Invisible

by Pete Hautman

  Like me, my father is extremely intelligent. He is a professor at the university. He has written fourteen books about economics. You can actually go into a bookstore and see several of his books on the shelf. And by the way, he has a very good reason for always wearing a suit. He says that he has so many decisions to make in his work that he has no time to make decisions every day about trivial matters such as what he wears. He wears the same thing every day so he never has to think about it. It makes perfect sense when you think about it logically.

  My father leaves the house at 7:08 every morning. He walks seven blocks to the bus stop, where he boards the number 14 bus, which delivers him almost to the door of Keyes Hall at the university. He does not drive his car to work. He says cars are wasteful and unnecessary. You might disagree with that, but I would advise you not to argue the point with my father.

  One day I went to work with him and watched what he did all day. I listened to him lecture about economics. It was highly enlightening. One thing that surprised me was how energetic and happy he seemed while he was lecturing. He even made some funny jokes, which he never does at home.

  My father is normally very quiet and polite—as long as you don’t argue with him. If you argue with him, he becomes very loud. He has been known to shout. Every now and then he will have a disagreement with my mother. He makes his case in a highly logical and mostly indisputable fashion. For instance, a couple of months ago they disagreed about buying a new sofa. My father was against it. He presented his argument, his voice increasing in volume with each point.

  “We do not need a new sofa, Andrea. First, our existing sofa is perfectly adequate. It is both comfortable and attractive. Second, a new sofa would cost several hundred dollars—OR MORE! Our financial resources are finite. Third, by DISCARDING the EXISTING sofa, we would be contributing to the EVER-INCREASING MASS OF HUMAN WASTE PRODUCTS THAT IS TAKING OVER THE SURFACE OF OUR PLANET! Furthermore, I SEE NO REASON WHY WE SHOULD HAVE TO GO TO THE TIME AND TROUBLE TO GET USED TO A NEW PIECE OF FURNITURE THAT WE DO NOT NEED!”

  By the time he delivered that last line, he was red-faced and pounding his left palm with his right fist.

  My mother is used to my father’s hyperlogical rages. She simply smiled and said, “I understand, dear.”

  The next afternoon, while my father was at work, a truck from Wickes Furniture arrived at our house. Two men carried a new sofa into our living room. They removed the old sofa and added it to the ever-increasing mass of human waste products that is taking over the surface of our planet.

  That night when my father arrived home, he walked right past the new sofa without seeming to notice anything different. In fact, he hasn’t said a word about the sofa since. Maybe he is choosing to ignore it, or maybe he is simply oblivious. Either way, I’m sure he has a very logical reason for his position.

  5

  SECRETS

  Best friends have secrets. Andy and I are no exception. Of course, I can’t really discuss all of our secrets, because if I did they would not be secrets anymore. But I can tell about this one thing, because we got caught and so it is a secret no more. It is an ex-secret.

  The secret I’m talking about, the secret that isn’t a secret anymore, has to do with the Tuttle place on Redbud Road. Mrs. Tuttle, who was ninety-six years old at the time, died a few years ago. Andy and I were thirteen. After she died, her son Jack cleaned out her house and put up a FOR SALE sign. Every now and then somebody would look at the house, but it had so many problems that no one wanted to buy it. The roof was rotten, the foundation was collapsing, the plumbing was rusted and leaky, and there were bats in the attic. Also, it was way down at the end of Redbud Road, with no other houses in sight.

  The Tuttle place had been for sale for almost a year the day Andy and I broke in.

  It was a chilly, breezy early spring afternoon. Andy and I were out walking and talking the way we always did. I was wearing a light windbreaker, and I was cold. We were walking by the Tuttle place when Andy noticed a window that hadn’t been closed all the way.

  “Let’s go in and check it out,” he said. Or maybe it was me who said it. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was me.

  We climbed in through the window. It was warmer inside. The sun was slanting in hard through the windows. The rooms were bright and clean and empty. Jack Tuttle had gotten rid of almost all the furniture, refinished the wood floors to a pale golden yellow, and painted all the walls bright white. I guess he thought maybe people would overlook the roof and the plumbing if the paint was fresh.

  Andy and I wandered through the echoey spaces, a forbidden kingdom, clean and white and separate from the world. After we explored the whole house, we sat down in the middle of the biggest room in the house and talked for hours. While we talked, I carved a design in the maple floor next to the big stone fireplace. When Andy and I find a place that is important to us, we like to leave our mark. Maple is very hard wood, and difficult to carve, but I am very focused, and I always finish what I start.

  The design I carved that afternoon is gone now, but I still remember its lines and curves as if I carved it yesterday. I had been working on it in my head for a long time. It became our sign, our secret mark, our sigil:

  In case you can’t see it for yourself, the design contains Andy’s and my initials. Still can’t see it? Here’s what they look like separated:

  And here are the parts they have in common:

  Can you see it? It looks like two people sitting at a campfire. Me and Andy. I’m the one on the left because I have a low body temperature and I like to sit closer to the flames.

  Anyway, as I mentioned, as far as the Tuttle place goes, our secret didn’t last.

  But I don’t really feel like talking about that right now.

