by Clay Chapman
Had Sean answered the wrong way? It didn’t seem like she was happy with his reply, even if it was the truth. What did she want to know? What was she looking for?
How could Sean give her what she wanted?
“Did Mr. Woodhouse give you these bruises, Sean?”
What a strange question. Mr. Woodhouse? His teacher? Of course he hadn’t! Mr. Woodhouse always wore brightly colored sweaters, each with a different picture knitted across his chest. Turkeys or reindeer or hearts, depending on the holiday. How many sweaters did he own? A hundred? A thousand? He was a lot younger than Sean’s other teachers. He was always excited to talk through their lessons, like he was learning these things for the first time himself. There was a spark in his eyes, and his red curls bobbed as he nodded enthusiastically whenever a kid answered a question right. He had more energy than any of Sean’s other teachers. Even more than his classmates. He laughed at his own jokes. Sang louder than everyone else. To Sean, he was like a clown without makeup. Always smiling. Eyes wide. Ready to entertain.
“No.” Sean shook his head. It seemed so silly to even think for a second that Mr. Woodhouse would hurt him. Sean liked Mr. Woodhouse. Everybody did. Didn’t they?
Mom only stared back. It seemed like she didn’t believe him. But Mom always believed him. Why doubt him now? That was their one rule. Don’t lie to me, Mom would say whenever a glass broke in the kitchen or there were crayon scribbles on the hallway wall. He knew adults put value in The Truth. A version of it, at least.
“Are you sure?”
Sean didn’t know what to say. He’d already told her that it hadn’t been Mr. Woodhouse—why would a teacher do that?—but Mom wouldn’t accept his answer.
He saw it in her face. Her beautiful face.
Sean always knew his mother was pretty. He thought so, of course, but he knew other people thought she was pretty, too. Men. Customers at the restaurant she worked at. Mom brought him straight home from school most days, but sometimes she would bring him to the diner while she finished her shift. He would eavesdrop on the men telling her that she had a pretty smile. That she should smile more often. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? She would laugh as she brought them their check, but her smile would fade the moment they left. Sometimes her face would crumple the way Sean’s did before he cried.
Her face was crumpling now.
The water in the bathtub had gone cold. How long had he just been sitting in there? He felt like a California Raisin now, his skin completely pruned. How did that song go? Something about hearing something?
Sean looked down at the water. He really wanted to know what was bothering Mom, but he couldn’t focus if he was looking at her face. He thought of the conversations she had with other adults whenever they came to the house. Dressed-up adults who seemed interested in asking Mom all kinds of pokey questions. Proddy questions.
Are you finding time to manage part-time work and parenting? Are you still on food stamps? What’s the home environment been like since your husband left?
It was all Mom ever talked about anymore. Never with him, but with everybody else.
But Sean heard everything.
“Sean? Sean?” Mom leaned in closer, taking hold of his shoulders so he was forced to look directly at her. Only her. For a moment, he had forgotten he was in the tub. “Talk to me, baby. You need to tell me what happened. Please.” Her voice kept climbing.
What was worse than code red? Black and blue?
More. She always wanted more from him. She wanted to get beneath his skin. Beneath his face. Her grip kept tightening. She wouldn’t let go, no matter how much he squirmed, until she found whatever it was that she was digging for. Which was confusing to Sean. There were times when she didn’t want to know the truth. Not really. Like whenever he got sick. If he ever complained of feeling under the weather, Mom would ask him if he was really-really sick. Or was he just pretending? She didn’t want to hear The Truth in those moments, because Sean knew a sick day for him meant a sick day for her. She wouldn’t be able to go to work, and not going to work was a major code red. But isn’t that what she wanted? For them to be together?
“Listen to me, hon.” Her voice strained.
Code blue!
“I need you to tell me if there’s anything happening at school…”
Code purple!
“It’s very, very important that you tell me the truth…”
Code black!
“If—if your teacher—if he’s touched you. Hurt you in any way.”
Code burst capillaries!
Sean just wanted to give her whatever it was that she needed from him. He wanted to give her everything. To make everything right. To make all the bad stuff go away.
He just had to figure out what the right answer was. What would make her happy? Should he tell her it was Tommy Dennings? Or did she want him to say it was Mr. Woodhouse?
The truth—or this other thing. Not a lie. Not exactly. An answer that made everything safe again. That brought code black back to purple to blue to red to orange to yellow and all the way down to the way life used to be. Back to when Mom wasn’t always afraid.
That’s what Sean wanted. To take her fear away. Make the world a safe place for her.
Just her and him.
Alone, together.
Sean could do that for her, he was sure of it. He had that power.
By the power of Grayskull, He-Man always said, I have the pooooower…
All Sean had to do was tell Mom exactly what she wanted, needed, to hear.
A game, he thought. That’s all this is. Just a game.
And the name of this game was to say the right thing. Figure out the secret message that protected Mom, the meaning hidden within the words that would defend them both.
The Truth.
