He wished he didn’t have to go to school. Every grade was more boring than the last. He could read already in kindergarten because Ava had taught him, making a big deal of getting him a library card as soon as he could scribble his name. “If you want to be someone, you have to be educated,” she told him. Every Friday, she took him to the library, letting him sprawl in the kids’ room for hours, choosing as many books as he could carry to take home. Before his father had left, he had bought him the absolute best birthday present in the world, a set of Collier’s Encyclopedia. “Everything you want to know is in there,” his dad told him. Whenever Lewis could tell his dad a new fact, Brian would ruffle his hair and hug him. The week his father left, Lewis began systematically reading them, starting at A. He kept imagining how proud his father would be when he came back and Lewis could tell him all about the atomic bomb or how fire was produced. Every time he was given any toy, from plastic dinosaurs to a deck of cards, he looked it up in his Collier’s to find out everything he could about it.
But school was different. Knowing more than the other kids meant he had to sit around listening to everyone struggling to figure out colors, and later, to sound out “Run, Sally, run,” in their Dick and Jane books. But it wasn’t just reading that was easy for him. Math was pretty simple. He often completed his work early, and then there was nothing else to do but sit around waiting for the rest of the class to finish. Even if he asked, his teacher never gave him anything extra to do.
It didn’t take him long to realize that he knew more than some of the teachers did and that, to his shock, they didn’t like him for it. Every new grade, he started out thinking it might be different, but as soon as he began to ask questions, his teachers would say, “Let’s have somebody else speak up for a change.” When they were studying civil rights, Lewis remembered the Milks, a Negro family that was supposed to move onto their block, but all the neighbors had started up a petition to stop them. Only his mother had refused to sign. In the end, the house sold to another white family. “How come there are no Negro kids in our school?” he asked and the teacher said, “They go to other schools,” and when Lewis asked what those schools were, his teacher told him not to be so smart. When they were studying American Indians in fifth grade, his teacher brought in pictures of teepees. Lewis raised his hand and she sighed. “Yes, Lewis?” she said, and he told her that the Indians didn’t just live in teepees, that they actually had many kinds of houses depending on where they were. “Where it was warm, they had grass houses,” he said. “They had wood and adobe, too.”
“Yes, but the teepee was the most prominent,” she said.
“Just for the Plains Indians,” Lewis added.
“Let’s move on,” his teacher said, dismissing him with a frown.
Sixth grade with Miss Calisi was no better. She talked a lot to the class about how she square-danced and why rock and roll was responsible for juvenile delinquency, and she smelled like old socks. Lewis had felt a spark of hope when he started her grade and she had announced, “I’m a really tough teacher. You’re all going to work really hard,” but instead, it was the same easy work, the same admonitions not to ask so many questions, and after that, Lewis just stopped trying in school and busied himself thinking about what he wanted to learn. He kept quiet and filled his notebook with things they weren’t doing in class, plans on how to build a ham radio, facts about ten different kinds of whales. One day, he was working on a drawing, comparing a beluga whale with a blue whale, when a shadow fell across his paper. He looked up and Miss Calisi’s brow was buckled in anger. “I asked you a question and you didn’t even hear me,” she said. “What are you doing?” She lifted up his notebook and peered at the page in astonishment. Lewis hunkered down in his seat. “This has nothing to do with long division,” she said curtly. She flipped some of the pages and then tucked the notebook under her arm, making him worry he wasn’t going to get it back. He watched her at her desk, scribbling something, while the other kids twisted in their seats to stare at him. Then she came down the row and handed him a note. “I want your mother to sign this,” she said. “Now open your arithmetic book.” She stood over him, waiting until he did. He sat there, listening to her drone on about long division, and in his mind, he heard humpback whales singing mournfully.
There was no way he would give this note to his mother. His mother was always telling him how important it was that he do well in school, that he had to get good grades because that was how he’d get a scholarship to college. But he couldn’t see what was so important about college. He made a list of everyone famous who had never gone to college: Henry Ford. Andrew Jackson—and he became president. George Washington. Gandhi. Hitler. He crossed out Hitler because that seemed like an argument for why you should go, so you wouldn’t be like him. He ticked off all the different politicians, leaders, inventors. You could do anything. He had a whole notebook of things he himself wanted to do. Be a doctor. Study animals. Maybe be a scientist. And he could figure out how to do it without this dopey school. Anything he needed to learn was right here in the library. His dad had been like that. “I’m a self-made man,” Brian had always told Lewis, and he had won all these trophies and prizes for being the best salesman to prove it.
He’d sign his mother’s name on the paper.
Now, Lewis wandered the library stacks. The biography he really wanted was Houdini. Harry Houdini was Jewish like he was, and he was cool and the one thing Lewis wanted to do tonight, rather than meet his mother’s boyfriend Jake, was to disappear. Jake. What a name. Like jerk. Like stupid. Like stay out of my life.
