and all that happened afterward. I tell her about the moment in the bus, when Kristin turned and smiled at me.
“I must have done something wrong, though,” I say. “You saw how she acted to me at dinner. I must’ve done something to make her decide not to like me, after all.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t anything you did, honey,” Mom says. “It sounds like she just scared herself—you know, let down her guard and then decided she’d better make up for it by being nasty. I think it’s a good sign what happened this afternoon. Actually, it’s a lot more than I’d hoped for. We’ve talked about this thing with the girls, you know. About how we have to be patient—”
“Jesus, you sound like Grandma,” I say. “‘Be patient, be patient.’ Like I have all the time in the world just to make a couple of dumb kids like me. Like it’s the only thing in the world on my mind.”
“Oh, Jackson,” Mom says, and I see that she’s near tears.
I feel awful. It’s our last night, just the two of us, so what am I going to do—spoil it by being as stupid and cranky as Kristin was at dinner? I had thought this might be a special time, that Mom and I might stay up late watching an old movie or playing Scrabble the way we used to on Friday nights when I was a little kid. I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me until just now that anything we do that isn’t sleeping, we’ll have to do cramped in the living room, amid the packing crates. Too depressing.
Anyway, Mom looks exhausted. I hold out my hands to her, pull her out of her chair, and point her in the direction of her bedroom.
“You doing okay, honey?” she asks, pausing.
I nod. “Fried, though. With Mrs. Harper around, it’s like having Grandma squared.”
Mom smiles. “While you guys were decorating the tree, Ted and I drove around in the van, swearing,” she says. “Screaming the worst words we could think of at the top of our lungs. Honestly, I think it’s the only thing that got us through dinner.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say. “Leaving me with Doris and Ruby: tag-team decorators.” I fake a laugh. She’d feel awful if she knew how bad it hurts me, the thought of her ditching me to sneak off with Ted. Yeah, sure, I know it has nothing to do with how much she loves me. But I can’t quite shake the image of the two of them driving around together, gleefully alone.
sixteen
Morning comes, hard and blue, with just a dusting of snow. I tell myself that if we’d gotten a real snowfall, I’d have driven over to the Holidome to see if Kristin and Amy wanted to go sledding. After all, what I said while we were decorating the tree yesterday could have been taken as a promise. But without snow as an excuse, it would look phony to go over there. It would be trying too hard, which would probably make Kristin even more stubborn about not liking me. So I decide to go work out instead.
Kim’s the first person I see when I get to the gym, and she’s dying to tell me about the argument she and Dad had last night. She follows me to the StairMaster and says, “You won’t even believe this, Jackson. I was working on one of my aerobics routines in the living room, making this tape of old stuff to use for my class, and he went totally berserk. Honestly, like it’s sacrilegious to use the Doobie Brothers to work out to! I said, ‘Oz, a lot of the people in the class are your age, and every time I use an old song, they love it.’
“And he goes, ‘They’re idiots, then. Goddamn yuppies,’ and stomped out the door without another word and didn’t come in until two this morning and then he didn’t even come to bed. He fell asleep on the couch in the living room with all his clothes on.”
She pauses, like I might want to comment. But I just put on this grim, balls-out athletic expression and increase my efforts on the mechanical stairs. This machine is like a bad dream, I think. I climb and climb and Kim’s still right there beside me.
“I think it’s the wedding that’s got him all bent out of shape,” she says. “I mean, it’s not that he doesn’t want your mom to get married and be happy, it’s just, you know, it’s hard—”
“Don’t even talk to me about Dad and the wedding,” I say. “I mean it.”
Amazingly, she shuts up. Yes! I think. Be assertive! Then I glance up and realize that Kim probably didn’t even hear what I said. She’s halfway across the room, walking toward Dad. He’s bleary eyed; he hasn’t shaved yet. He’s got on old, ratty sweats, his beat-up jacket from the Fleetwood Mac tour, and a Harley-Davidson baseball cap that’s seen better days.
“Okay, I’m an asshole,” I hear him say.
“You are.” Kim’s voice is wavery.
“So I brought you a present.” He grins and pulls a big red gummy rat out of his pocket.
Kim says, “Eeyuu, Oz, that is gross.” But she giggles. She takes it and holds it up by its tail. “You’re the rat, you know.”
