by Lila Shaara
“Move on?”
“Yes.” Chew.
Darcy got up, walked to the door without responding, then turned back. “You can learn two-dollar words, but you cain’t get a nose in school. Boss.” He didn’t spit on the floor before leaving the room, but it was a close thing.
Harry was waiting for her in the cemetery parking lot, not wanting to brave the remarks of the staff at Crane’s. For all he knew, she didn’t want their remarks any more than he did. She gave him one of those smiles that didn’t reach her mouth but lit her eyes up like blue kaleidoscopes. Harry wondered if she liked the Beatles or if she’d ever taken LSD.
They headed for the path through the trees. She spoke first, which pleased him. “I have a question for you.”
“What’s that?” he said, mentally bracing himself.
“I read some of your articles at the library. From when you worked at The Washington Post.”
He could feel his entire body flush. It was weird, he thought, how much her interest and good opinion mattered to him. “So what’s the question?”
“Did what you do help many people?”
Harry was startled. “Sometimes,” he said. “A few. I found out about bad things that people were doing, and tried to expose them. Sometimes that helped stop them.”
“Then why did you quit?”
Harry couldn’t speak. She slowed her pace, so that he could catch up. When he did, she went on. “I don’t understand why you’d stop doing your job even after something as terrible as your brother’s death.” She waited for a moment, but Harry remained speechless. “It’s not like anyone threatened your son or held you in chains. Why would you just stop? Why wouldn’t it make you try harder?” She spoke with the first sign of heat he’d seen in her, and it made him giddy, charged with a breath of fear. He was getting defensive, so he stopped himself from answering, not trusting himself not to be hostile.
She looked at him directly, her bright eyes hard. “You could go on. You’re choosing not to.” She looked away, and Harry could think of nothing to say. They finished the walk more quickly than before and said a stilted good-bye in the parking lot. As she drove away, he remembered that he’d wanted to talk to her about Dusty and was ashamed of himself.
15
TWO OF PENTACLES
REVERSED
False sociality. The situation is more than the Seeker can handle
Harry didn’t pick his son up till Saturday morning since there was a rehearsal of the high school play on Friday night. This made the visit extremely short, but it was preferable to not seeing him for another week. Dusty wanted to stop at the Law School before they went home, mainly because he had found the snacks in the vending machines in the faculty lounge to be of high quality. As luck would have it, the place seemed to be teeming with students, and Harry had to introduce the boy to everyone. The worst moment was when Julie Canfield made a point of coming into his office to meet his son. “So you’re Dusty,” she said unnecessarily, looking like a flight attendant in a smooth blue suit. Why she felt it necessary to dress this way on a Saturday eluded him until she explained that a new candidate was in town to interview for an open faculty position. Harry had forgotten, not feeling enough a part of the establishment of the place to have such matters concern him. The candidate was giving a lecture that evening as part of his ordeal of being looked over by everyone in the school; Harry silently gave thanks that he’d been spared a similar rite of passage.
Julie made small talk with Dusty for what seemed like hours. They were wrapping it up finally, with Dusty giving her a desultory description of his role in the upcoming production of Guys and Dolls, when Dan Polti appeared in the office doorway, Serge not far behind. Serge seemed delighted to see Dusty, who revived a little upon seeing someone he knew. Serge introduced Dan and renewed what Harry was starting to see as a conversational vortex. Dusty hadn’t said much in the car, having been more interested in napping and listening to his iPod than in talking to his father. Now Dan made the suggestion that they all get some lunch together. Serge echoed the sentiment with enthusiasm, and Julie had to be included. Harry was miserable.
The only worthwhile eatery on campus was closed on weekends, so they had to go elsewhere. Serge had the largest car, so it was decided that they would all ride together. “How about Crane’s?” said Serge. “We can show Dusty the local color.” Harry tried to change the destination, but when Dan heard where the restaurant was and realized that it was near the Purple Lady’s shrine, he declared that it was something Dusty had to see if he was to truly appreciate Stoweville culture. Harry was overruled.
