The Opposite of Music

by Janet Ruth Young

  But it’s good of Mitchell to watch out for me. We were born on the same day, although he looks sort of middle-aged. He’s rotund, and he holds his pants up with suspenders that make him look even rounder. You can’t help thinking that although the suspenders were straight when he clipped them on, now they look like the seventy-fifth and hundred fiftieth meridians on a globe.

  In English last year, he would signal to me when he thought a poem we were studying contained a coded reference to masturbation. He sat ahead of me and would tilt his head at the appropriate time when one of our classmates read aloud. Andy tried to participate but was never good at it. He picked things that were either too obvious or off the topic, having to do just generally with sex. When we studied Robert Frost, Andy tilted his head at the book title, You Come Too.

  “How come you guys didn’t laugh?” he asked after class.

  “Too easy,” Mitchell said.

  “But what about his horse being queer?”

  “That has nothing to do with anything, Andy. The fact that a line makes everyone else in the class laugh doesn’t mean it gets a laugh out of me.”

  The killer came when we were reading “Desiderata” by Max Ehrmann. When Sandi Buscaglia read the last line, “Strive to be happy,” I saw the back of Mitch’s head tilt very slightly, about five degrees, and I nearly had to leave the room.

  Now Gordy drops his lunch bag on the table.

  “You know, you were asleep in chemistry class.”

  “I know.”

  Mitchell drains his milk and opens a second carton. “Fortunately,” he says, “I took tremendous notes. I can come by with them after school.”

  The cafeteria noise swells in my ears like a jet engine. I bite into a hard, whitish tomato slice that came with the macaroni. Mitchell waits for me to answer, and I look at Gordy but he doesn’t give anything away. I don’t want Mitchell at the house right now.

  “I notice you haven’t invited me over for a while. Are you secretly developing some kind of explosive in your room? Perhaps your ignorance of the difference between hydrogen and helium was just a smokescreen.”

  “Ha!” Andy says. “That’s right, he’s developing a bomb.”

  “Um, no.”

  “You’re writing something, is that it? You spend all your time with the headphones on, opening the door only to accept a tray of food and water.”

  “Anybody, grapes?” Gordy takes a big bunch from his lunch bag.

  Mitchell looks at Gordy. “Our mute friend here tells me you’re into New Orleans jazz.”

  “What I’m really looking into is funeral jazz.”

  “Okay.” Mitchell picks up bits of paper trash and piles them in one corner of his tray. Normally he can find a way to make anything seem funny or stupid. But even he finds it hard to joke about this. The thing that everyone knows about Gordy, even if they’ve never spoken to him, is that his mother died right after they moved into town. “Well, could you recommend a couple of titles?”

  “Yeah,” Andy says. “I’d enjoy listening to some of it.” He’s doing his earnest Boy Scout thing that Mitchell calls his talking-to-adults voice. Gordy is worse off than I thought. His semi-orphaned state is making him not one of us.

  “There’s one by the Magnificent Seventh that gives you a good introduction,” Gordy says.

  “And this is all music that gets played at people’s funerals?” Mitchell asks.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Gordy grows even more in my estimation. He’s taking the weirdness hit so I don’t have to.

  TREATMENT REPORT: DAY 10

  The pills Dr. Gupta gave Dad have given him what she calls an “atypical dermatological reaction.” This sounds much nicer than it looks.

  When the rash started out on Dad’s abdomen, no one paid much attention. We had gathered around him to wait for improvements, the way a family might pull chairs up to the TV when their favorite show is about to start. Dr. Gupta said not to be too impatient, because the medicine might not completely kick in for weeks. Dad stopped pacing and whistling for a day or two, and it seemed like he might be ready to go back to work.

  But then the sores spread to his arms and face, and Linda and I made sickened expressions behind his back. Mom even told him to stop looking in the mirror.

  I felt bad that I couldn’t deal with the rash.

  But one thing I’ve always liked about myself is that I know my limitations.

  SENSITIVITY

  The doorbell rings and it’s June. Not the month of June, but June from Dad’s office.

