Make Believe

by Joanna Scott

  “Just don’t drive into a tree, Stephie!”

  But they liked to picture it — seven coffins in a row, all of Hadleyville in black, weeping, weeping. Front-page news from Buffalo to Syracuse. The adults deserved a good tragedy.

  “You can drive a car but you can’t vote George Bush out of office, that shithead!”

  “Stephie can’t drive a car!”

  “Then what’s she doing now?”

  “I’m not sure. But I wouldn’t call it driving!”

  “Stop it, Gina. You’re making Stephie laugh!”

  “Be careful, Stephie!”

  “Watch out!” It was Erin’s loud voice that Stephie finally acknowledged. She veered away from the shoulder of the road back into her lane.

  “Still alive to tell the tale,” Gina said.

  “The young get old,” Stephie piped. “The old get sick. And the sick die.”

  Had they ever laughed so hard before? They were young, not yet old and sick and dead, and had found in themselves the capacity for revolution. Except that Gina suddenly remembered she had to baby-sit at three o’clock, so they’d better turn around and head back to Hadleyville.

  Not back along Route 62, Stephie decided. No — they’d drive right through the center of Gifferton.

  “Are you crazy?” Carrie shouted as Stephie speeded up after a turn.

  “Crazy as a loon!” Stephie cried, zipping along Main Street while the girls covered their faces so they wouldn’t see the horrified residents of Gifferton jumping out of the way. But crazy Stephie managed to obey the traffic laws, and no one looked twice at the red Datsun.

  On their way out of town, the girls grew bolder. They unrolled their windows and yeehawed at the top of their voices, laughed and sang as Stephie drove them beneath the highway overpass. Jenny reached from the back window to the front, tried to grab Gina’s cigarette, tried to sing through her laughter. Hilarious, dangerous life. They loved the boys! They loved each other! They loved driving without a license!

  Of course Jenny recognized him: the bum stumbling along the sidewalk in the gloom of the overpass just a couple of arm lengths away. The girls didn’t call such men bums. They called them hobos. The drunken hobo in the red baseball cap. At that moment his foot slipped off the edge of the sidewalk, he lurched to the left, steadied himself, and took another step forward, though by then he was behind the car, and Jenny somehow managed to keep herself from turning in her seat to watch him, pretended to be watching the scenery instead, pretended to agree with the common assumption that the drunk, the bum, the hobo beneath the overpass, was worthy of no more than a passing glance.

  So here was a treasure to add to the fossil Tony had pressed into her hand long ago. She knew that she would never tell her friends what she’d seen back there, what they’d missed. She could not tell them anything that mattered. Honesty was a well-kept secret — to last almost forever.

  In a car again, this time her mother’s car, smoking a cigarette. Sixteen years old and she could go anywhere, do anything. She could skip her afternoon classes, browse in thrift stores and costume shops, engage in conversation with the clerks and pretend to be someone else. She could watch people waiting at a corner for the light to change. She could page through magazines in a drugstore and drink coffee from a Styrofoam cup. She could create a commotion and steal a woman’s purse. She could sell her mother’s car and buy a bus ticket to the West Coast. She could lean against the doorway of an office building. She could lie down on a park bench. She could pretend to belong here. She could pretend to care about nothing.

  There appeared to be no end to this freedom beyond her capacity to savor it. But as she turned the car onto East Main, the clutch refused to engage — Jenny fought with the handle, pumped her foot against the pedal, let the car drift, and finally managed to return to second gear.

  And that should have been that — the end of the afternoon’s potential, the recognition of limit.

  You wouldn’t have guessed it, looking at him thrust his grimy hands under the hood of the car, but Kamon Gilbert didn’t let any piece of information slip past him. If there was something to be learned, he’d learn it. He knew the difference between fission and fusion. He could explain how a blast furnace worked. He could tell you about the flaps on an airplane wing and show you why the clutch in your mother’s car had trouble engaging.

  But the thing he knew best was light. His daddy was an electrician, Jenny learned later. And besides that, his mother used to drill him with this simple question —

  What should you do when you leave the room?

  Turn off the light, Ma!

  — the exchange repeated over and over until Kamon couldn’t enter a room without reminding himself to leave it in darkness. Light, however necessary, was expensive. Light was a treasure that mustn’t be wasted on an empty room. Between his father’s work and his mother’s prudence, Kamon learned to appreciate all kinds of light and made no secret of the fact that he planned to earn his living as a photographer, manipulating high-frequency photons in order to illuminate the material expression of personality and the colors dependent upon light, the colors in Jenny’s hair, for instance, glinting in the sunlight as she watched Kamon work. Of course he didn’t speak about any of this, not yet. Instead he tried to draw her into a conversation about the weather, the hint of winter in the air, and her name…?

  “Jenny,” she said, and clamped her mouth shut while she listened to him tell her what she didn’t care to know: that his name was Kamon Gilbert and this was only a part-time job. He was a junior and would head off to college in a year. So what did Jenny do?

