Life Is Fine

by Allison Whittenberg

  I heard something clang in the next room. It was like waking a lion. Q came running out, roaring at me.

  “I’ll be done in a second,” I told him.

  “Get out of here,” he told me.

  “I can’t straighten out my own house?” I asked in a level voice.

  “It’s not your house,” he told me, yanking the cord out of the socket. The spark made him jump back.

  “Serves you right,” I said.

  “What did you say?”

  I wanted to say that again, and more, but I kept silent.

  “What did you say?” he asked more loudly.

  I finally mumbled, “I’m just straightening things up.”

  “Who asked you to?”

  I steeled myself. “No one has to.”

  He had the cord in his hand like a whip. “Say it again.”

  I felt a shiver of fear. “I’ll vacuum some other time.”

  “Don’t go changing things around here,” he told me.

  I moved to leave but bent to pick up what littered my path.

  “Leave it!” he screamed at me. His eyes narrowed. They went vacant and wild at the same time.

  Determined not to show fear, I squared off to him.

  “It’s an empty wrapper,” I said.

  He pushed past the vac. His eyes were blazing with anger. He grabbed me in his greasy hands and shoved me against the wall.

  I felt a sharp pain in my spine and my head spun, but I was able to make it out of his way before a swing made contact with me.

  He came after me but slid on the slick surface of this month’s HM magazine. All this jostling had caused the periodical pile to fall on the floor. This made him madder. The room twirled as he snatched me again.

  He was close to me now, breathing in little gasps, like he’d been running. He told me, “Girl, I could really hurt you.”

  Then he let me go.

  From my bedroom window, I could see the alleyway behind our house. It was littered with broken bottles and bricks. The bottles were mostly from malt liquor. The bricks were from the condemned house that faced our back door.

  I had closed my bedroom door, not with a slam, but regular. I lit a cigarette and sat on my bed and smoked it, trying not to think. Of course, before the first exhale, large tears formed in my eyes.

  All the alleyway’s crap turned to a blur.

  A while later, I heard the raspy sound of stockings shuffling outside my door. My mother was a medical assistant. Every now and then, she wore a dress.

  She knocked.

  I ignored it.

  I heard her try the door and command me to open it.

  My mother didn’t have a particularly loud voice. It was actually rather soft, and I guess in some other circumstance it could be thought of as soothing.

  “Samara,” she repeated.

  I got up and opened the door.

  She looked beat. There were bags under her naturally sleepy brown eyes. Her brown skin looked spent. A few gray root strands peeked though her dyed auburn hair.

  She let out an exhausted sigh before saying, “Q told me—”

  That was where I lost it. “ ‘Q said.’ ‘Q said.’ Who is he, God?”

  “Keep your voice down, Samara.”

  “All he does is watch talk shows and make a mess in the living room.”

  She said, “Keep your snide comments to yourself.” Her tone now sounded more aggravated than tired.

  “Mom, he attacked me. He threw me against the wall—”

  “Samara, I’ve been working all day; I don’t want to come home to this.”

  “All I was trying to do was clean up the room!”

  She always said she was going to be a nurse. She took classes at the community college but kept quitting. I didn’t really think she would ever get her license.

  “There’s not a scratch on you.” She stepped forward and checked me for injury, quickly once-overing the back of my head. “You’re fine.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Samara, shut up.”

  My mom’s words were always bitter, like the skin of walnuts.

  I went to the far end of the bed and turned my back to her. Her examination was too curt to be thorough. I pulled up my right sleeve and examined the welts on my arm. His handprint had turned polychromatic.

  I spun around just as the door was closing. I put my sleeve back down. I hated her. More than I hated Q. What if one day he broke my arm? What would she do about that? Further lecture me about how I caused trouble, take Q out for all-you-can-eat shrimp at Red Lobster while I set my own bone in a cast?

  I’d been sort of abused by Q for a while. But it wasn’t the kind that you read about in the paper: kids starved to a scary forty-five pounds, made to drink ammonia, or attacked with tire irons. Q was not psychotic. He did have a temper. A lot of kids are pushed around. I’d have more grounds against my mom. Her abuse, if indeed it could be classified as that, was neglect. Mom was just as casual and distant as a deity.

  Soon, I heard Mom in the kitchen. She was cooking. She never called me in.

  My mother never let me touch her face. Even when I was little. Whenever I tried, she pushed my hands away. After a while, I stopped trying.

  Outside, church bells rang. It was eight o’clock. Only eight o’clock. I wasn’t tired, and I was all out of cigarettes. I could hear the TV, and every now and then Q’s laughter. He was watching Heroes. He was a big fan of the cheerleader.

  I went into my knapsack, digging for a stray cig, and pulled out that book Mr. Brook had given me.

  Before I opened it, I looked at the cover and the yellowing pages. He must have had it forever. The cover price said sixty cents.

  The opening page had a plate reading:

  Please return this book to

  Jerome Halbrook

  1830 Rittenhouse Square, Apt. 5B

  Philadelphia, PA 19130

  What, did he expect someone to drop it off on his doorstep? Or like someone would actually pay the postage and drop it in a mailbox for him? Ha. He was so old-fashioned.

