by Deb Caletti
“Michael Worthman’s been checking you out all night,” Zebe said.
“He’s wearing a dress. With polka dots,” I said.
“Hey, his legs look great in it,” she said, raised her eyebrows up and down, and popped in her fangs again.
I left after a couple of hours, telling everyone I had a sore throat and wanted to go home to bed. I didn’t talk to Zebe about Ian and me, because for starters, nothing existed between us. I was still out of sorts, and all of the cheer around me was just making me feel crappier. Only a few boys who were too big for trick-or-treating were still on the street, and Mom had blown out the pumpkin candles. When I came in, Mom and Dino had already gone to bed and there were only a handful of Sweet Tarts packs and boxes of Dots left in the candy bowl. Mom’s taste in candy stank—she always went for the low-fat stuff in case we had any left and she was tempted to eat it. Dots were as far down on the evolutionary candy scale as you go, but I took a few anyway, which only goes to show the level of my general dissatisfaction. I went upstairs and got in bed, ate Sweet Tarts and disgusting cherry Dots in the dark. I tried to fend off images of Ian coming down my street that first time I saw him, of his face when I left him that night. That kiss. God, that kiss. I tried to get rid of overly sentimental pictures of my mother handing my father a cup of hot cider after we would come back home with our candy on Halloween nights. It occurred to me that if you loved it sucked, and if you didn’t love it sucked, so either way you were screwed. Maybe love was better. At least sometimes you got chocolates.
My resolve was weak, so I was glad I didn’t know Ian’s phone number. I reminded myself for the zillionth time that I had to do what was best for Ian, too. I felt on the edge of tears, as if I could have cried at the sight of a drooping plant. Some kind of grieving was working around inside of me, and I didn’t want any part of it. I got up to pee, and went downstairs for more candy or a glass of milk or a miracle cure. For some reason, I can’t even tell you why, I went into Dino’s study and pulled the Cavalli biography from the shelf. I sat right there on the floor, with the open book on my lap.
Lutitia Bissola, neighbor: The boy had his first concert for us, in the piazza. Anyone doing their shopping stopped to watch. His mother and father held hands and listened, and Mrs. Mueller, I think it was Mrs. Mueller who started it, put the bouquet of flowers at the child’s feet when he was finished.
Francesca Bissola, neighbor: It wasn’t Mrs. Mueller. It was Honoria Maretta. But after she put the flowers down, everyone else began laying down objects.
Honoria Maretta, grade-school teacher: I put the flowers down, yes. He was my student, my boy. He was like a son to me. He would come to my house to see my cat sometimes, and I would give him books and pizzelles. They were his favorite. I would bake them on a Sunday, when he might come over My only little child, among all my students.
Francesca Bissola: Alberto what’s-his-name put a loaf of French bread by the flowers.
Lutitia Bissola: Alberto Terreto. He put the bread down. And then there were other things. A zucchini. A melon. A lemon branch. Little offerings, laid at the boy’s feet. Even Father Minelli had opened the doors of the church with the sound of the playing and stood there listening, his face turning red from the sun.
Francesca Bissola: His face was red from too much wine. The sun had nothing to do with it. He was a boozer, God rest his soul.8
I smiled. In spite of myself, and in spite of the Dino-hero-worship, those people from Sabbotino Grappa could get to you. The words brought you to another time and place. Escapism was a nice thing sometimes. Personally, I don’t see the problem with escapism and denial, those friendly twin coping mechanisms. I carried the book back to my room, read some more until the hot sun of Italy made me sleepy enough to turn out the light.
The next time Ian came for a lesson, I waited in my room until he was safely inside Dino’s office, then I hightailed it out of there before they even started tuning. In my current state, I didn’t even dare listen to Ian play. I didn’t trust myself not to do something humiliating and out of control, same as you fear shouting out some swear word while you’re at a church service. I could just see myself flinging open the door and throwing myself in his arms or something ridiculously schlocky. Or else I’d start weeping at the sound of that violin, picturing the notes drifting all the way to Italy, winding their way among the leaves of the olive trees.