  Look, she had to go. If he couldn’t fix the car right away she’d bring it back later. But in truth she didn’t intend to bring it back. Why drive all the way to the city for repair work that could be done in her hometown of Hadleyville? The only reason she’d stopped in at the garage where Kamon worked was because she’d come up to the city to shop for a Halloween costume to wear to Stephie’s party next week. At least she’d succeeded in finding a costume — a pillowy white cube with black dots, a giant die propped on the backseat of the car.

  “No, I can’t fix it right away. You’ll have to leave it. What’s that?”

  “My Halloween costume. I can’t leave the car here overnight. I’ll bring it back another time.”

  Kamon closed the hood while Jenny slid behind the wheel. He took a few steps back, folded his arms across his chest, and waited as she turned the key.

  “See you, Kamon Gilbert.”

  “You remembered my name.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Why? Because most folks don’t listen.”

  “I know how that is.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Kamon.”

  “Hope so, Jenny.”

  And that would have been that, except Jenny on her way out managed the extraordinary feat of backing her car up against a fire hydrant near the edge of the lot, maneuvering the wheel in such a way that the spout of the hydrant lodged between the rear tire and the bumper, preventing her from backing up further or going forward without tearing the bumper from the car.

  She shifted into first gear and back into reverse, rolled and lurched while the clutch protested shrilly. Kamon just stood with his hands in his back pockets and watched. Jenny tried not to look at him but sensed his eyes on her and was surprised to find herself feeling as pleased with his attention as she was irritated by the upturned corners of his closed lips, the hint of a smug grin. Go ahead, laugh! She tried turning the steering wheel and accelerating forward, succeeded only in drawing from the torn bumper an exclamation of despair. She tried reverse again, but the rear tire spun in place, stripping the grass from the muddy ground. Finally she gave up, let the engine idle, and leaned back against the headrest.

  “Whatcha doing?” Kamon finally asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “Yeah.�
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  “You mean, why am I sitting here in the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No reason,” Jenny said with her eyes closed.

  “Oh.”

  A minute or so passed before Kamon broke the silence again.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll be seeing you then.” He didn’t move. The other three mechanics had come out of the garage and were standing together watching Kamon, who was watching Jenny, who was looking up at the sky darkened by the tinted edge of the windshield.

  “I got to get back to work,” he said, circling the toe of his sneaker on the sidewalk.

  “Sure. Go ahead.” Kamon just stood there. “Go on!” Jenny insisted.

  As he headed back to the group of mechanics, Jenny studied his slack, dirty jeans, the cap of dark hair, the plaid shirttail tucked messily into his pants, the flannel crumpled at his narrow waist. Wait! Jenny Templin had gotten herself into a ridiculous predicament, she had to admit it. But she was just a hick girl who had come up to the city looking for trouble.

  “Kamon Gilbert,” she called out the window, “I need you.”

  “You sure do.”

  Now if she put the car in drive and eased forward, Kamon could lift the bumper up and over the hydrant spout. Amazing Kamon. What had he wanted to ask earlier?

  “Maybe I could find another one of those costumes…”

  “You want to be a pair of dice with me?” What a hoot! Except that Jenny couldn’t show up at Stephie’s party with a black guy from the city. But they didn’t have to show up anywhere, did they? Where could they be alone together? Jenny thought about it while Kamon spoke.

  “How about I come by tomorrow? I’ll fix your car for free.”

  “It’s my mother’s car.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “How about we go for a drive?”

  “Just drive around some?”

  “I live way out in Hadleyville.”

  “By Hadley Lake?”

  “We can just drive around.”

  “Sounds fine with me.”

  It wouldn’t be fine with Jenny’s mom and stepfather. So Jenny asked Kamon to meet her at the corner of North Lake and Route 62. Kamon’s eyes glittered with the anger he couldn’t speak of. “I get it,” he murmured. “See you there.” Jenny said with her own eyes, Maybe we can fool around.

  Maybe. As she drove away she swallowed the one word, leaving the rest to consider: We can fool around. This was just the kind of trouble she’d come looking for.

  Waiting for him to arrive, certain that he’d stay away and then certain that the next car would be his and immediately feeling embarrassed by just about everything: her silver loop earrings, her baseball cap, the birding guide left by her mother in the backseat along with a berry finder book — “a guide to native plants with fleshy fruits.” Oh my god, she’d forgotten to shave her armpits. And in this light you could see the grape jelly stain on the sleeve of her blouse. And what was that hanging from her nose? Oh my god.

  “Hiya.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much. I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. What’s up with you?”

  “Not much. … Well, so…”

  “So what?”

  “So you want to drive around?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay then. Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah, good. Great.”

  “Great.”

  “Great.”

  “Just don’t get caught,” said Jenny’s sister, Ann, after Jenny told her she was going to see Kamon Gilbert again.

