by Cat Bauer
Now Roger stands over my bed, swaying. Lily cries harder and pushes her body tight against mine. “I don't want this daddy, I want my real daddy.”
Roger grabs her by the arm and yanks her out of my bed. “When I say get in your own bed, I mean it.”
Lily is sobbing now. “Stop, Daddy, you're hurting me.”
Roger tosses Lily in her bed like she is dirty laundry going in a hamper. He stands in the middle of the room, fists clenched, breathing, breathing. He is a thunderstorm turning into a hurricane. “Keep that goddamn dog off the bed.” As suddenly as he appeared, he is gone.
I tremble from the aftershock. I take a breath and listen, sniff the air. The storm has passed, for now. I wrap my harlequin in my arms and listen to Lily weep.
“Do you know where to get a certified check or money order?” Me and Carla are on a picnic at German Lake, which is at the top of Federal Hill. The air is still chilly, but we have a couple of Cokes, and this is the place to be. Riley is with us, and he dashes back and forth across the edge of the water, barking at nothing. They say Federal Hill is haunted. At night there are flickering lights and moans from Revolutionary War soldiers who were executed for their mutiny against George Washington. I have never actually seen the ghosts, but I have been told.
“Can you get them at a bank?” Carla burps.
“Gross.” I sip my soda. “I guess maybe a bank.”
I am filling out the paperwork to get my birth certificate. Carla looks over my shoulder.
“Now that's stupid, Harley.”
“What?”
“It makes no sense. How can your name be Harley Columba and your father's name be unknown? Your last name is Columba, Roger's last name is Columba. You've either got to put down ‘Roger Columba' or put your last name unknown.” Carla touches a pimple on her chin. This is the first time I have seen a blemish on her face.
“If my last name is unknown, then how are they going to find my birth certificate?”
“Face it, Harley. You're not adopted.”
I do not want to get into it. A person knows. I am sorry I broke down and told Carla about my adoption project. She is uninformed, but she does have a point. My real last name can't possibly be Columba. They probably altered the birth certificate.
“This is something that has to be done, Carla. This is something you should be interested in yourself.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you should try to find your dad.”
“My father is a mad bohemian living in squalor in Greenwich Village. I have no interest in seeing that man.” She says this as if it is her mother talking.
“He's gorgeous.” I've seen pictures.
“Was gorgeous. Now he's an old pothead.” Carla flips her hair. She wears lipstick and eye shadow for this trek in the woods. We both have the same sort of hair, long and brown. Mine has red highlights and hers has blond. Mine is curly and hers is straight. I stare at her. She is turning pretty.
“My mother says your father was a cad,” I inform Carla.
“How would she know?”
“Rumor has it.”
Carla grabs the paper. “Harley, just get rid of the ‘Unknowns' and put down ‘Columba' or forget the whole thing.”
“If he were my father, I'd certainly track him down.”
“Well, he's not your father. If he wants to see me, he knows where I am.”
I can tell she is getting annoyed. I will appease her. I erase the “Unknowns.” Under Mother's Maiden Name I put “Patricia Harley.” Under Father's Name I put “Roger Columba.”
Carla examines the paper. “Erase the ‘Reason Needed: Adoption,' too.”
“It says you need to give a reason.”
“Put down ‘Passport.'
” Actually, that is a very good idea. Carla excels at practical matters. I erase “Adoption” and write “Pass-port.” I grin. “Now all I need is the cashier's check. And fifteen bucks.”
I am in church, surrounded by androids in suits and dresses. The androids kneel, stand, and recite long passages. Church is a bore except for one thing: Johnny Bruno is Catholic.
Peppy drags me and Bean and Lily here. Roger refuses to come, and that's one thing I like about the guy. Lemmings, he calls them. Lemmings are rodents that commit mass suicide. Millions of them follow the leader into the water and drown. That is what church reminds me of. Once, I asked God to make a zit go away by the end of the service, and it did not happen.
It is time for Communion. This is my favorite part because Johnny Bruno sings in the choir. They shuffle up to the altar first so they can get back to the choir loft in time to sing.