  6

  TROUBLED

  Do I strike you as troubled?

  Let me give you some facts and figures. I am seventeen years old. I am a junior at Fairview Central. I have never skipped school and I have a 3.4 grade point average. I do not use drugs or alcohol. I have never been seriously ill. I have never broken a bone, lost a limb, or had an organ removed. I am scrupulously honest, except for necessary lies. I sleep well at night. I am not a loner. I have a best friend.

  According to an article I read, 17 percent of all boys between the ages of twelve and twenty are “troubled.” By this they mean that 17 percent of us have psychological or behavioral aberrations that may pose a threat to others or to ourselves. In my opinion, 17 percent is far too low an estimate. To be accurate you would have to include the entire football team (except for Andy), all of the stoners, the dropouts, the gear heads, the art students, and at least half of the chess club. According to my data, about 38 percent of the Fairview student body is “troubled,” or if they are not, they should be.

  I do not include myself in their number.

  The reason I am going on about this is because one night I overheard my mother talking to my father:

  “Henry, I’m worried about Douglas.”

  “What’s the boy done now?”

  “Well, the fact that he spends hours every night working on his model railroad …”

  “He enjoys it, Andrea. A boy has to have a hobby.”

  “Yes, but he spends so much time at it. I think that town is almost real to him.”

  “You must admit, it is quite realistic. Remarkable, actually.”

  “I just wish he would get out more. Spend more time with other kids his age.”

  “He’s shy. I was a shy boy too. He’ll learn to make friends as he gets older.”

  “Nevertheless, I am concerned. I heard him talking in his room again last night.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “I don’t know, but that can’t be normal, can it?”

  “I used to talk to myself when I was a boy. It’s just a phase.”

  “I just don’t think Dr. Ahlstrom is helping him.”

  “The boy seems happy enough.”

  “Happy children do
not talk to themselves, dear.”

  I find it curious that my parents, both of whom are extremely intelligent, don’t realize that the voices my mother heard were me and Andy. I mean, we’ve been talking across the picket fence for years. You’d have to be pretty oblivious to not figure it out. And as far as spending too much time working on my model railroad goes, all I can say is, it isn’t half as nuts as some of the stuff she does.

  My mother has more facts and figures packed inside her head than anyone I know. She can name the fifty highest mountain peaks in the world, in order, and tell you how high they are. She knows the atomic weight of every element, and she can tell you what “syzygy” means. Her job, which she does at home in her office, is designing crossword puzzles. You may have seen her work in the New York Times and other important publications.

  But I have seen her spend an hour searching the house for her reading glasses when they were on a chain around her neck the whole time. I have also seen her throw a fit over a broken pencil lead. And then there was the time she was trying to roast a chicken and accidentally put the chicken in the bread drawer and a loaf of plastic-wrapped bread in the oven. That stank up the house pretty good.

  I could come up with several other examples for both of my parents, but my point is that sometimes even a highly intelligent person can be dumb as a stump.

  7

  PRACTICE

  I have an appointment to see Dr. Eleanor Ahlstrom every Thursday after school. Dr. Ahlstrom is nearly as intelligent as my parents and far more interesting to talk to. But I agree with my mother about one thing: Dr. Ahlstrom is not helping me one bit. Why? Because I do not need help—it’s as simple as that.

  So this Thursday I do something I have never done before. I skip my appointment with Dr. Ahlstrom. Instead, I go to the athletic field and sit on the highest tier and watch the football practice.

  At first I can’t pick Andy out of the confused mass of blue and yellow. I know he is a quarterback, but today they are doing running drills. Finally I see him, number 17, his long legs pumping as he dodges and twists and snakes his way gracefully through the defensive line.

  After the practice I wait outside the school for him to come out. He’s in there a long time. All the other guys on the team come out and get into their cars or take off walking, but no Andy. Maybe he left by another entrance. I start walking home, but I’ve only gone a few yards when I hear him call my name.

  “Dougie! Wait up!”

  I look back, and see Andy running after me.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey. I saw you up in the stands.”

  “I thought you might have.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I just decided to skip Ahlstrom today.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “I still don’t get why they make me see a counselor and not you.”

  “I don’t have time,” Andy says. “With football and theater and stuff. I guess my folks think if I stay busy all the time, I won’t get in trouble.”

  “Too busy to be disturbed.”

  “I guess.” He looks at me and grins and says, “Hey, you want to hit the BK?”

  Which was exactly what I hoped he’d say.

  Andy and I have a running debate over whether Burger King fries are better than McDonald’s fries. I myself prefer the BK fries because they are crispier, but Andy likes McDonald’s fries for their extra-fatty flavor. But we both agree that BK makes a superior burger, so that’s where we usually end up.

  We order our usual mess of food. I pay for it. Andy is always broke. But that’s okay. I have money. My grandfather not only left me his train set, he left me an allowance of one hundred dollars a month. Most of it I spend on model trains, but I usually have some left over for other important things, like junk food. We take our food to the booth in the back and start stuffing our faces and talking. Andy tells me more details about the play he is in, A Streetcar Named Desire. He tells me the whole story, and even though I know the story already (I once saw the movie version on TV), I listen to him, because that is what best friends do. Then I tell him about a mistake I found in the calculus text, and we talk about Melissa Haverman for a while.