Getting out, that was the main thing. Fall was still doing the cold, crispy thing, so I put on Mom’s navy peacoat and borrowed Dino’s lambskin gloves and hat that made him look like a bank robber. I stepped out the front door. Dog William had fallen firmly and steadfastly in love, and was looking happier than he’d ever looked in his life, lying on the grass with Rocket. His lips were curled up and his teeth showed, and anyone who says dogs don’t smile is dead wrong. At least someone had their relationship life sorted out. He even looked kind of cute again. Rocket was sprawled out, looking serene and sphinxlike, and you could already tell who was the boss of the couple. I kicked through the leaves on our road, passed old Mr. and Mrs. Billings’ house. Their pumpkins, out on their porch, now looked a bit caved in, same as Mr. Billings’s mouth without his dentures.
Something about Dog William’s happiness pissed me off, and I took my sour mood down the road and kicked at leaves. Goddamn, I mean, even a dog handled his life better than I did. I looked up, and saw that banana yellow Datsun stuck in the road. There was Bunny, Ian’s brother, and Chuck, Bunny’s friend—the metaphysical nonmotorcyclists—standing there beside it.
“Get the jack,” Bunny said.
“What jack? Monterey Jack?” Chuck chuckled. “Jack-in-the-box?”
“You don’t know jack shit,” Bunny said. “In the trunk. And the lug wrench.”
“What’s it look like?” Chuck was as big as a dump truck and was wearing a fringe vest with beads. He had a lovely braid, I don’t know, maybe two inches long.
“You know what it looks like. A big cross. With knobs. Quit stalling. Jesus.”
“Do you guys need some help?” I asked. “I’m about two seconds from a phone.”
“Hey. The teacher’s kid,” Chuck said.
“Ian’s friend,” Bunny said.
“Whoo hoo. You saved me.” Chuck raised one arm, did a little victory dance. It reminded me of when you set a big bowl of Jell-O on a hard surface. “Rescue chick.”
“No problem,” I said. “Should I call a tow truck?”
“Tow truck, my ass,” Bunny said. “It’s a flat tire. Get back there and find the jack,” he said to Chuck. Bunny shook his head. “Sheesh. He’s never changed a flat before. We could be here all day.”
“You know, my house is right there. I could call someone for you.”
“I’ve changed thousands of tires,” Bunny said. “It’s him that hasn’t. This is a learning experience.”
“I hate learning experiences,” Chuck said.
“Learning experiences suck,” I agreed. “Anything that’s called a learning experience, you know, run for your life.”
“What a couple of whiners,” Bunny said.
Chuck had the trunk open and was fishing around inside. “Is this the lug wrench?” He held up a hat with ear flaps.
“I hope neither of you has worn that thing,” I said. “Very Elmer Fudd.” Chuck tossed it to me and I yanked off Dino’s burglar hat, put it on. “Cozy,” I said.
“Oh, man, you two are a handful,” Bunny said. I was starting to have a really good time. “You two will try my abundant patience.”
“Okay, okay. The lug wrench,” Chuck said. He took it out, held it up in one hand as if it had the weight of a toothpick.
“You blocked the tires already? Good. Now loosen the bolts while the car’s still on the ground.” Bunny folded his arms, watched Chuck sit down on the asphalt.
“Cold ass,” Chuck rubbed his huge butt. He stuck the lug wrench on one of the bolts. “Knee bone connected to the shinbone.” He gave it a crank. It freed easily, a kn
ife through warm butter. “Big friggin’ deal,” Chuck said. He sure looked pleased with himself.
“Don’t congratulate yourself until the job is done. You can’t change a tire and pat yourself on the back at the same time. Not enough hands,” Bunny said.
Chuck whipped through the second bolt, but the third stuck. I learned a whole bunch of cool new swear words, in inventive combinations. Sweat gathered at his temple and in the nooks and crannies of his shirt. I could smell the sour odor of underarms under stress.
“Never count your chickens before they hatch,” Bunny said.
“Shut the F up, Bun,” Chuck said, and let loose a stream-of-consciousness array of nasty terms in Bunny’s direction.
“So why are you letting him make you do this?” I asked. Maybe it wasn’t such a good time to bring it up. Chuck was grunting like a pig stuck under a fence.
“Learning. Experience,” he exhaled. “Personal. Growth.”