I can see the back of Johnny's head. He holds out his hand. The priest hands Johnny a thin wafer that he puts in his mouth. That wafer is the Body of Christ. If you chew it, you are biting Jesus. On the way back to your seat, you're supposed to cast your eyes down and look very solemn and pray in ecstasy.
Johnny keeps his eyes wide open and heads back down the aisle. I pray quickly to God. When Johnny passes by me, I gaze right into those beautiful baby browns. He winks. “Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I whisper back. Finally, a miracle!
“Ssshh!” Peppy pokes me in the shoulder. “Show some respect.”
I have never bought a cashier's check or money order before. I am in the bank, standing behind this red velvet rope on a line that never moves. This is my first time here alone, without my mother. It seems to me that the tellers go slow on purpose. Every customer is all hushed and dressed properly as if they were doing Serious Business. I try to act like I know what I am doing, but I am so nervous, I do not have a clue.
Finally it is my turn. I step up to the next open window and stare right into the big horsey face of Mrs. Liechtenstein, our gossipy neighbor who lives down the street. Too late, I remember that she works here.
“Harley Columba, all grown up and in the bank!” Mrs. Liechtenstein is one of those people who talk to you like you just crawled out of a cradle, emphasizing everything to be sure you get it. I feel my face turn hot and red, and I want to run right out the door. “What can I do for you today?”
Telling Mrs. Liechtenstein anything is like splashing it across a billboard. I think I should tell her it is a mistake, I was just visiting, anything to get out of here. “I need a cashier's check or money order for fifteen dollars,” I mumble.
“Do you know the difference between the two, sweetie?” Her lipstick is all soaked into the wrinkles around her mouth, so she's got these tiny red crevices surrounding her lips. I shake my head no.
“A money order costs two dollars and you fill it in, and a cashier's check costs three dollars and we fill it in.”
I didn't know they cost anything. I have exactly fifteen dollars. This is the worst.
“I—I don't have—I didn't know—I have exactly fifteen.” My face is flashing like an ambulance bulb and I can hear the siren screaming inside: Emergency! Emergency! Retreat! Retreat!
All I can see is Mrs. Liechtenstein's huge red wrinkly mouth moving and words coming at me through a tunnel. “I'll loan you the money, Harley. You can pay me back.”
Mrs. Liechtenstein leaves the window, and I stand there, gripping the edge of the counter. I do not want to owe Mrs. Liechtenstein anything, but I don't know how to stop this. She is back in a minute, waving a paper at me like she has just won the lottery.
“Okeydokey, honey. Now just tell me who you want it made out to. Write it down exactly the way you want it typed.” She passes me a pen and a scrap of paper. Oh my God. She wants me to do this now, right here, in front of her.
I move in a dream. I pick up the pen. I write “New York City Department of Health: Vital Records.” I hand Mrs. Liechtenstein the paper. Things have gotten beyond my control. Soon the entire town of Lenape Lakes will know I am adopted.
“Vital Records? Isn't that for birth certificates?”
Mrs. Liechtenstein can barely contain herself.
“I … I, uh, I'm applying for a p
assport.”
“A passport! How thrilling! Are you going overseas?”
My mouth is no longer connected to my brain. I hear myself say, “New York City. I'm going to New York City.”
“New York City! Why, you don't need a passport to go to New York City, honey.”
Breathe, Harley, breathe. “New York City, then on to Liverpool.”
“Liverpool!” Mrs. Liechtenstein's mouth turns into a wrinkly red exclamation point. “My, my! In England? Why Liverpool?”
“To see where John Lennon was born. You know. The Beatle?”
“How fascinating!” Behind me, in line, a man in a suit clears his throat. Mrs. Liechtenstein gets the hint. She turns to her keyboard. “This will be ready in a jiffy!”
I watch Mrs. Liechtenstein type the words, fast, like a machine gun. She hands me the cashier's check with a flourish. It looks impressive and official. “Now, sweetie, don't forget, you owe me three dollars!”
I grab the check and practically leap over the red velvet rope. Mrs. Liechtenstein calls, “Tell your mother I said hello!”