  She watched his teeth close around the outer rim of the burger, seize the bun and meat and draw the mouthful in between his lips. He chewed slowly, his eyes locked on hers. She clamped her own lips around her straw, sucked until a thick clump of milk shake oozed free and spread across her tongue. He continued to chew. She continued to suck. She lowered her gaze so the fringe of her lashes nearly covered her eyes. He shifted in his seat, tore another mouthful from his hamburger, and as he chewed explored the area beneath the table with his right sneaker, stopped when he bumped against her ankle, pressed his toes gently against her shin, rubbed softly and managed to lift the cuff of her jeans up over her sock. She stared down at her glass full of strawberry milk shake and sucked. He stared at her and chewed. She reached over to his plate, closed her thumb and forefinger around the tip of a curly french fry, lifted slowly, separating the one curl without jostling the others, pulled her arm back and dropped the fry whole in her mouth, like a pelican swallowing a fish. She smiled. He hooked a finger around the base of her glass, slid it toward him, and without looking down caught the straw between his lips. He sucked. She chewed. He rubbed. She smiled. She sucked. He chewed. And so on.

  “Jenny, phone!”

  “I got it. Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I know it’s you.”

  “I’m watching the game right now.”

  “So am I!”

  “Go figure.”

  “So you saw that loose-ball foul?”

  “Wasn’t that something!”

  “You watching, me watching…”

  “We might as well be an old married couple.”

  “Might as well.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  What she realized then, reclined on the backseat of his parents’ Pontiac, feeling the torn upholstery against her skin, feeling the tingling as his hand explored her body, was that love, or just this love, conjured with its minute and breathtaking pleasures the opposite of love. Not hate but loss. How was it possible that her life would lead to nothing, that the cold autumn sun would eventually burn itself out, that love would draw to a close? She would have chosen not to love him if she could have helped it. Not because he was black and she was white, not because her mother wouldn’t have understood why she’d fallen for Kamon, not because Eddie would have killed them both if he’d found out. She would have chosen not to love him because to love him as she already did meant she had to face the absolute loss of him.

  She huffed aloud at the silly, inadequate word. Love. Who named it? Who dared to give the feeling a single name?

  “What?” murmured Kamon.

  “Love,” said Jenny.

  “This now, you mean?”

  “Yeah” — without doubt or hesitation. Yeah. This now.

  Or in the movie theater, with Kamon’s arm around her. Knowing that Kamon was watching her instead of the movie. Watching the play of light on her face, like beams diverging on the flat surface of a hologram and giving the image uncanny dimension.

  Or in the bedroom of Miraja, Kamon’s little niece. Feeling the mattress bubble and sag while Miraja held Kamon’s hands and hopped in place on the bed: “One fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said —”

  Or lying alone on her own bed in the dark, thinking of him, certain that such intensity of thought could be felt by Kamon miles away.

  Tuesday the fourteenth … Wednesday the fifteenth … Thursday the sixteenth … Friday the seventeenth…

  Here’s a picture of Kamon walking up the steps from a basement exit at his high school, his hands in the front pocket of his jeans, the sides of his open parka tucked beneath his arms and creased by the straps of his backpack, his face cast in meditation. He hasn’t yet seen Jenny standing with his camera.

  Here’s a picture of Jenny at the lake, Jenny hanging by her knees from a tree branch, Jenny nearly overcome with laughter while Kamon recites behind the camera, Oh blessed, blessed night! I am afraid this is all a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

  Here’s Jenny with her arms folded, frowning at Kamon for snatching her image before she’s
had a chance to brush her hair.

  Look carefully at this one and you’ll see that they’ve tied the laces of their sneakers together in a knot.

  Here you can see Kamon’s arm extended across the lens as he holds a lit match at the tip of Jenny’s cigarette.

  Here Jenny leans against the bumper of Kamon’s car.

  Or feeling him slide into her, feeling him inside her, feeling more amazed than she’d anticipated by the possibility of making a child together. An intoxicating, defiant proposition. Her own secret treasure.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Sure I’m kidding. Hahaha. Why aren’t you laughing, Kamon?”

  “You’re sixteen years old, Jenny. Have you thought about it? Think, girl!”

  “I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.”

  “Think about it. You have to think about what it means.”

  It meant that she needed something. What? A future? A place in the future? A fullness? Value? Morning sickness? Something that belonged to her? Something unknown becoming known? Love made visible? The attention of doctors at the clinic? The repetition of her own childhood? Something instead of school? Something instead of adolescence? Something instead of a cramped bedroom in her mother’s house? The extension of nothing into something? Kamon’s child? Kamon’s love? The consolidation of love? All the prohibitions, warnings, guidelines, and concern? The surprise? The rebellion? The admission of mistake? The insistence of desire? A possession? A pet? A crib and stroller and high chair and five thousand disposable diapers? The worry? The dissolution? The fevers and teething and colic? A playmate? A trophy? A happy ending?

  Here’s what Jenny’s sister, Ann, thought: whatever drew Kamon to Jenny and Jenny to Kamon was something like a gust of wind that catches a leaf as it falls from a tree and sends it spiraling upward.

  Or in the tub feeling her skin turn elastic and stretch. The bliss of fatigue. The sour taste beneath her tongue. Feathery, shifting motion. A kick and nudge. Seeing the mound in her belly formed by a restless limb. Cool! Body inside a body. Nothing cooler.