Sons From Afar

by Cynthia Voigt

  Sammy looked at him then.

  “He’s old,” James said. “And she’s just a kid. See what I mean?”

  Sammy was still thinking. Probably cooking up some stupid objection, James thought, as if this was an argument he had to win or something.

  “Mr. Lingerle has got to be at least twenty-six, and she’s only fourteen—” James continued.

  “But that wouldn’t be so bad for her,” Sammy said. “Would it? Because he’d know what she was like, and she might be happy with someone who was older, who could take more responsibility. Except, he’s fat.”

  Sammy was so obtuse, it almost had to be deliberate. James had just mentioned that as a comparison. Sammy was avoiding what they were really talking about. James got up from the bed and bent over to pick up his books. “They never got married anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter how old he was. Do you ever wonder why people get married?” he asked his brother. “And fall in love?”

  “No,” Sammy said, not interested.

  * * *

  When Mr. Lingerle was eating with them, they didn’t have pie or cake, or even pudding, for dessert. Sometimes they didn’t have dessert at all, or sometimes Maybeth made a bowl of cut-up fruit, oranges or grapefruit, apples, bananas. That night, as Mr. Lingerle spooned up segments of grapefruit, he told Gram that his doctor would approve.

  Mr. Lingerle sat at the opposite end of the long table from Gram. She looked down the table at him when he had told her that. “You’re not ill?” she asked.

  “No. It was just a checkup, but you know how doctors are.”

  “No, young man, I don’t,” Gram snapped. Because she snapped, James knew she was worried.

  “I turned twenty-eight this month—” Mr. Lingerle explained. “It seemed sensible to have a checkup. I haven’t seen a doctor for years.” He buttoned and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “I know, I look older than that,” he said.

  He did, James realized. He looked almost middle-aged, the big expanse of blue shirt at the end of the table, with his thin hair and lack of energy.

  “That’s because of your weight,” Gram said.

  “That’s what the doctor said,” Mr. Lingerle agreed, without sounding upset or nervous at all, as if he didn’t feel embarrassed about the way he looked. Maybe he didn’t, James thought. It wasn’t that he looked awful, just awfully large. He seemed to be pretty peaceful with himself, which James had trouble understanding, because he would bet that Mr. Lingerle would have been a real outcast at school. “Diet and exercise, he said.”

  “He’s right,” Gram answered. She got up to pour two cups of coffee and to bring one down to Mr. Lingerle’s place. “What about it, then?” she asked, giving him his cup.

  “I hate exercising,” Mr. Lingerle said. “I hate every minute of it. I’ve tried,” he apologized. “Well,” he smiled at himself, “not hard and not for long, but—I have this irrational reaction, anger and frustration and every minute feels like an hour.”

  James could sympathize with that.

  “Then why are you telling us?” Gram demanded. “Since you’re determined not to do anything about it.”

  “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll yell at me?” Mr. Lingerle suggested, laughing at himself. “You’re the nearest thing to a family I have, and that’s what families do, isn’t it? Both of my parents died when I was in college, so there’s nobody left to yell at me. They were both heavy—fat,” he corrected before Gram could say what she was about to say. “It’s hereditary, I guess. I was an only child—and I have to say how happy I was, what a happy childhood I had. They were happy people, my mother and my father, and supportive of me. I had good parents. I’m lucky. My father, especially, encouraged me in my music, even though I wasn’t a prodigy of any kind, and even though he wondered how I’d ever make a living at classical music. He was always interested in what I was doing, or hearing me play. He took me to concerts whenever he could, even though I don’t think he enjoyed them all that much himself. We lived in Washington, so there were plenty of concerts. They sent me to Peabody, even though we all knew there was no chance of me being a concert pianist; they sent me there because it was the best around. They were so proud of me . . . I miss them, you know. I always do. My father was always asking me to play something, or explain about atonal music, or something. Just because I was interested in it, you see. They never thought there was anything strange about me, or pushed me to do something I couldn’t.”