  “You should ask her out,” I say.

  “She’s not my type.”

  “I’d ask her out if I was you.”

  “Then why don’t you ask her out?”

  “Why don’t you shut UP!” I stuff another handful of fries in my mouth. I hate when Andy turns things around on me. He knows I could never ask out a girl like Melissa. In fact, the whole dating thing seems like so much trouble, I am thinking I might just skip it altogether. Actually, the idea of being a loner appeals to me.

  Andy is looking at me, making me feel guilty for yelling at him. He should feel guilty. After we are done eating, we walk home, talking about some ideas I have for Madham. Then Andy asks me if I’m going to the football game Friday night.

  “I’m starting quarterback,” he says.

  “You’re always starting quarterback.”

  “So you gonna come?”

  “I don’t think so. I have to work on the bridge.”

  “You should get out more.”

  “That’s what my mom says.”

  Neither of us brings up Melissa again. That is the secret to staying best friends with someone—you learn what not to talk about. For instance, we never talk about the Tuttle place. We don’t like to think about that.

  8

  WORM

  Melissa Haverman’s blond hair is as fine and soft as a cat’s fur. Her skin is smooth and pale, her eyes are green and gold, and her lips are shaped exactly like how you would imagine a perfect pair of lips to be shaped. She is also fairly intelligent. On a scale of one to ten, Melissa Haverman is a nine point seven. The only thing that prevents her from being a perfect ten is that she thinks I am a disgusting troll.

  Sitting in calculus, first period, I am listening with 10 percent of my brain to Mr. Kesselbaum’s stony voice and devoting the rest of my mind to observing Melissa Haverman. She is sitting two rows over. If I lean forward a little, I have a clear view of her. Exceptionally clear. We are on the east side of the building, and the sun comes in so strong that Mr. Kesselbaum has to close the blinds. But they don’t quite close all the way. A bright bar of sunlight slips in under them and glances off the aluminum sill and lights up Melissa’s profile. I can see the soft, downy fuzz close to her skin.

  Have I mentioned how good my eyes are? I have amazingly good eyes. I could count the hairs on a fly’s legs from across the room. Okay, maybe not. But I can see. I can see her eyelashes, each separate and distinct. She is watching Mr. Kesselbaum, her brow slightly furrowed, her green-nailed hand holding a pen poised over a notebook page. She is a good, attentive student. I respect that. I wonder if she respects me. I mean, I know she thinks I’m a disgusting troll, but she might still respect me for my intelligence.

  I imagine us trapped together. Caught in a Force 5 tornado. Trapped in the basement of a collapsed building. Just me and Melissa. Melissa is unconscious. Her sweater and jeans have been badly torn, and she has tiny cuts all over her body from flying shards of glass. I find a first aid kit and gently, lovingly, tend to her wounds. …

  “Mr. Kesselbaum!” Melissa’s hand is in the air.

  “Yes, Melissa?”

  “Would you please ask Dougie to stop staring at me?”

  All eyes are on me now.

  Mr. Kesselbaum shakes his head wearily. “Douglas … if you must ogle, please ogle me.”

  “I wasn’t ogling,” I say.

  “In any case, it would behoove you to keep your eyes on the front of the room.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. I am always very polite. A few seconds later I sneak a look at Melissa and catch her staring at me. Her eyes narrow and her lips curl to form a silent word.

  I’m pretty sure the word is “worm.”

  9

  RAT

  Friday night things get tense
at the Hanson residence when Andrea Doris Louis-Hanson tells Henry Clay Hanson that their son, Douglas MacArthur Hanson, failed to keep his appointment with Dr. Eleanor Ahlstrom. Words are exchanged. Accusations fly. Ignorance and delusion are revealed, naked and ugly. Threats burn up the air like wildfire. Concessions are displayed and offered for sale. Promises are surgically extracted. I end up in my room. I am quite worried about my parents. Some of the theories my father advanced were quite bizarre, and my mother seemed to accept them. I think they are both losing touch with reality.

  I spread myself out on my bed and search my mind for a peaceful place to be. I find a cozy clearing in the woods outside of Madham. I am sitting before a campfire. I move close to the flames and let them warm me. That lasts for only a few minutes. I am distracted by a knotted sensation deep in my gut. I worry that I might have a blood clot in my hepatic vein. I have heard of this happening. The hepatic vein carries blood away from the liver. Blockage can lead to a painful death. I do not want to die painfully.

  There are many ways to die, and most of them are pretty bad. When Andy and I were little kids, we used to argue about it.

  “Would you rather burn to death or freeze to death?”

  “Freeze, for sure,” Andy said. “Fire hurts too much.”

  “But it’s faster.”

  “Yeah, but when you freeze you just get numb and then you fall asleep.”

  “I don’t like to be cold.”

  The thought of freezing to death still makes me shiver.

  A few years ago I read about some Buddhist monks who poured gasoline over themselves and set themselves on fire. They did it to protest a war. The article quoted a doctor who claimed that the burning monks experienced little pain.