I wanted to laugh. Picture again what I was seeing. This motorcycle guy in a fringe vest with a two-inch braid, wrestling a tire and sweating bullets and gasping about personal growth as his buddy watched over him with the folded arms of a sadistic PE teacher.
“You got to do what you fear,” Bunny said. “Embrace the unknown. You keep yourself sheltered, you over-protect yourself, you might as well stay home and become an agraphobic.”
“Agoraphobic,” Chuck grunted.
“Agraphobic probably means you fear farmland,” I said.
Bunny ignored us. “Growth is in the feared places.”
“Did you steal that from a Star Trek movie?” I said. “It sounds slightly ominous.”
“There!” Chuck said. “Hot damn.”
“Excellent. Step two.”
“Shit, there’s more?”
I watched Bunny instruct Chuck to jack up the car and remove the tire. Kyle and Derek, Courtney’s two little brothers, got off the school bus and came over, slung their backpacks to the ground and watched.
“I saw this guy get crushed by his own car on True Traffic Tragedies,” Kyle said. Kyle was twelve and wore slouchy pants. Derek was a year younger, but was bigger than his brother.
“Gee, thanks for sharing,” I said.
“If we had our video camera, we could film this and win a thousand bucks.”
“I saw this other guy get his leg pinned on Road Rescuers.”
“That looked so fake,” Derek said.
“No blood,” Kyle agreed.
“Hey, guys, there’s back-to-back episodes of Fat People on Bikes this afternoon.” Bunny looked at his watch. “Starting now.”
“Oh, cool,” Derek said.
They picked up their backpacks, headed off. “Fat People on Bikes?” Chuck said.
“Hey, they believed me, that’s all I care. Little television monsters.” I guess he and Dino had one thing in common, which would have made Dino shudder.
“That’s all they do. All day, every day,” I said.
“I hate it when kids don’t participate,” Bunny said. “They could be outside playing ball. Collecting bugs.”
“Hanging out at ye old swimmin’ hole,” Chuck said.
“Shut the F up, Chuck. If you don’t participate, you’re just taking up oxygen.”
“Life is a banquet. Approach it with hunger,” Chuck said. “Hey, I’m done, right?”
“Wow, it looks great. I just hope it doesn’t fall off when you’re driving,” I said.
“I saw that on Terrible Traffic Traumas,” Chuck said. I smiled. I really liked those guys.
“Now you’ve had your learning experience,” I said.
“Congratulations, Chuck, you big idiot,” Bunny said.
“Thanks, man,” Chuck said. “Sorry about all the things I called you back at the lug nuts.”
“No problem. I’ll consider us equal for what I said to you when you made me call Sonja for a date.”
“You should’ve heard him,” Chuck said to me.
“I hope this Sonja said yes,” I said.
“With my good looks? What do you expect.”
“He was trembling like a baby bird,” Chuck said.
“Anyway,” Bunny said, in a lame effort to change the subject. “We better get going. Hey, Lassie, thanks for your help. It was great hanging out with you.”
I laughed. “Cassie,” I said.
“Cassie? Man, I could’ve sworn he said Lassie.”
“Woof,” I said. “Lassie?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe your folks were real animal lovers.”
“Bunny, you F-ing fool,” Chuck said.
“You thought it was Lassie, too,” Bunny said.
They climbed into the car. The small spare tire looked shy and inadequate on the Datsun.
“Jesus, you stink,” Bunny said to Chuck.
Chuck yanked the paper Christmas tree deodorizer off of the rearview mirror, thrust it under his shirt, and gave it a swipe under each arm. “Smellin’ like a rose,” he said. Then he started the engine, gave a wave, and drove off.
After Mom confronted Dino about the blank pages and his lies, Dino did appear to get down to real work. Supposedly this was what we were wanting, but I didn’t know why. The pressure of having to create and the creation itself were what led him to a disturbing restlessness and increasingly odd acts. Several times I heard him awake in the night, creaking down the stairs, performing in his office, and then clapping for himself when it was over. During the day his usual perfectionism was in high gear—he would remake a bed Mom made, rewash the dishes, pour out coffee that was made for him and make it again “properly.” His testiness increased. He would turn every innocent remark into a perceived criticism of him. It’s a nice day, you would say. And he would snap in reply, Did I say it wasn’t a nice day? Just because it’s a nice day and I don’t remark upon it doesn’t mean I’m a pessimist He bit Mom’s head off for giving him the wrong size spoon, yelled at me for walking too heavily down the stairs, leading me to have Brief Fantasy Number One Thousand and Twelve, whereby I borrowed Nannie’s old bowling ball and sent it crashing down two flights.