His mother had told him that Jake was going to take them both out for ice cream, a special treat on a school night. “He’s a friend. We’ll have a great time,” she had insisted. Lewis had asked her, well, what about his father? How about what Mr. Gallagher across the street had told him—that people were married forever in the sight of God, like he and his wife Tina were? A child, like their little Eddy, who was always swatting a baseball bat at the bushes, was the covenant. That was why divorce wasn’t a real thing. Ava had narrowed her eyes at him. “Divorce is very real,” she told him.
He hated thinking about his mother and this new guy. What if she really liked him? Every time he thought about it, he had to sit down and make lists. He thought of running away, but then where would he go? How would he live? If he could just find his father—but he hadn’t been able to yet. He knew his father had had to leave because of his mom, because of the way they were fighting, and the few times his dad had called, Lewis could tell how happy Brian was to talk to him just by the sound of his voice. He didn’t know why his dad didn’t visit or call him, except that it had to have something to do with his mom and that was why Lewis had to be careful around her. She could make things worse. Especially with this Jake guy.
“Lewis.” He turned around, startled. Mrs. Groth (the librarian, a spindly woman who didn’t like it that he took books out from the adult section and always shooed him, as if he were a dog, back to the kids’ room with all those dumb toys and miniature desks) glared at him. “Is this where you belong?” she asked pointedly. She stared at the book in his hand, The Great Gatsby, and took it from him. “This is too old for you,” she said, as if she knew the slightest thing about him. She leafed through it, stopping at a page with a small rip. “And where did this come from?” she demanded, fingering the page.
Lewis stared at the tear, a fingernail of paper. “It was there when I took the book.”
Her mouth pinched like his mother’s change purse. “I see,” she said. She walked to her desk and then took a slip and wrote something on it and handed it to him. “You have to pay for what you destroy,” she said.
“I didn’t destroy anything,” Lewis said. He stared down at the note. She had written “Two dollars: destruction of library property” in black ink and underlined it twice. The last time she had done this, he had told his mother when he got home and, to his surprise, Ava had driven all the way back to the
library and marched right up to Mrs. Groth and told her that not only did she personally remember the rip (“I don’t know why the library doesn’t keep better care of their books,” she had said) but she was tired of hearing comments about what books her son could take out. “I’m his mother and if he wants to read Lady Chatterley’s Lover, he can,” she had snapped. “What do you care, as long as he’s reading?” Mrs. Groth had flushed. He had loved his mother intensely at that moment.
“You see that you pay for this,” Mrs. Groth told him now.
Lewis stuffed the notice in his pocket. He waited for her to leave, and then he began roaming the adult stacks again. He knew if he asked, his mother would confront Mrs. Groth again. She’d never stand for any of this. Still, as grateful as he was, there were so many times he wished that his mom were different.
No one else’s mother made sandwiches out of bagels or brought home foods like lox and chicken livers, and even worse, tongue. Even though Lewis liked bagels, he was embarrassed to be seen with them because kids made fun of them. “What’s with the donut bread?” they mocked. Other children complained about having to go to church on Sundays, but Lewis’s mom didn’t even take him to temple. The only religious thing she did was light those stupid Sabbath candles on Friday nights when she remembered, which wasn’t all that often. Every once in a while, she would talk to him about God, but it didn’t sound anything like what the other kids talked about. “Everyone communes with God in his or her own way,” she said. She didn’t believe that one religion was better than another. “You find your own truth,” she told him. She didn’t look like anyone else’s mother, either, not the suits she wore to work when all the other mothers were in housedresses, the tiny two-piece swimsuit she wore to get a tan, when everyone else’s mother wore a skirted one-piece. The other mothers wore slacks, but Ava wore tight dungarees with the bottoms rolled into cuffs. “Why do you dress differently from everybody else?” he had asked. She had looked at him, surprised. “I do?” He noticed her watching the neighborhood women as if she were studying them. Two days later, she came home from shopping with a pair of slacks that zipped on the side and a housedress, but the pants were still tight and the dress was a shocking shade of orange.
And he remembered Jimmy’s amazed reaction the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Ava. The two boys were walking past Lewis’s house to Jimmy’s when they saw Ava through the picture window, feather duster in her hand, dancing in their living room as she cleaned. She swooped the feather duster into lazy circles. Her hips snaked. “That’s your mom?” Jimmy asked. The two boys stood on the sidewalk and Lewis watched his mother swaying, throwing her head back so her hair tossed in her eyes and you couldn’t see her face. Her mouth moved, as if she were singing. Lewis could hear Jimmy’s intake of breath and Lewis tried to will his mother to stop, to pull the curtains at least. Jimmy flapped his hands as if he were cooling the world down.
“Hubba-hubba,” Jimmy said. “Va-va-va-voom.” Lewis socked him in the arm. “Hey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jimmy said, but his gaze stayed on Ava.
Lewis wasn’t sure how he felt about his mother anymore. He didn’t think he trusted her. She seemed full of secrets lately, and sometimes he swore he could hear them rattling around in her like marbles caught in a glass jar.
Last week, he was sleeping at Jimmy and Rose’s, a special treat on a school night. He, Rose, and Jimmy had spent the evening playing Go to the Head of the Class. Later that night, Lewis was tucked into a sleeping bag on Jimmy’s floor, sandwiched between Jimmy’s bed and Rose’s sleeping bag. Lewis felt woozy and achy. Sweat filmed his body, making his pajamas paste against his skin. “I want to go home,” he told Jimmy. “I think I’m sick.” Rose put one hand on his forehead. “You’re boiling,” she said.