  “Who is it?” Dad calls from his bedroom.

  “It’s June!” Mom and June sing simultaneously. Then they giggle and hug one another. June rubs Mom’s back. “Aw, honey,” she says. “How are you doing?”

  “It’s tough,” Mom whispers. “He’s having trouble with the medication.”

  “It takes time,” June responds, squeezing Mom’s hand. “I’ve heard that sometimes you have to try two or three before you get the right one.”

  June is a type of woman that usually disturbs Mom. “She treats herself well, doesn’t she?” Mom sometimes says, hinting that this may not be a good thing. But she makes an exception when it comes to June. June is wearing a warm-up suit that makes me think of creamy, shampooed sheep. The style of her white-blond hair is practically TV quality.

  Dad comes into the living room. June lays a paper cone of carnations and a stack of magazines on the coffee table.

  “Ah, Newsweek,” Dad says.

  “I know you like to keep up with the news, Bill,” June says.

  Dad sits on the couch. I help him roll down his sleeves, careful not to break any of the blisters. “I’m depressed, June,” he says. He stares at the floor.

  June pats him on the knee. “I hear ya,” she says.

  Mom, June, and I sit with Dad in the conversation area. Linda is out with her obnoxious friend Jodie. At first June doesn’t seem to register that Dad is covered with pink bumps that have grown together to form crests, with rivers of yellow pus running in the valleys. She begins a series of funny stories. One about the people in their office, where she is the bookkeeper. One about the company tennis tournament that Dad sometimes plays in. A couple about her husband, Ben, whom she once considered divorcing but now won’t, and about her daughter’s bat mitzvah eight months from now, which we are all invited to. Mom goes into the kitchen and gets a tray of chips, salsa, and ginger ale.

  “So what’s this rash about, Bill?” June asks, leaning across the coffee table. I can’t believe she treats Dad’s condition so casually. Just an annoyance, like the caterer who wants to serve mini-crepes instead of make-your-own tacos at Lisa’s bat mitzvah.

  Dad opens his collar, showing June a set of pustules that form, if you look at them from the side, the letter D. June bends over the coffee table to inspect, and I can smell her scent of expensive lotions. I, too, have always liked June, or as I call her, Mrs. Melman. I seem to run into her all over town, with no bad repercussions. Once she came into a magazine store and found Mitchell and me looking at what he called “the naked magazines.” Mitchell, in fact, was trying to stash a rolled-up one under his sweater. When Mrs. Melman saw us, she said, “There are many good books on that subject at the library,” and I never heard anything from Mom about it, which means Mrs. Melman never told.

  “They make him look young again, don’t they, Adele?” June says to Mom. “Like an oily-faced teenager. Remember acne? Lisa’s starting to break out now. She thinks it’s the end of the world, but it’s not, is it? I told her to think of it as a signal that she’s growing up. She thinks she’s the center of the universe, you know. I had to tell her, ‘You’re a lovely girl, honey, and Daddy and I think you’re the most beautiful thing on earth, but you have to realize that at this age not everyone is thinking about you all the time like you’re thinking about yourself. They’re all thinking about themselves.’ Right, Billy? Anyway, Bill, I could stop by again with some more magazines and a few of the tubes o
f little creams Dr. Favola gave Lisa, and you could have fun with them, try them all out. I don’t know if they’d have much effect, but we have so many left over because Lisa wants to try them all. She and her friends. I tell her, ‘Stop worrying about it, Lisa. You’re a beautiful girl, and when you get to be my age you’ll be grateful that you had a little extra oil on your skin.’ Right, Adele? Is Linda getting to be like that too?”

  “Oh, June,” Mom sighs. “I wish Linda were a little less sure of herself. She hasn’t found a thing wrong—not yet, anyway. She keeps staring at herself in the mirror, and she’s even given herself a new nickname: Lucky Linda.”

  “I certainly didn’t think of myself as lucky at that age,” June answers. “Did you, Adele?”