“Yeah? Then eat me.” Dad steps closer to her, takes her shoulders in his hands, pushes his knee lightly between her legs, almost as if they’re slow-dancing.
“Oz.” Kim glances meaningfully toward me.
He makes her struggle for just a second before he lets go of her.
I set the StairMaster a level higher and keep pumping.
“Yo, Jackson,” he calls. “Afraid your tux won’t fit this afternoon?”
“Stairway to Heaven,” Dad calls this machine. Right now, it could be a stairway to anywhere but here and I’d be happy. I’m in no mood for his jokes. “We’re not wearing tuxes,” I say.
“Straitjackets, then.” He laughs. “Going all the way.”
“Screw you, Dad. Just screw you, okay?” My eyes are burning, so I close them and pump harder. My whole body’s burning; my thighs feel as if they’re going to explode.
He hits the button that makes the machine wheeze and come to a slow stop. “Sorry, buddy,” he says. “Really, Jackson, I’m sorry.”
“You want to marry Mom?” I say.
He shakes his head.
“Then just leave it alone, will you?”
“I ought to do that. Christ, I don’t even know why I say this shit. Truce?” He holds his hand out, palm up, for me to give him the high five, and I do.
But I’m not letting him off that easy. I grit my teeth and beat his record on the StairMaster. Later, I beat him by twenty sit-ups. I up my weight ten above the weight he can bench-press. I’ll show him he’s an old fart. I’ll make him remember he’s the goddamn father here: he should be worrying about how I feel instead of getting into stupid arguments with his girlfriend. Gummy rats. Jesus. My anger makes me feel pure, like a machine in perfect working order.
Dad stands there and watches me. When I finish he kind of shakes his head and says, “Bud, I have to tell you I’m impressed. Who are you, Clark Kent?”
I hate it when he makes me smile when I’m mad. I hate the way he knows he’s got me. Still, I hold my own. I agree to go to breakfast with him when we’re through working out, but the first thing I say at the diner when I slide into the booth across from him is, “Just don’t ask me if I’m okay. I swear to God, the next person who asks me if I’m okay dies.”
He shrugs, holds up his hands, palms forward, as if to ward off blows.
“And by the way,” I continue. “I decided not to come over to your house after the wedding tonight. I’ve got stuff to do. Packing. Homework.”
He looks kind of funny then, like I’ve hurt his feelings. But he doesn’t argue. He believes you ought to let people do their own thing—he’d tell you himself it’s about the only thing he believes in. That and sixties music, the topic our conversation turns to now.
He tells me about a friend of his who’s out on tour. His voice sounds almost wistful, which surprises me because while he loves to tell stories about being out on the road, if anyone asks him why he quit, he says, “Shit food. Bunking on a bus. I got real tired of the life.”
“Would you ever go out again?” I say. “You could, couldn’t you?”
“Things come up. I had the chance to go out with the Moody Blues a while back.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He lights up a cigarette. “You, pal. No way I’m going out on the road as long as you’re around.”
God, I can’t even look at him. Dad, the flake who threw away his chance at an education, threw away his marriage, really, for his renegade job. He’s legendary for doing exactly what he wants to do. It’s never even occurred to me until this minute that he’d have made any real sacrifice for me, let alone a sacrifice that I can see is a thousand times larger than any my mom has been called upon to make.
“No guilt trip,” he says, reading my thoughts. “No regrets. The truth is, I was ready to shoot Ellen when I found out she was pregnant, but, hey—I got attached to you. If God appeared right now, right here and said, ‘Oz, give me your kid and I’ll reunite the Beatles,’ I’d pass. No shit.
“But who knows, man. Maybe I’ll take a shot at it again next year. You’ll be outta here. Off to college. You won’t need me anymore.” His voice has its old familiar mocking tone but with a sad edge that I’ve never heard before.
Oh, yeah, I’m totally in control here. I’m so calm. I mean to be cool, to say, I’ll need you, man. Who am I going to beat the shit out of at the gym if you aren’t around? But I only get as far as, “I’ll need you.” I can’t go on.
“Jax, bud, are you okay?” Dad says. Then he must remember what I said a few minutes ago about not asking me that, because he looks totally freaked out, like I really am going to do something horrible to him. Like I really could. “Jax?”
“I’ll survive,” I say.