DAMNED IF YOU DON’T
RICHARD: 2013
I hesitate outside Eli’s room, peering through the cracked door, just to see what he’s up to before I barge in. This is all about respecting boundaries. “Got a sec, big man?”
Weegee hops off Eli’s lap at the sound of my voice and hides underneath his bed. The boy eventually nods—or, I think he nods. I enter his shrine to paleontology, keeping the door open a comfortable gap. Still figuring out our footing here. Dances with Stepdad. Every exchange that doesn’t involve Tamara is a self-conscious crossfire of questions and murmured answers that never quite hit their mark. I don’t want to put him on edge straight out of the gate.
“Heard there was a little scuffle at school today. I’d hate to see the other guys…”
“Mom told you?” Eli flops back on his bed, surrounded by plastic dinosaurs, an impenetrable ring of prehistory. Pre-me. If Elijah could have his way, I reckon he’d be content to stay in the Jurassic period with the rest of his prehistoric pals, all those centuries before I rocketed into his life and destroyed everything. In Elijah’s eyes, I am the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs. I am the domestic asteroid that caused the extinction of life as he knew it. “Do we have to talk about it?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“Okay.” He’s back to his dinosaurs. That’s all she wrote. Case closed.
“Who was the girl? The one you were sticking up for.”
“I’m not supposed to say.” Eli doesn’t look at me when he says it, smashing a stegosaurus against a…diplo-something-or-other-acus.
“How come?” I try keeping my curiosity in check. Seems strange he’d hide this sort of thing.
“She told me not to tell.”
“If somebody’s getting bullied, it’s good to let a teacher know. Maybe I can help?”
“Are you helping like a teacher or like a…dad?” He swallows the last word, unfamiliar with its taste.
“Uh-oh…You said the ‘D’ word. We’re in trouble now.”
“I mean,”
he tries. “You wanna be a dad?”
“What do you want?” I had practically written out a script in advance of this, practicing all afternoon, like rehearsing for some role in our fall play.
Eli shrugs. He’s clearly not comfortable navigating his way through this conversation.
“You and your mom have talked about when I was your age, right? She’s told you about my childhood? How I was adopted?”
There. First hurdle down. Now the “A” word is finally out there in the ether.
In front of an adult, raise your right hand and say: I promise to love my Cabbage Patch Kid with all my heart. I promise to be a good and kind parent…
Elijah glances up at me while keeping his head tilted down so his eyes can hide behind the cover of his hair. It is a simple trick he has perfected since I’ve known him. He dips his chin so that the curtain of his bangs covers his face, shielding his eyes beneath that auburn mop top.
“The truth is,” I say, “I don’t really remember that much about my family before. I was five, just like you are. Maybe a little older. But a lot of it is a blur for me.”
This is new information for him. Is he finding any of it even remotely interesting?
“I never knew my father. My real father. He left when I was young. For the longest time, it was just my mother and me and we—well, we had a hard time making it on our own.”
Liar.
“My mother loved me, just like yours. But there came a point where she couldn’t—”
Stand you.
“—take care of me anymore. I had to move in with a new family, called a foster family, and they were—”
Afraid.
“—amazing. Like superheroes, really. They moved heaven and earth for me. They knew I was really sad, that I missed my mom, but they wanted me to feel loved. It was important to them for me to know that they would never replace my mother. Nobody ever would. Could.”
Elijah hasn’t run out of the room. Hasn’t brought his hands up to his ears and started humming some tune to drown the sound of my voice out. I call that progress.
“They knew a family can be made up of more than just your biological parents. A family can be made up of whoever you want it to be.” This is it, I think. This is the moment. Here it comes. “So they asked if I wanted them to be my family. To be my parents. And I…I said yes.”
Elijah keeps his chin dipped, but I can tell he’s listening. The words are sinking in.
“When your mom and I first started seeing each other, we talked a lot about you. When it might be the right time to tell you about me and what my childhood was like. I told her I wanted to wait a little while. Until it felt like the time was right. And I guess now is the time. To tell you. Because…Here’s the thing, Eli. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask.”
Too late to turn back now.
To run.
“I know it’s been hard, adjusting to this new life with me and your mom. But I think we’re finally hitting our stride and I was wondering if…if you’d think about me adopting you.”
Elijah stiffens. Becomes a human fist.
“Now I want you to know nobody will ever replace—”
That asshole.
“—your father. That’s not what I want to do. That’s not my intention here at all.”
Isn’t it, though? Isn’t that my intention? Blow that fucking fucker out of the water so Elijah can finally have a fighting chance at a decent male role model in his life? Someone to look up to? Someone who won’t bail on him? Someone who won’t cheat on his mother? Who won’t stumble in drunk beyond belief after a night out with the boys? Who won’t forget which door leads to the bathroom and piss on his own kid’s bed?
Elijah squirms. The weight of all this, the pressure of it, pushes him down. Does he want to make a break for it?
He’s looking for his mother. Why was Tamara letting this happen? Where was she?
Where’s Mom?