He didn’t know whether or not to be relieved at the hour when they arrived; it was well after one o’clock, so Maggie was already off work. He didn’t see her among the diners and recognized only Dottie and the fat man with menus, who he’d learned was Calvin Crane, the owner. Fat Calvin nodded at Harry, and to Harry’s dismay, Dottie waited on them, saying a nicer hello than he’d gotten so far at the restaurant. The waitress made much over Dusty, saying that it was hard to tell whether or not he looked like his father. “Maybe,” she said to Dusty, “if you grow a beard, too.” She looked at Harry and said, “Maggie’s gone for the day. Do you want me to tell her that you were here?”
“No, thanks.” He felt everyone else at the table looking at him and began reading his menu as though it contained the formula for happiness. He told himself that he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t get rid of the sensation of having a dirty secret exposed. He didn’t have much of an appetite, especially after Dan said, “A waitress, eh? Cool.”
Serge said, “You never told me how your talk with Frank Milford went.”
“Fine,” Harry said, trying to psychically will Serge to shut up.
“Is that the physics chair?” Dan said. “Does this have something to do with your book?”
“The Ziegart effect,” Serge blurted, and Harry wanted to throw the saltshaker at him.
“Oh,” Julie said, eyes big and soft and brown. “Are you investigating the rumor that Ronnie told you about?”
“Is that where you heard it?” Serge asked.
“What rumor?” Dusty said, and Julie explained Ronnie’s contention that a famous physicist had stolen his most famous discovery.
Dan said, “Tell him the source, though. A drunken fortune teller.”
“She lives near here,” Julie said.
Harry said, “I doubt I’ll be able to dig up much. There were three authors on the original paper, and they’re all dead.”
“Just as well for them,” Dan said. “Physicists burn out really young. They all do their best work before they’re thirty. It’s a known fact.”
Serge said, “Don’t tell that to Frank Milford. It might make him mad, and he could squish you like a grape.”
When they were finished eating, Julie made a point of saying how wonderful the food had been, even though she’d had a salad that wasn’t anything extraordinary as far as Harry could see. It was as though she thought he had a personal stake in the quality of the place and wanted to please him. The notion made him even more anxious to get rid of all these extra people, so he and Dusty could be alone and go for a walk or see a movie or go home to talk.
Dan and Julie made sure Serge didn’t forget to go a mile or so out of their way to drive by the shrine. Harry was grateful that Miss Tokay wasn’t sitting on its summit, fearing having to explain any more chumminess with the locals. When Serge mentioned a UFO cult, Harry squelched a desire to fill him in on what details he now knew.
Dan pointed at the hand-shaped sign on the horizon and said, “What do you think, Professor Sterling? Would Dusty like his fortune told?”
“Call me Harry,” Harry said automatically for at least the fourth time. “I think you probably need an appointment.”
Dusty said, “Why don’t we all go to the beach? We could stay at the house.”
At the questioning looks of the law students, Harry explained. “We have a small house
at Delacroix Beach. We can’t go, Dusty. It’s rented this weekend. I reserved it for a few weeks from now so you and I could go. What do you think?”
Dusty just shrugged, but Harry could see Julie Canfield’s brown cow eyes light up with interest. “I love the beach,” she said. Oy, he thought.
On the way back down Highway 21, they came to a small strip mall just past Crane’s. “Can I get a Coke, Dad?” Dusty asked, spying a convenience store on the far end of the row of shops. Serge proclaimed that it would be on him, slowed the car, and pulled into the parking lot. There were no spots directly in front of the store they wanted; instead, Serge parked by a pizza place that didn’t look too clean. They unpacked themselves from the car, and as Harry straightened in the heat, the asphalt dancing and shimmering, he saw a dusty white Celica two cars away from Serge’s copper-colored Element. It was parked in front of the business neighboring the pizza parlor, a Laundromat with large glass windows. Harry couldn’t stop himself from taking the few steps over to look in. She was sitting beside an empty white laundry basket, talking to a little black girl, the one with the bad teeth. Charlotte was sitting down next to Maggie, and the girls were laughing and Maggie was smiling and Harry couldn’t breathe for a moment. Ten feet away, Dusty said, “Dad?” and Harry woke up and followed his son, his students, and his best friend into the convenience store for cold drinks and ice cream. The transaction didn’t take long, and when they came out, Harry felt the Celica at his back as he got into the car. He felt like yelling or crying or hitting something, but managed to do nothing at all.