  “Not lucky. Yucky.” They both laugh and sip ginger ale.

  “Well,” June sighs, “most of us are somewhere between lucky and yucky. And I think that’s a fine place to be.” Mrs. Melman is downplaying her own fantastic beauty. I grab a handful of tortilla chips so I can get the delicate fragrance of her lotions out of my nose.

  “I hadn’t seen the house next door for a while,” June says. “Big, isn’t it?”

  “Isn’t it tacky? People were snickering about it in the supermarket.”

  June takes a large envelope from her purse and hands it to Dad.

  Inside is a card that says, “We heard you were a little under the weather.” It shows ten people huddled under a tiny umbrella in driving rain. When Dad opens it to read the signatures, two twenty-dollar bills fall out.

  “I tried to stop people from putting money in. I told them it wasn’t necessary, but they insisted. Pick up something you really like to eat, or anything that will make you feel more comfortable. I’m sure a number of people would have liked to come in person.”

  Getting up from the couch, June tugs on the jacket of her warm-up suit. “Thank you for the snacks, sweetie,” she says to Mom. She bends down to pat the top of Dad’s head, where there are no sores, pecks me on the cheek, and gives Mom a squeeze when Mom opens the door for her. It sounds clichéd, but each of us feels a little special.

  Before leaving she looks back at Dad. “Any messages for the poor working stiffs back at the office? Anything you’d like me to report to your fans?”

  “Thank them for me, will you, June?” Dad says. He puts a hand up to his neck where his rash is hurting. “Tell them I’ll be back soon.”

  SHRINKAGE

  Powerful urges beyond your control. Hospitals, barred windows, white uniforms. Mysterious personality tests that show you black splotches in a butterfly shape. I don’t know much about this mental business, but I have to go along for a family visit with Dad’s psychotherapist.

  I had expected a scientific type in a suit and tie. But when Dr. Fritz stands up to shake hands, saying what a pleasure it is to meet us, he looks like a lumberjack, in a heavy plaid shirt, wool pants, and yellow work boots.

  Dr. Fritz leans back in his chair. He looks at each of us for a long time before settling on Dad.

  “How are you feeling, Bill?”

  Dad doesn’t speak right away. Lately he takes a long time choosing his words, as if he has to turn them over first to make sure they’re true. He doesn’t just throw something out and fix it later, the way healthy people do. And he has plenty to complain about: insomnia and chronic tiredness, loss of appetite and a drop in his weight, seemingly constant worrying, and most of all, not having an interest in the things that used to make life worth living. Even the pacing, hand-rubbing, and whistling, which let up a bit under the blistery meds, have come back. I decide to answer for him.

  “Well, he’s still not sleeping, if that means anything.”

  Fritz raises one hand.

  “Thanks very much, Billy. I appreciate your trying to help by giving me that information. But right now it’s important for me to hear it directly from your dad.”

  I feel my face burn, at being caught speaking out of turn and also at Fritz’s talking-down tone. Fritz is acting like he may have hurt my feelings, so naturally, after a rush of rage and embarrassment, I don’t let on that I’m hurt. But still. I thought the point of his occupation was to get you to speak up, not shut up.

  “Ha, ha, Billy, you got busted,” Linda says.

  When Fritz glances at her she covers her mouth.

  “Linda, how do you feel about being here, visiting me with your dad?”

  “It’s no big deal,” she says. Her face reddens, and she looks like she’s going to pitch a laughing fit. This always happened when we sat next to each other in church. That was the first reason I stopped going.

  Don’t look at her, I tell myself. Don’t even look at her part of the room.

  “Linda, Billy, if you feel uncomfortable or nervous about being here at first, that’s perfectly normal. Over time you’ll grow more relaxed when you visit me. The most important thing is that it means a lot to your dad that you’re here to support him. I’d like to speak with you more in just a minute, once I’ve finished checking in with Bill Senior. How are you feeling this week, Bill? No rush. Take as much time as you need to pull your thoughts together.”