It’s strange. I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but for the first time in my life I feel like I have the upper hand with Dad. I could nail his ass; I could forgive him. But right now, I don’t want to do either. I want a break. I want to eat my breakfast. I want to sit here in the booth with Dad, shooting the breeze for a little while, as if this were just another day.
It’s not, though. It’s the day of my mom’s wedding. I go home, put on the gray slacks and blue blazer Mom bought me for the occasion, and when the time comes the two of us step into the white limo Ted sent for us. We stop by to pick up Grandma, who trips out to join us in her mink coat and high heels.
She gives me the once-over and tells me how handsome I look all dressed up—I ought to dress up more often. Then she eyes Mom’s long white skirt and her sweater, which is exactly the same color. The pearls Ted gave her for Christmas look pinkish against it. Her white suede high heels. “Honey, you look absolutely beautiful,” she says. Then, “Thank goodness we didn’t get all that snow. Your lovely shoes would have been ruined.”
Which is exactly what Ted’s mother says once she’s finished carrying on about how great Mom looks and how happy she is to have her for a daughter-in-law.
Ted doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Mom, grinning like a goof.
Everyone’s there waiting: Ted’s family, the judge, my uncle Mike and my aunt Nancy. Grandma fusses over Kristin and Amy, who look pretty in their red velvet dresses and patent leather shoes.
Soon the judge, a friend of Ted’s, positions himself in front of the fireplace, gestures to Ted and Mom to stand facing one another in front of him. Sunshine pours in through the big bay window, making a carpet of light at their feet. The wedding ceremony itself is brief. No “dearly beloved.” No prayers. Just the legalities. The minute it’s over, the caterer enters carrying a silver tray with glasses of champagne for everyone.
Another friend of Ted’s takes pictures; the party guests begin to drift in. I’ve never seen a person look as happy as Ted does. All the while he’s greeting people, talking to them, he holds Mom’s hand. He keeps glancing at her as if to make sure she’s actually beside him. Amy sticks pretty close to them, smiling shyly when Ted introduces her to people. Kristin is perched halfway up the staircase, reading a book. Ted keeps an eye on her, smiles when she looks up, but he’s smart enough to leave her alone.
I do what’s expected of me. I greet Mom’s friends, meet Ted’s. I eat my piece of wedding cake. I look happy. Time goes by. At seven sharp, the white limousine reappears. The caterer passes around little net bags filled with rice, and we line the front walk, shivering, to throw the rice at Mom and Ted as they hurry away.
Not long after that, I say my good-byes. Dad’s expecting me, I tell Grandma. She’s so distracted, rehashing the wedding with Mrs. Harper, that she forgets I don’t have a car. She just gives me a kiss on the check and a quick hug and says, “You’re a lucky boy, Jackson Watt. Not everyone gets as nice a stepfather as the one you got tonight.”
I agree. I mean, Ted is a great guy. It’s not his fault I’m feeling like if I don’t get out of there right this second I’m going to scream.
I walk home in the cold, dark night and sit in our echoey living room feeling sorry for myself. I can’t get warm. Frigid air seeps in through the curtainless windows. Pac
king crates loom like big, square animals. As cars turn the corner onto our street, their headlights move across the blank walls, then fall onto the crates, hurry over them like long fingers. Get a grip, I tell myself. Get a life. I consider all the things I might do tonight. Do a movie marathon. Read. Jack off. Veg out totally: turn the lights off and stare at the fluorescent galaxy my dad and I pasted on my ceiling when I was in the fifth grade. Could I still name all the constellations?
To avoid thinking about that, I go upstairs, pop the Talking Heads into my stereo, and turn it up loud. I get warmed up, finally, by jerking around like a nutcase the way David Byrne does on MTV. I feel just about as stupid in my wedding clothes as he looks wearing his gargantuan white jacket, so I peel them off and dance naked for a while. I sing along with “What a Day That Was.” Then “Life During Wartime” comes on, a favorite of Brady’s.
Oh, yeah, Brady. Lately, any thought of him is guaranteed to deflate me, and tonight’s no different. He’d say, “Call Steph, man. The two of you alone. All night. Who’d know?”
She’d do it, too.
Suddenly I don’t want to be here with all these possibilities, with my whole life packed up all around me, so I put on jeans and a sweatshirt, and head for Dad’s after all. He and Kim are playing poker, empty beer cans stacked in a pyramid in the middle of the table. They don’t act a bit surprised to see me.
Wish You Were Here Page 9