“All I want, Eli, is to be someone who’s there for you. Whenever you need it. Your father will always be your father, and nobody’s ever going to replace him. I promise.”
Liar, liar.
“All I want is…Well. All I want is to be a family. Your family.” I can’t shut up. I can’t stop myself from filling in the silence, the suffocating sound of nothing. I’m just blathering on like some idiot because I’m afraid he’ll say no. “Only if it’s okay with you. I don’t want to do it unless you’re cool with it. If you think it might be a—”
“Okay.”
Elijah doesn’t look at me when he says it, but I’m pretty sure I hear him correctly. His eyes are still shrouded. I can’t be sure if his okay is an acknowledgement of what I’d said, proof of receipt, or if he’s giving me the thumbs-up. I am a grown-ass man struggling to parse out the possible interpretations of a five-year-old’s okay.
“Think it over. Totally take your time. If you wanna talk to your mom—”
“No. I want to.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to express this feeling. The downright relief of it all. That release of pressure, a dam cracking in my chest.
I promise to love my Cabbage Patch Kid with all my heart…
The subsequent flood of blood.
I promise to be a good and kind parent…
The absolute joy.
I will always remember how special my Cabbage Patch Kid is to me…
Tamara is going to absolutely lose her mind. I hope she’s been hiding in the hall, eavesdropping on us. “Okay,” I say, letting out all the pent-up air. “Let’s make it official.”
Make me a Dad.
Dad. Kinda has a ring to it, doesn’t it? I want to say it over and over again, to anyone willing to listen. Race through the streets and shout it to the heavens. I’m a dad! I’m a dad!
“It was Sandy,” Eli says.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, still running my mental victory lap. “Sorry?”
“Sandy,” he repeats. “From our class. She was the one getting picked on.”
* * *
—
This house isn’t mine. Not yet. The memories made within these walls are Tamara and Elijah’s. The divots are filled with their days, the dust of their skin. Their fingerprints cover the walls. It will take time for me to become one with their home.
I feel like an intruder most days. A houseguest who never left, free-loading off their life.
But Tamara invited me in, hadn’t she? Into her home? Their life?
When will I start feeling like I am a piece of it?
A part of them?
The dishes are hers. The glasses. The cutlery. The cookware. All hers, all acquired in the years prior to my arrival. Their kitchen was already stocked with all the necessities, so when it came time to move in, I didn’t have to bother bringing my sad bachelor set of forks and knives. My chipped plastic plates. My one good wineglass. Tamara and Elijah already had everything they needed, everything I needed, so I simply donated my kitchenware to Goodwill.
All I brought into this house, their home, was…
Me.
It’ll take time to rid myself of this feeling that I’m some kind of domestic parasite. But from the very beginning of our relationship, whenever it came down to my place or yours, it was always going to be hers. There was never a question. My cramped apartment never stood a chance against Tamara’s cozy farmhouse. It is situated in a small grove of cedars, giving the illusion that the house is tucked into the woods, even though the neighbors are a baseball toss away. There’s even a weeping willow in the backyard, just outside the kitchen window. Tire swing and all.
Tamara has been killing time in the kitchen. The bottle of wine I’d opened is now half empty. Not that I’m keeping tabs. Her glass rests on a stack of printouts. We’re going to fill out the adoption forms together, plo
w through them one of these nights. I’m not going to say anything, but I notice the thinnest dribble of wine has formed a red ring around the top page. I’ll have to reprint that sheet before we fill it out. Nothing says adoption denied quite like a merlot stain bleeding through your application, front and center.
“So,” she says, stretching the “o” out. The suspense is killing her.
“So,” I volley back, milking it.
“Sure were up there for a long time. I was about to send a search party.”
“Worried?”
“Of course not.”
I join her at the table and pick up where I’d left off drinking, catching up to her. The alcohol hits my blood.
“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
“Ask what?” I grin. The cat who totally killed the canary. Weegee ain’t got nothing on me. I’m feeling pretty proud of myself, I must admit, now swirling in a tide pool of wine.
I’m a dad! I’m a daaaaad! I’m—
“Such an asshole,” she says, rolling her eyes. But she’s smiling. Definitely smiling.
This is our life now.
We are making a family together, cobbling the bits and pieces of our previously shattered lives, stitching them together into a cuddly, huggable Frankenstein’s family.
Tamara had Elijah when she was twenty-six. Her playlists of Black Flag and Minutemen turned into lullabies and the sounds of rain or ocean waves to get Elijah to fall asleep. If we ever had friends over for dinner and used her iPod for the evening’s soundtrack, the shuffle option would quickly shift from Slint to “Baby Beluga.”
“It was terrifying,” I say. “I just yammered on and on…I couldn’t stop. But he said—”
My cell phone abruptly chirps, cutting me off. Probably a robocall, I think. Nobody calls me at this hour. But the caller ID lists a familiar area code. One I haven’t seen in a long time.
I answer. “Hello?”
No answer back. It takes a moment for the automated recorded voice to click in, but I swear I hear a layer of white noise from the other end of the line, as if someone is listening.