I am walking past the fence of the grammar school when I see my mother's gray minivan parked up ahead. Strange. My mother never picks us up from school anymore, not since she started answering phones over at the Jaspers' real estate office. Then I think, She is spying on me, making sure I am truly, totally grounded. Then I think, It is not her. It is another gray minivan–mother.
I get closer and I see, yes, it is her. Bean and Lily are already in there. I put my hand on the front handle and tug the door open. I look at my mother's face. It is the face of a stranger. I am scared. I climb up into the passenger seat. I stare straight ahead and wait.
“Your grandmother is dead.”
“No.” I wait for her to tell me she's playing a horrible joke. “No.”
“Yes, Harley. Last night.”
I feel the scream, all red and raw, rip out of my throat, louder, louder, filling the minivan until I think the doors will blow out. I don't realize the sound is coming from me until Lily and Bean start crying. This is a deep, bloody wound, metal jaws to the belly, ripping, ripping—not a clean, even slice, but a ragged chunk of flesh torn from my soul.
And then I am numb.
My father's mother died before I can remember, so this is my first real death. Relatives arrive at our house from all over the East Coast because Granny and Grandpa moved down south and we are centrally located. My mother's younger brother, Uncle Fitz, and Grandpa Harley fly up with Granny's body because this is where she wanted to be buried. “If we hadn't moved down south, she would be alive today,” says Uncle Fitz. “Bunch of hicks.”
I haven't seen Uncle Fitz for about ten years. He never came up with my grandparents. He is seven years younger than Peppy, and she treats him politely, like an acquaintance, not like a brother.
There's no place to put all the relatives, so I sleep on the family room sofa and listen to Grandpa and my parents and Uncle Fitz sit around the table and cry and talk and drink and cry. I've hidden my harlequin back deep inside the storage area so some nosy great-aunt who's sleeping in my bed won't find it.
All I can think is: Two more days. Granny would have been here in two more days. I can't talk. I can only weep. Every sentence begins with a “Why?” but no one can give me a reason.
It is past midnight when the voices wake me up. I hear a grown man crying. For a second, I don't know where I am; then I remember Granny is dead and I am sleeping on the sofa. I open my eyes into two tiny slits. My eyelashes make it seem as if I'm looking through a forest of black trees. I can see across the family room to the table, where three men sit. It is my father, my grandfather, Uncle Fitz, and a bottle of vodka. They are swaying. My grandfather is crying. It is a frightening sound.
“… a piss-poor excuse for a son-in-law. A gas station.” Grandpa spits out the words. “You had a good job at the chemical plant. Look at how you live now.” My grandfather gestures at the room like he is visiting a slum. “You did my daughter some favor, marrying her.”
“I'm … not …” Roger slurs his words, but there is no disguising the hurt in his voice. “I try. I work hard to take care of the kids, all the kids, not just—”
“Ssshh!” Uncle Fitz interrupts. He points to me lying on the sofa. I watch Uncle Fitz stand up. He grips the table for support. “I think it's time we all went to bed.” He clicks off the light and the men turn into three wobbly shadows. “Come on.”
Grandpa lifts his hand to protest, then drops it to his side as if he is exhausted. They stagger out of the room, leaving behind a table of empty glasses and half-eaten sandwiches. I wait until they are gone to turn over on my side and wrap the covers over my head. The whole world's gone crazy, I think. I will wake up tomorrow and this will all be a dream.
We are at the funeral home looking at my dead granny in a coffin. I cannot believe this is a human tradition. It is so morbid, I swear. They put all this orange makeup on her face and pink lipstick and rouge and straightened out her hair. She always put curls in her hair, and it upsets me that they would do this to her when she is dead.
There was a big discussion about whether me and Lily and Bean would go to the funeral at all. First it was none of us, until I started crying; then it was only me, and Bean started in; now even Lily is here, wearing a dark navy dress because they don't make black dresses for five-year-olds, at least not in New Jersey.