They made it home by late afternoon. Dusty was hungry again, so Harry ordered a pizza, not having been sure what food to stock for his son’s brief visit. There had been a time when he could have gone into a grocery store and pointed with confidence at everything on the shelves that Dusty loved, liked, hated, or hadn’t ever tried. Now, he felt as unsure about his son’s food preferences as he did about everything else.
Dusty emerged from his room after the pizza arrived, earbuds firmly in place. His hair was parted unevenly down the middle, brown like Harry’s but straighter, his only obvious genetic gift from Ann. His skin was starting to rebel under a light tan. At least he gets outside once in a while, Harry thought. His shoulders were broadening, although there was little meat on them as yet; there had been a time when Harry might have teased him about having a coat hanger left in his shirt, but not now; not with this person he no longer knew at all, who was so raw and so closed off, so easily bruised.
“What music are you listening to?” Harry said.
“Just a band. You know.”
“No, I don’t. There are a lot of bands.”
“Logroller.”
“Oh,” said Harry.
“Just one of their songs. I have all different people on it. I’ve got maybe forty bands on here.”
“Oh,” Harry repeated, as the memory of a similar thin face, marvelous cheekbones, and soft eyes like Hershey’s Kisses came to him with force. My God, he thought, he looks like Mom.
Dusty said around a mouthful of cheese and sauce and dough, “So are you, like, dating a waitress?”
“No,” Harry said, still thinking about his mother. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s gross.”
Dusty swallowed. “What about Julie? She seems nice. She’s pretty and all.”
“No. She’s a student. Not even a friend, really. She’s too young anyway.”
“Uncle Serge married someone younger than him.”
Harry said, “She wasn’t his student. She worked at the university. Some sort of administrative something or other. That’s how they met. It’s different.”
“How?” To Harry’s relief, his son was between bites when he spoke the word.
“Serge didn’t have any power over her.”
“He’s a professor, right?” Dusty took another bite.
“Yes.”
“Well, if he said to someone high up, ‘That girl’s got to go. She annoys me,’ they’d probably fire her, right?”
Harry stared at Dusty. “Swallow before you speak. And no, they probably wouldn’t. Professors don’t have as much clout as you think. I doubt I could get anybody fired. Serge probably couldn’t either. Unless they were doing something illegal.”
“Well, the bigwigs would be a lot more likely to believe you than a secretary or something, wouldn’t they? If you said they’d stolen something or whatever, they’d listen, right?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know. How the hell did we get on this?” Harry looked for another topic. “What the hell keeps happening to your iPods and cell phones? Your mother says that you keep losing them.”
The animation in Dusty’s face withdrew like low tide. In its place was the affect-free mask. He shrugged, took another bite of pizza. “I don’t know,” he said. At least he was trying to keep his mouth closed around the wad of food. “I guess I’m just forgetful.”
“Forgetful my ass,” said Harry. “And your mom said you have a girlfriend. She’s in the play, too, right? What’s she like?”
Expression rushed back in the form of uneven red patches on Dusty’s face, making him look not quite ripe. He continued chewing while looking at the table. Harry thought, Uh-oh. When Dusty was done with his mouthful, he took another piece from the box and said, “Mom was wrong.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “Talk to me.”
“I am talking,” said Dusty, his mouth full again. “It wasn’t anything. Mom exaggerates stuff, okay? She wants me to be normal. I’m not, okay?” He looked up, the blank face imperfectly back in place. “I’m a geek. Like you, right? Ha ha. She tells me that sometimes. I’m a fucking geek, okay?” His eyes dropped in embarrassment for his reckless language.