  “Don’t you have any ambition?” Gram asked. “Do you compose?

  “Ambition?” Mr. Lingerle answered her question with a question. James noticed that he didn’t say anything about composing, which made James wonder why he was avoiding that subject. “You know, Abigail, when I think about it, I can’t imagine anything more perfect for me than my life the way it is. Anything much more perfect than what I have,” he added. “I like teaching, I am fascinated by music, and the life down here, away from so many of the ills of civilization. . . . The truth is, I consider myself an extremely ambitious person, and successful, too.”

  “Good,” Gram said.

  “I’ll yell at you,” Maybeth offered.

  “Why?” Mr. Lingerle asked her. He waited for her to frame her answer, just patiently looking at her.

  “Because it’s bad for your heart.”

  “And my blood pressure,” he agreed.

  “And I think you’d look handsome.” Maybeth wasn’t flirting with him, or flattering him; she was just saying what she thought. Maybeth wouldn’t know how to flirt or flatter, James thought. He saw that Mr. Lingerle’s cheeks turned a little pink when she said that.

  “Walking is exercise,” Sammy suggested. “Or bike riding. We’ve got bikes—could you ride one of them?” He eyed the man’s bulk. “Dicey left her bike here.”

  That wasn’t a bad idea at all, James thought. “If you rode a bike, or walked places, instead of driving,” he explained. That was kind of an interesting problem Mr. Lingerle had, because in both his hereditary genes and his character, he was bad for himself. James wondered how many pounds Mr. Lingerle’s doctor had said he should lose, but he thought it would be tactless to ask. He wondered if Mr. Lingerle had the discipline to just eat less. James was glad that wasn’t a problem he had, because he didn’t think he’d be able to not eat. “I’ve read about people who had their stomachs stapled shut,” James remembered.

  “No kidding?” Sammy asked. Sammy would love anything so ghoulish.

  “That sounds unnecessarily painful,” Gram said.

  “Or their jaws wired shut,” Mr. Lingerle added. “So they can’t eat,” he explained to Gram.

  “You’re asking us to help you?” Gram asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think so. He put the fear of God in me, that doctor.”

  “How can we help?” Maybeth asked.

  “You can yell at me.”

  “I’ll try,” she promised.

  “Good,” Gram said. “It’s about time, anyway. When are we going to see you play baseball, James?”

  James was halfway up, clearing the table, his dessert bowl in his hand. He didn’t know how to answer. “I’m not good enough, I never get put in during a game,” he said.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  James tried to get away, by taking his dish to the sink, by having his back to them. He wished he could disappear from the room. He didn’t want them to come, but he didn’t want them to know that, because then even his family would know . . . how bad things were for him at school. He wanted them to think he was smart and got along fine. He didn’t know how to keep them away. The night was dark outside of the house and he was so frustrated and helpless—because he didn’t want them to come to a game and he didn’t know how to stop them. He never could stop the Tillermans from doing what they wanted.

  “What about this week?” Gram asked. “Is there a game this week?”

  “I don’t know,” James lied, not turning around. He’d quit first, or break his ankle, or some
thing. He couldn’t stand it, especially Sammy, and Gram, too.

  “I don’t think James wants us to come watch,” Maybeth’s voice said. “I think he really doesn’t. I don’t think we should.”

  If James had dared to turn around, he would have hugged his sister. He thought, sometimes, she was the smartest one of them all. But her remark had been greeted by a total silence, and he didn’t want to look at what that silence meant. He turned on the tap water, to start the dishes. They let the subject drop.