I was living with a bolt of lightning, never knowing when or where he might strike. I spent a lot of time in my room, ate dinner as fast as possible. Headphones are great when you live in a disturbed home—I started wearing them at night, so I could pretend a peace that didn’t exist. Worst of all, though, Dino started up his freaky obsession with William Tiero again.
The newspaper is gone, Dino said one morning.
Probably late, my mother replied.
Maybe he wants my paper, Dino said. He wants me to wonder where it went, to wonder if he has been here to take it He is messing with me.
God, it gave me the creeps. There was this feeling of horrible anticipation, of knowing that things would not keep going this wrongly and suddenly right themselves. No, wrong like that would keep building. Wrong always seemed to double and grow like cells under a microscope. Right could be steady, but wrong fed upon itself. Sometimes I wished “it” would just go ahead and happen, whatever “it” was.
Mom looked like she was losing weight, in spite of the fact that Alice’s loaves of banana bread were increasing. Dino’s working, the writing—it seemed to pour a life-giving liquid onto old, sleeping torments of his. He started smoking, too, a habit he’d given up years ago. One cigarette after the other he smoked, horrible bursts of nicotine poison filling not only his lungs but mine and Mom’s and Dog William’s, getting into the strands of our clothing and even making the bread left out on the counter taste bad. You’d find snakey bits of ash all over—in coffee cups and saucers, and once in Mom’s potted ficus plant. I hated those cigarettes. They were a visual reminder of a growing disease.
“I don’t understand something,” I said to my mother one afternoon. We were having a domestic mother-daughter moment, folding laundry together, which was a rarity in our house. When you’ve got a working mother, I’ve noticed, you learn to live with dirty clothes, talking yourself
into the fact that no one will really notice the blotch of yogurt spilled on the leg of your jeans, or you learn to do laundry yourself, or else you learn to root through stacks of clean/nonclean clothes for a pair of socks, with the skill and speed of a pig hunting for truffles. Zebe’s mother is a graphic designer, and Zebe has used adaptation number two. She is so good at the laundry she could do the presidential underwear. Everything in her closet is folded and organized by color, but I still love her anyway. At our house we usually do the root-and-find method, although Dino’s clothes always manage to get done. Something about seeing my mother iron his shirts really pisses me off. I know she hates to iron. I know she would rather go out in sweats than get the wrinkles out of cotton, yet there she is, starching and pressing Dino’s clothes. Fast forward to Brief Fantasy Number One Thousand Five Hundred—two big steaming iron-shaped holes over the boobs of each of Dino’s shirts.
Anyway, we were folding clothes. “I don’t understand something,” I said, which I think I already mentioned. “If composing causes Dino this much pain, why doesn’t he quit? Why doesn’t he take up fishing or something? Embroidery? A low-stress occupation like forest ranger?”
Mom held one matchless sock in her hand. She thought about this. “Because quitting would cause him more pain,” she said finally.
“I don’t get that. If something causes pain, then bam, get rid of it,” I said. I was thinking of Ian. Okay, I thought about him endlessly. Okay, I had daily arguments with myself over my desire to just give in to my feelings and to say to hell with what Dino might think. But I was mostly holding all of that at bay. Fear can give you more strength and resolve than anything else I can think of.
“Oh, Cassie, nothing’s that simple. Very few things are that black-and-white. I wish they were. Nothing’s a hundred percent good. Nothing’s a hundred percent bad.”
“Okay, eighty-nine percent. If it’s that bad, get rid of it. Eighty-nine percent is enough.”
“You’re talking like a scientist,” she said. “Some things can’t be measured. Let’s say you love astronomy. But let’s say it causes you some problems. Back pain, eye strain, I don’t know.”