Granny had lots of friends, people who are strangers to me. Relatives I've never seen before know me because I am the oldest. Everyone calls me over: “This is little Harley? Why, she's all grown up!” Everyone is kissing and hugging and reading the cards on the flowers to see who ordered the biggest arrangement. People are clumped together in groups, chatting, like there isn't a dead body lying in the middle of the room.
I wait until the crowd around the coffin clears away. Then I approach. I pretend I am the only one in the room and that Granny is sleeping. I kneel down and whisper, “Granny, please come back. Don't leave me down here all alone.” Tears stream out of my eyes but I make no sound. Granny is a hollow shell; whatever was inside her is now gone. The pain inside me is so big I can feel it in my blood, pumping through my whole body. I keep my head down so no one can see me weep. This is a new, horrible feeling; this feeling must be grief. I cannot take it. I slip away from the casket and dash down the hall to the ladies' room.
Some old bag who I think is my great-aunt Betsy on my father's side is in there talking to someone inside a stall. The voice behind the stall is saying, “… I don't know, she doesn't look anything like him….” As soon as Great-Aunt Betsy sees me she says, “Harley!” real loud, like a warning to change the subject.
The voice behind the stall says, “Harley Columba, is that you, dear?”
I grab a paper towel and blow my nose. “Yeah.” I am very suspicious. I get this feeling they were talking about me.
The toilet flushes. I do not want to stand around and chitchat with Great-Aunt Betsy and some voice behind the stall, so I throw some water on my face and go back to the room where dead Granny is. An old priest with white hair is preaching up front, and everybody is sitting down. I slide into the seat next to Bean and Lily. Peppy is already there, sitting between Roger and Uncle Fitz. Next comes Grandpa, who stares straight ahead, showing nothing. I see that my mother's eyes are wet. I realize for the first time: Her mother is dead.
The priest talks about Granny, but it's obvious he never met her before in his life. He calls her Susan and her name is Suzanne. He says, “I know Susan would be happy to see all her friends and loved ones gathered in her memory.” Every time the priest uses the name Susan, Bean snorts and punches me in the ribs.
In the row behind us, Aunt Joan's stomach growls so loud, you can hear it across the whole room. The priest drones on and on like he doesn't hear it, even though we all know he does. It growls again and Bean giggles. He punches me and I pinch him back. It growls again and the priest keeps talking and we keep trying not t
o giggle, which makes us laugh even harder, until we are shaking like a bunch of spastics.
Then the priest says, “Let us bow our heads and have a moment of silent prayer for our beloved Susan.” For a second, the entire room is quiet. Then Aunt Joan's stomach growls real loud, like a starving lion's. Bean and I burst out laughing. I can't control myself. I put my hands over my face and pretend I am crying. I peek through my fingers and see that other people are trying not to laugh, too. I am all bent over and laughing so hard my stomach hurts. More people join in until the entire room is snorting and spitting, trying not to laugh. The old priest looks like he is going to have a fit with all these Harleys and Columbas roaring in the middle of a funeral. My father tries to put on a stern face, but even he can't keep his smile down, and his eyes look like they're going to pop right out of his head. He leaves his seat and grabs the three of us and yanks us out of there, which is just as well because I'm laughing so hard I pee in my pants.
On the way out, I take one last peek at Granny. Now she looks like she's got a smile on her face. And then, I swear to God, I see her give me a wink, and I know everything's going to be all right.
There are people walking through the house, people cooking. Neighbors bring plates of lasagna and chicken. People talk to me and I think I answer them. I see through my eyes and words come out of my mouth, but in between my voice and my mind is a vacuum.
It's Saturday and I have to get away from this house full of strangers. After seeing this bunch, I am even more convinced I am adopted. In my head, I try to figure out how we are all related, but I really need a piece of paper to do it properly. I slip out the front door and up the block, drifting past the rows of houses that are all the same.
I walk over the footbridge and up toward the fire-house. We never have any fires in Lenape, so it is more like a clubhouse for the volunteer men to drink beer and play poker. Mr. Hughes calls out to me, “Sorry to hear about your grandmother!” and I say thanks.
My feet don't touch the ground these days. Part of me has floated off the earth with Granny. I don't know where I am going, and I wind up at the church.