  Mom wants to say something but stops herself. I can tell what she’s thinking. That there’s so much to say, and our forty-five measly minutes with a qualified individual is slipping away.

  “I hated those spots,” Dad says finally. “They itched.”

  Fritz waits for Dad to say more. What a waste of time. After a week and a half with no meds, Dad’s rash has flattened out, leaving faded pink lines like capillaries or coral. Looks to me like it’s time for a new cure.

  “He—,” Mom says, and stops there.

  Fritz scratches his beard, a full one, not a little beard thing like Dad’s.

  “Bill, do you think you’re ready to try a new medication?”

  Good call.

  During a long wait, Linda’s shoulders begin to shake again. Instead of looking at her, I review all the words I know that begin with si and respell them with psy—psygnpost, psyphon, psylo.

  Mom does a dance of annoyance, wiggling her shoulders and head. She taps her necklace (copper discs). Dad told her yesterday that he felt ready to try a new medication, but she isn’t about to speak up now. Fritz will have to muddle through without that information. Psylent treatment.

  “Yeah,” Dad says finally. “I’ll try it.”

  “You’ll try it?” Fritz repeats.

  “I’ll give the new medication a shot.”

  A photo on the wall shows Fritz in a sailboat with a small child. The boat has tilted up and Fritz is leaning out over the water, working the tiller with a huge, avid smile.

  Linda stiffens. Fritz has aimed his attention at her. He’s staring at her, the same way he stared at Dad.

  “How are you holding up during your father’s illness, Linda? It must be affecting you a great deal.”

  Linda is stunned. Not only is Fritz staring at her, Dad is too. Psyamese. Psymultaneous. Her face reddens and I think she’s going to lose it. Look away, look away.

  Everyone waits to hear what Linda has to say.

  When I glance back at Linda, she looks somber, like she’s being interviewed for the network news.

  “Well, of course it bothers me that Dad’s sick and everything, but I just try to be there for him. That’s what a family’s for, isn’t it? To take care of each other?”

  What a laugh! Linda couldn’t take care of a goldfish. All she cares about is doing arts and crafts projects and huddling with her little friend Jodie.

  “That’s absolutely true,” Fritz says. “I like the way you put that, Linda—to take care of each other.” He nods five or six times. “And how’s Bill Junior doing during this difficult time for the family?”

  Oh ho! So now he wants me to talk. When it’s my turn. When I’m next in line. When my number is called.

  “How’s school going, for instance?”

  “Well…” Nobody has asked me this for a while. “It’s a little diffi
cult to concentrate, to be honest.”

  “Mm-hmm, it is difficult to concentrate. But I want to remind you how important it is, especially if this illness goes on for a while, to take care of your life and make sure you can fulfill your own responsibilities. I have a feeling that you are someone who will make a real contribution to the world.”

  Fritz continues staring while Linda makes a face at me across the room. A professional psychologist thinks I have potential and not Linda! I will lord this over her afterward. Although it would mean a lot more coming from someone who actually knew me.

  I can’t get over feeling that Fritz doesn’t know it’s rude to stare at people, and someone should clue him in. I read once that in many cultures, if someone stares at you it means they’re either going to kill you or have sex with you, and either way my parents would be deeply annoyed. I have a flash-image of my father leaping over the desk and menacing Fritz with a paperweight, instantly charged into health by the deep instinctive need to protect me.

  Fritz then “checks in” with Mom, who repeats a fancier version of Linda’s winning formula about the family taking care of each other. It’s unusual for her to try this hard to impress someone.

  Fritz makes some notations and closes our folder. “In the course of our work together, we may eventually explore some deep emotional issues that will require a great deal of dedication from you, because they will summon painful and difficult feelings. But we’re not at that point yet, and I don’t see any need to rush. For today we’re going to practice some new cognitive strategies, or thought strategies. These strategies are quick and—I don’t want to say superficial, but superficial is not such a bad description. The main thing is that they are easy to learn and you can start using them right away. Now slide your chairs closer, right up to my desk, that’s it.”