They didn’t want to wake Jimmy’s mother, who got cranky if she had to lift her sleep mask or take her earplugs out, so Jimmy and Rose both put their coats over their pajamas, slid into their slippers, and walked Lewis to his house across the street. The night was still and cold and sparkling with stars, but every step Lewis took, he felt sicker and sicker. The houses seemed to be moving. The ground felt soft and sticky, as if he might sink into it. Rose’s hand drifted across his back and he leaned into it, feeling a pulse of heat.
At his door, he heard music. Frank Sinatra. One of the albums his mother liked. Lewis could see his breath in the air. He could feel the sweat trickling along his back. Rose shut her eyes for a moment, swaying to the music. “Your mom is some smoothy,” she said. “Music past midnight! My mom doesn’t even have a record player. When she hums, she hums Speedy Alka-Selzer commercials.”
Jimmy tilted his head up to the window and then stopped. He put one hand out in front of Lewis, the way Lewis’s mother did when she was driving and she had to stop short, keeping Lewis from banging into the glove compartment or going through the windshield. Lewis stumbled, and then he looked at the window, at the shadows through the curtains. They all saw his mother standing up, her head resting on someone’s shoulder, slow dancing, moving into one dramatic dip. Rose sucked in a breath.
Lewis froze. His mother’s shadow kissed the other shadow and he turned away.
“I feel okay now,” he said stiffly. He turned and faced the dark street. “Let’s go back to your house.”
Jimmy and Rose were just standing there, staring at him.
“C’mon, I’m okay. I feel fine now,” Lewis said. “I want to go back to your house.”
Rose tugged his arm and Lewis pulled it roughly away. Then he started walking away, and every step he took, the music grew fainter and fainter, the image of his mother and the man blurred, and he felt so weak and dizzy he could have lain down in the middle of the road. He didn’t turn around to see if Rose and Jimmy were following, but he heard the scuff of their slippers, and he was grateful for their silence.
They all went back inside, removed their coats, shuffled off their slippers, and got back under the covers. Lewis stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry. The room reeled around him. He heard Jimmy beginning to snore and he felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
Then he heard Rose, the rustle of her sleeping bag. She got up and left the room and a few minutes later, he heard her bare feet on the floor. He heard her coming closer to him, as if she were about to tell him a great secret.
A cloth, stunningly cool, pressed along his forehead. He shut his eyes, sighing. She tapped his shoulder and his eyes flew open again and he saw her, blurry, hovering over him. “Lewis, take this,” she said, and she held out her palm with two aspirins resting in the center. He saw the glass of water she held in her hand. He couldn’t see her eyes, hidden under her bangs, long as sable paintbrushes. When she leaned over, one of her braids dusted against his chest, rising and falling as if it were alive and breathing along with him.
Rose sat on the edge of his sleeping bag. She waited for him to take the aspirin and drink the water. “Lie back down,” she whispered. But she didn’t move and he didn’t really want her to. Every time he drifted off to sleep, his eyes would flutter open, and he would see her again, so calm and still. It made him feel better. He sensed her there, and gradually, he rolled into sleep.
When he thought about it now, he bet anything that shadow they had all seen through the window was this Jake person. Well, forget Jake. Forget his mother. Forget tonight. He was done with his dentist appointment, finished with the library. He was going to hang out with Jimmy and who knew what they might do, what plans they might devise? Lewis left the library, surprised at how the day had grown so hot and muggy. He paid attention to the buildings along Lexington Street so he wouldn’t get lost, something that often happened, leaving him tense and disoriented as if the world had changed shape without his knowing it. There was the church on his right, the gas station on his left. Over there was the huge maple tree.
A car passed, honking at him, making him leap closer to the inner side of the sidewalk, and for a moment, he thought the man driv
ing might be his father. Wouldn’t that be perfect? If it was his dad, he wouldn’t have to meet stupid Jake tonight, and neither would his mom. If it was his dad, everything could go back to normal.
When his father left abruptly just after Lewis’s seventh birthday, without even saying good-bye, the whole world had changed. Things didn’t taste right. Lewis would eat a bite of cereal and it would taste like steak. His potato at dinner would taste like metal and he’d have to spit it out into his napkin. It was as if the world had gone suddenly crazy. Lewis and his mother couldn’t afford the big Back Bay townhouse on their own, and had to move out of Boston to one tiny apartment after another, and finally to the suburb in Waltham and the only thing good about it was that it was a house and he had a backyard. “Does Dad know we’re here?” Lewis kept asking
“Of course he does,” his mother said, but she looked suddenly smaller to him.
“How does he know?” Lewis thought of ham radios, of smoke signals, of the way a voice could travel on a phone line
“He knows,” his mother said.
His father was even supposed to visit him once. He had called shortly after Lewis’s eighth birthday, just like a sudden snap of fingers, and when Lewis heard his voice, he started to cry.
Is This Tomorrow Page 4