  Then I thought some more. He gave me a book with his address in it. That was sly.

  I looked at the lines and the marked and dogeared pages. Some of the pages were warped, like he had been reading parts of it in the bathtub.

  I opened the book to a random page: “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.”

  I threw the book across the room.

  six

  Mr. Brook, who was now subbing in Mrs. Simpson’s English class, looked up from the attendance sheet as I busted into the room. I placed the Immortal Poetry before him, saying, “I finished it.”

  “All of it?” he asked skeptically.

  “Yep.”

  “How was it?”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence, then he questioned, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I answered, and began walking away.

  “Samara,” he called. “It’s not fast food. It’s not meant to be consumed so quickly.”

  I turned to him. “And how do you know how fast I eat a Big Mac?”

  He held the book out for me. “This is meant to be savored. Lingered over. Borrow it again.”

  I took out a cigarette and placed his book in my knapsack.

  He smiled. “And don’t smoke!”

  When I got home, I thought I had entered some cheap-romance-novel parallel universe. I peered through the window only to see a two-hundred-fifty-pound woman in a thong and Q with his arms all over her. I blinked a few times just to make sure this wasn’t some kind of illusion. But each time I did, the woman looked just as tawdry, and Q, who was in his customary undershirt and baggy jeans, seemed just as grabby. I couldn’t tell if this was just the beginning or it had been raging all afternoon. I was only a few minutes early, taking, for a change, a quick pace rather than moseying home as usual.

  Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, I thought. Q had all the nerve in the world. My mother was at work
just twelve blocks away, supporting his lazy butt, and he was turning this house further into his playground.

  I ducked down under the windowsill so they couldn’t see that I’d spotted them. I breathed some air and craved a cigarette but suppressed that urge. An idea had come to me.

  I crept away, looking over my shoulder to avoid detection. At the end of the block, I stood up and started running with abandon. I didn’t stop until I was right up on the main entrance of the hospital where my mother worked. As I took the elevator to the fifth floor, my heart pounded from the trip, the anticipation, and the secret I planned to spill.

  My mom and a group of other women in blue smocks stood in a cluster at the nurses’ station, laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders. I broke up their fun. My mother’s eyes went fast to me. Her color rose. She left the crowd without saying a word of goodbye to them. She grabbed me by my arm and led me to the stairwell, which was made of cement and had a bright yellow railing and smelled like a musty cloakroom.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I have news for you—” Since she didn’t mince words, why should I? I was just about to tell her that Q screwed around on her, but she cut me off.

  “You came down here interrupting my work.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, you’re real busy.”

  Her long limp hands went to her side pocket to get a cigarette. She began to smoke. “I am at work.” Her voice seemed to bounce in this dark stairway. “What do you want? And don’t tell me you got into it with Q again. Why can’t you give him some space? I’m not going to listen to this time and time again, Samara. You don’t like him, go live somewhere else.”

  My mouth opened but no words came out. Over the past fifteen years she had told me this same thing fifteen thousand times. Message received: I was part of her present, but I had no bearing on her future. When I was gone, there would be more money to spend on her nails and her hair. I was sure the champagne corks would pop on the day of my departure. When she was old and gray, she wouldn’t hit me up for aid. She would wheel her own self into a nursing home.

  “Why can’t he live somewhere else?” I finally asked. My body stiffened as if anticipating a blow. She wasn’t a hitter, though. I knew this. She was a bitter.

  “You’re a grown woman, practically. You’re nearly sixteen years old. I’m supposed to give up what I have for you? Then where will I be? I’m not going to be without someone in my life.”

  “And that’s all that’s important.”

  “Don’t you listen?” she said quickly. (Couldn’t she have hesitated just a little?) “I gave up a lot when I had you. I could have been free. I’ve always given to you. You just don’t want to admit it.” She stopped venting only long enough to take a deep drag.

  I censored any retort I was thinking of and retreated, as I always did. I decided not to tell her about the strange woman I had seen at our house and what Q was doing with her.

  I clenched the dark words inside me.

  Let her think her man was faithful; that was somehow crueler.

  A few moments later, the sunlight licked my face. At my feet four blocks from the hospital, there were fast-food wrappers, loose milk crates, and pee-stained mattresses. I ambled through Philly like I was homeless. Then it struck me: like I was homeless? What did I have to go home to?

  I walked, counting the cracks of the sidewalk. It was only a little after four. I wasn’t headed anywhere; I was just murdering time. In this post-dressing-down-from-my-mother daze, I found myself near Sixteenth. I stood frozen in a Gap storefront, and time leaped to a little after five. Car horns beeped, high heels clicked, and suitcases rolled. People had cell phone conversations of which I was privy to only one side.

  An idea popped into my mind: Mr. Brook. He was only a few streets away. He’d be home right now. Though I had his address committed to memory, I patted the spot in my knapsack where the book Immortal Poetry rested. I had been carrying it around like a rabbit’s foot.

  The sun came through the buildings.