  James washed glasses, dishes, and utensils, then pots. Sammy dried and put them away. James didn’t say one word, not wanting to open up any conversation, not wanting to hear what his brother might say. Sammy didn’t say anything either. James concentrated hard on his next move—because he thought he’d like to go up to that Hall of Records in Annapolis, and find out whatever he could about the Verrickers. That meant he’d have to figure out how to get up there, and the only opportunity he’d have was that school trip; but he didn’t have the twelve dollars it cost for the bus and to pay the guide they’d hire to take them around Colonial Annapolis; and he didn’t know how he’d get any time at the Hall of Records anyway, because school kids on trips were kept together, herded from place to place. James kept his attention on that problem while his hands soaped dishes and then rinsed them off in scalding hot water. That was about all he could stand thinking about at that moment, so he thought hard. And he didn’t want Sammy along, anyway. He didn’t need any help from Sammy. Sammy wasn’t any help anyway. He could do it on his own, since he was the only one really interested anyway, really curious to find out who their father was, maybe even to find him.

  By the time he’d scoured out the sink and washed down the table and counters with a damp sponge, James felt okay. He thought the subject of games had been dropped, and he was so relieved that he hadn’t had to beg them not to come that he felt like a strand of spaghetti, cooked limp, just lying there on the bottom of the pot, without the ability to do anything but lie there.

  Sammy clanged the last pot back into its cupboard. “James?” he said.

  Uh-oh, James thought. He heard something in Sammy’s voice, and he didn’t want to hear a lot of noise from his little brother, for whom things came so easily, sports and friends and all, about everything that was wrong with James.

  “You should just be yourself,” Sammy said, when James didn’t turn around.

  James didn’t say anything. He was thinking how Sammy thought everything was so simple, and how just being yourself was only all right if you were good enough, and how he wished Sammy would leave him alone.

  “Well, you should,” Sammy insisted, ignoring the way James was ignoring him. His voice came at James from behind. “You can only be what you are, whatever that is. It won’t make any difference even if you find out what our father is, because—and besides, I don’t think you’ll find out anything good, anything you’ll like knowing. I don’t think you ought to try,” Sammy warned him. What was Sammy doing, warning him that he shouldn’t try to know something? “I mean it, James,” the voice said. “Worrying about it won’t do any good and whatever you find out—” Sammy’s voice almost made James turn around to look at his brother.

  Things were always simple for Sammy. James heard his brother waiting for an answer, then leaving the room, but he stood by the sink, looking out the window at the darkness. He tried to figure out a way he could earn some money. Maybe he should have taken that clerking job in Cambridge, instead of pushing ahead to talk to Mrs. Rottman and Mr. Ferguson, who hadn’t told him anything he wanted to hear anyway. Then at least he’d have a day’s wages in his pocket.

  He could have done it, too. He could file, that was just putting things into alphabetical order. He could type. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he could do those things.

  He turned around to say good night to Mr. Lingerle, who left thanking Gram once again for the dinner, and the company. Maybeth was with them, and she asked James if he had time to help her with a page of math problems.

  “Sure, you know I’ll be glad to,” James said. He sat down at the table. Maybeth went upstairs to get her books. Gram sat down facing James, looking into his face, considering him.

  “All right,” Gram said, nodding her head.

  For a minute James couldn’t figure out what she meant, and then he understood. “Thanks,” he said. There wouldn’t be any more talk about coming to games. Gram meant what she said, and she kept her word. She knew how not to ask questions, too, James realized, even though he knew that didn’t mean she didn’t care about the answers. Whatever else about his life, he was incredibly lucky to have Gram—and a feeling rose up and blew through him, taking his breath with it temporarily, as he looked at the woman across from him, with her unruly curly hair and her lively eyes.

  “Do you think Isaac can lose all that weight?” she asked him.

  James thought about it. “It has been done. It’s not impossible. You’re always seeing advertisements in magazines about people who have lost pounds and pounds.”

  “You maybe see them. I don’t.”

  “You’re not reading the right magazines,” James teased.

  “Do you believe what you read?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes. There’s a truth in advertising law.”

  “For what it’s worth. Although, sometimes I think that we’d be better off without any laws, because then people wouldn’t be tempted to break them. He might do it for Maybeth.”

  “Maybeth?”

  “He thinks a lot of her.”

  “So do I,” James said.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Gram said.