“Don’t swear,” Harry said automatically, then, “I hate that I don’t know this stuff. I hate that you’re not with me.” Shut up, he thought. “What’s her name?”
Dusty’s hands had moved to the pizza box, restless and ungraceful; they started in on the corners, tearing each one open in turn with a tiny jerk. He finally answered. “Michelle.”
“Who ended it?”
“She did, obviously.” The redness had evened out across Dusty’s face, and now included ears and neck and what Harry could see of his son’s scalp at the part.
“I’m sorry. But believe it or not, you’ll feel better in a month or so. It seems like a long time to wait, but you’ll be better off in the end.” Harry was appalled by what was coming out of his mouth.
“She called me gay.”
“Oh.” Harry’s mind churned.
“I’m not gay, Dad. You don’t have to freak out about that.” His hands were now removing the top of the box entirely from its moorings. “I didn’t tell Mom because I knew the first thing she’d think was that it was true and then she’d have to send me to counseling and try to fix me and shit, and I’m fine. I’m just freaking fine.”
Harry wanted to hug his son so fiercely that he could feel his arms tingle. But he didn’t want to propel him back into his bedroom, into the solitude of his iPod. He sat for a moment. Then he said, “I didn’t think you were gay. But even if you were, you wouldn’t need to be fixed. Do you even know what being gay means?”
“God, Dad, of course. Oh God, leave me alone.”
Harry grabbed his son’s wrist to prevent flight. “Some guys like guys. And some girls like girls. Instead of boys.” I’m screwing this up. Oh fuck it, Harry thought. “It doesn’t make them broken, or sick or stupid or whatever this girl meant.”
“Thanks, Dad. That helps a lot.”
At least he had his son’s eyes on him now, even if the pain in them was enough to send Harry running for a bottle. “Do you remember your mother’s cousin, Rudy?”
“Sure.”
“He’s gay.”
Dusty’s eyes opened, and for the first time in their conversation, Harry could see a gleam of interest in them. He relaxed the hand on his son’s wrist, and Dusty didn’t flee. “No way,” Dusty said.
“Way,” said Harry. “He’s a really nice guy. You remember his friend Blake?”
“Yeah,” said Dusty, his eyes looking away at a memory. “Whoa. No way.”
“Yes way. In high school it’s a bad thing to be called, but think about what people actually mean. Remember our ‘nerd’ discussion?”
Dusty closed his eyes. His hands were now balled into fists and were resting on the table. “Yeah. Nerds are just smart people, and lots of folks don’t like it when people are smarter than they are.” He breathed in and opened his eyes.
Harry ignored his son’s irritation. “Right, so they call them names and try to make them feel bad.”
“Yeah. And beat them up. There’s a kid in my class who’s probably really gay, Dad. He got beat up after school by a bunch of kids. He had to change schools.”
“That sucks. I hope his parents sued the shit out of the school.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck and regarded his son. “So why did she call you gay?”
Dusty took a third piece of pizza and looked away while he bit into it.
Harry said, “It’s because you’re quiet? Smart?” He silently swore to his son that he’d never utter the word sensitive.
After a moment, Dusty said, “Yeah.” He seemed calmer now, anger replaced by sadness. “I’m doing the scenery. I’m good at art. And I was stupid enough to say I liked it.”
“Ah,” said Harry. He thought, If I could, I’d slap each kid till he or she bowed down to you like a king; or better yet, I’d slap all their parents. He said only, “Teenagers are the most vicious bunch of conformists you’ll ever meet. No offense. So you have an excuse for worrying about what others think of you.” He took a second slice of pizza. “I don’t know what my excuse is.”
“For what?”
“The waitress,” Harry said. “Her name’s Maggie. She’s perfectly nice, but I’m not dating her. She’s too young, too, like Julie. But still, I don’t know why I’m so jumpy about letting people know that she’s my friend.”