  I wished it was night. I liked the moon better. She wasn’t as cloying.

  She was always alone; she didn’t seem to mind.

  She was awake when most people were asleep and vice versa.

  She did her own thing.

  Why did I suddenly feel the need to need someone? Why couldn’t I continue to exist solo? I was certain that I was the only fifteen-year-old in the world who had a crush on her senior-citizen substitute teacher. In solitude, I stood outside his building, wondering what it was like inside. I bet there were full bookshelves along the walls of the living room, and photos in wooden frames.

  A man came up behind me. He was a small man with a very long chin. Trusting and friendly, he held the front door for me. It would be so easy to get in.

  I shook my head.

  My eyes turned to what I thought was Mr. Brook’s window. I wondered—just what was he doing in there? Finishing his preparation of dinner? He was so neat, I bet he wore an apron.

  Or was he a takeout kind of a guy? (I saw those delivery cyclists all over this part of town.)

  Either way, there would be starched linen cloth with patterned borders. There would be a tumbler full of teaspoons and a silver cream pitcher and a china sugar bowl. (Even rich, rich people don’t use china every day, do they?)

  It was almost six now. Maybe he would be on dessert already. I could see it. It would be a chocolate something—something decadent, calorie laden, and gooey.

  There would be a little mango slice on top.

  Oh, Mr. Brook, you are so much better than orangutans or cigarettes.

  The heavens seemed to roar as I stood outside his door, sighing. I felt alive.

  Right then I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to fasten myself to the railway line or throw myself off a bridge: I was going to seduce my sub.

  I turned to walk home. By the next block, my hands were getting cold. Of course, I didn’t have any gear, and the jacket I had on didn’t have pockets, so I stretched my sleeves over my hands.

  “Nice gloves,” a stranger said to me.

  seven

  In homeroom, I received a summons. Grudgingly, I got up and made my way to the guidance counselor’s office.

  I shook the note at Bowman. “What’s this about? I’m coming to school now.”

  He twittered, “This is not about that.”

  “Well, what is it about?”

  He let out a long sigh. And his beady eyes went wide with pity. “Is everything all right . . . at home?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked. It was as if April Fools’ had come in October.

  “Please sit down. There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Bowman continued.

  I remained standing. “Why are you asking me?”

  “I’ve gotten a report.”

  “A report?”

  “Yes, a report.” He was speaking to me so calmly, so gently, it was freaking me out. Whenever someone speaks like that, get ready for free-fall mode. Check the ground underneath your feet; it just might be shifting.

  “From who?” I asked.

  “That’s not important. What is important is—” he began.

  That was when I bolted.

  “Samara! Samara!” His voice thickened as he called after me.

  I scaled the stairs and when I reached the middle of the floor, I stormed into the substitute’s room. He was alone, writing something on the board.

  “What did you tell Bowman?” I asked him.

  “Nothing specific. I just had a hunch about what might be going on and I thought it best to consult Mr. Bowman.”

  “And you didn’t even think to give me a heads-up first? You didn’t think to talk to me first? I mean, this is my life.”

  “He is a trained specialist, Samara.”

  “He’s an idiot!” I burst out.

  “He’s a guidance counselor,” Mr. Brook insisted.

  “He’s useless. Do you know how many times I’
ve been to his office? I’m on frequent-flyer miles.”

  “Have you ever opened up to him?” Mr. Brook asked.

  “No, I never have, and that’s the way I plan to keep it,” I told him plaintively.

  I read his blue eyes, which were narrowing with pity for me.

  “Oh, you’re so nice,” I spat out. “You are so concerned. If you wanted to know, why didn’t you ask? Don’t pawn me off to some amateur shrink.”

  This was the closest I’d ever been to him. My heart beat fast. I moved even closer.

  Mr. Brook knew what I was doing and stepped back.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of it!” I said.

  “What?”

  “This.” I went at him with my lips.

  He pushed me away by the shoulders.

  “I haven’t,” he told me.

  I smirked, still not on to things. “Liar. You could have just said hi and bye. You saw me in that bookstore. We went to lunch. You’ve been sending me signals since the moment you laid eyes on me. I can read between the lines.”

  “I do like you—”

  “Exactly.”

  “—but you’re fifteen. I’m five times your age.”

  “I’m as old as you want me to be, Mr. Brook.” I leaned close to him again.

  He dodged me. “Samara, you should be interested in someone your own age.”

  Now I looked away and lowered my head. There was a joke to all of this, and there I was: the punch line.

  “There are no interesting guys my own age. You act like you’re handing me back my innocence. I don’t have any, Mr. Brook. This is the new millennium. Post-9/11. Post–R. Kelly. I love you, with all my heart.”

  “Then your heart is confused.”

  “You think my heart is confused now! Before you, I was in love with an orangutan!” I screamed. Feeling my skin on fire, I ran out of the room.

  eight

  I reflected: my first and last try as a seductress had gone all wrong. My life was awful again.

  I ducked out a side door and evaded school security to mix into the general public. I walked, or rather swam. It was raining hard, and I became one more unhappy fish in this city’s aquarium of life.