  “But he’s so—old, and she’s just a kid.”

  “Someone like Maybeth—whom I wouldn’t change for the world, the world on a platter with all the stars scattered around it—someone older, a little paternal,” Gram continued, as if she was just thinking out loud.

  “Sammy said that, or something like that.” Surprise pulled the words out of James’s mouth before he thought.

  “Your brother is no fool,” Gram answered, getting up and leaving him alone again.

  You could have fooled me, James thought, but didn’t say. Then he wondered, because he didn’t really disagree with Gram, why—if that was true—Sammy didn’t get good grades in school. Sammy didn’t think about things, either. If he was no fool, then how could he say he wanted to be a tennis player and an astronaut, both, and not go on to think about how if you wanted to do that, what you should do to get ready? As if Sammy thought just wanting things made them happen, which was pretty foolish.

  * * *

  In good weather, James took his lunch outside, to get away from the noise and the smells of the cafeteria. But on rainy spring days he had to eat inside. There was nobody special he ate with. Usually, he just sat himself down at the end of one of the long tables and didn’t pay attention to who else was sitting there. He tried to keep clear of Toby Butz, who had been his best friend in fifth and sixth grades but had grown really weird. Toby wasn’t even smart any more, except in science and math where he was A-track. All he’d talk about was extraterrestrial life-forms. He was a science-fiction nut, and you couldn’t talk to him about anything else, but if you started to talk to him about that he’d buttonhole you and go on and on and on. Toby looked as weird as he acted, a short square guy, with thin blond hair that was always too long and not clean enough, with pale blue eyes gleaming crazily out from behind thick glasses. Toby still wore striped T-shirts, just like a little kid, although James knew for sure his family had the money to dress him better, because his father was a pharmacist and earned a good living. It was sad what had happened to Toby, in every respect; James remembered they used to have some interesting conversations when they were friends. Anyway, Toby was one guy James felt superior to. At least, James knew, he was skinny, and his jeans hung down around his hips in a sort of cool way, and he looked okay in the button-down shirts he wore. He didn’t look like a w
imp. Toby did: he looked like a biscuit, with arms and legs sticking out, with a round head stuck on top.

  James wouldn’t be shocked if Toby turned out to do something interesting with his life, like write science-fiction books as good as Frank Herbert’s or Isaac Asimov’s, or he might really be the one to discover the existence of extraterrestrial life-forms. That was, after all, what happened with a lot of unpopular kids—later on they got famous. He couldn’t see why kids didn’t figure that out, the normal ones, and try to get to know the dorky kids. But he guessed he could see why. There were a lot of movie stars, like Jane Fonda, who said they were ugly in high school, and really unpopular; but even knowing that didn’t make ugly girls look any prettier to him.

  James chewed his way through his sandwiches, and his banana, and then took out a thick slab of the chocolate cake Maybeth had baked last night. His sister could just go out to the kitchen and turn out a cake, or something, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. James had tried making cookies, once . . . they weren’t any good; and it had taken him hours to make them, because he had trouble seeing the sense of the recipe, and then he’d had trouble getting the baking time right. But Maybeth just went out there and knew what to do, knew how to do it right. He unwrapped the double wax paper he’d put the cake into. For a minute, he just looked at it: two dark layers of chocolate, and he knew how good they’d taste, moist dark and crumbly dark; a lighter frosting, mocha, creamy without butter, which cost a fortune, creamy because Maybeth used a boiled frosting recipe, never getting anything but perfect texture. That cake was something to look forward to; it was like a present in the middle of the day. James was about to pick it up and bite into it when somebody sat down across from him and said his name. “Tillerman.”

  It was Andy Walker. James concealed his surprise.

  “I was looking for you. You sure hide away down here.”

  Andy waited for James to say something, but James couldn’t think of anything to say. He hoped people were seeing this, though.

  “I wanted to ask. What are you going to do that French paper on anyway?” Andy asked him. “Can I take a bite of that?” He pointed to the cake.