Virtual Silence Page 13

  “And Charles just said yes? After he promised you that it would just be the two of you?”

  “He said he just mentioned it to him, casually, and Ed got so excited about the idea of coming along—”

  “Ed excited? That’s a laugh.”

  “—And Charles didn’t know how to tell him that it was supposed to be a sort of second honeymoon.”

  Mom made a fist and brought it down on the table. “Well, Ed’s entitled to a life, I suppose, and you’re certainly entitled to one too. It’s not the end of the world. What you and Charles do as a couple has nothing to do with our friendship.”

  She stopped talking to gulp down some wine, then put her head down on the table and began to sob. Ida stood behind her with her hands held up uncertainly. Eventually, she lowered them onto Mom’s shoulders and began to massage. Mom lifted her head and attempted a laugh. “Ida, Ida, Ida. Do you really imagine that I still entertain the thought that we might get back together after all this time? Of course it hurts! But there’s nothing to be done about it. Your not going won’t change a thing.”

  Can I help? I wrote, once Ida had gone. Mom was still at the table, resting her head on it again. I held my note sideways so that she could read it, but she only shook her head.

  I found a jar of tomato sauce in the pantry and put some water on to boil for elbow macaroni. The phone rang, but Mom didn’t answer it. Don’t you have Bingo tonight? I wrote. She shrugged. I lowered my head to stare into her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at me. There were strands of hair clinging to her face. When I latched one with my fingernail and pulled it away, she shook her head in warning.

  We had our dinner in total silence, with Mom staring at the wall beyond me and stabbing one strand of macaroni at a time. I had homework to do, but I was reluctant to leave her in her present state. The phone rang again, but she still didn’t answer. I pushed my plate aside, got my pad, and began my confession. I knew about it, I wrote. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, in part because I didn’t want to hurt you and in part because I didn’t think, and still don’t, that the relationship was/is serious.

  I kept glancing up at her as I wrote, but she was still staring at the wall, seemingly unaware of the fact that I was writing a note for her. Suddenly she jumped up, dashed to the phone, and dialed.

  “Mom,” she said, clearing her throat, “listen. Ginny and I aren’t coming down for Christmas.…

  “No, no, we have the money. It’s not that … No, not that either … I’m simply not up to it, Mom … No, that isn’t what I meant … No, don’t go getting—”

  I considered this turn of events. On the one hand, I was greatly relieved. Mom and I had spent our last Christmas vacation going with Grandma to flea markets each day and eating in crowded cafeterias at night. In the late afternoons, while Grandma napped, Mom and I had gone to the pool, where we were the youngest people and the only ones to venture into the water. This year would have been even worse. Killing tourists in Florida had become some kind of a game, and I had already informed Mom that I wasn’t leaving the condo, that I would take no responsibility for her if she was inclined to do so. Furthermore, the idea of sitting on an airplane among strangers and taking a cab with a driver who would undoubtedly be carrying a gun had already cost me several sleepless nights.

  They were still on the phone; Mom was coming clean now. I put my plate in the sink, took the confession I’d begun, and went to my room. I crumpled up the note and got out my trampoline, hoping it would facilitate my thought processes. The problem was that I’d already told Frankie that we would be away, and he was more than excited about the prospect of having Surge all to himself for ten days. He’d already told his father, and after an argument—relatively painless, Frankie said—his father agreed to let Surge sleep in the house next to the wood stove.

  Frankie had plans. He had taken some of the money that he was saving for his car and bought Surge some presents for Christmas morning, rawhide bones and balls and squeaky toys. (“Will you have a tree then?” I’d asked him. “No, this is gonna be a private affair,” he’d said.)

  Of course, I could still have him take Surge, but it wouldn’t be quite the same. I had told him several times that he would be doing us a tremendous favor. I had called a kennel and ascertained that it would cost $100 to board a dog Surge’s size for ten days. Then I had written a note to Mom informing her of this astronomical fee and asking whether we could at least offer Frankie $50 for his trouble. It had taken several notes more, but I had finally got her to agree.

  I did not, however, intend to pay him; I didn’t believe he would accept the money. What I wanted to do was to go to the mall with Mom’s fifty and whatever I had left after paying off the gun, and buy him a Christmas present, one nice outfit that would fit him properly. I had come across Frankie’s double in an Abraham & Straus advertisement in the magazine section of The New York Times the week before. In the picture, his double perched on the edge of a plush-looking dark green sofa with four smartly dressed, attractive female models—one of whom resembled me, I thought. His double wore off-white jeans and a gray V-necked short-sleeved T-shirt. He even sat like Frankie, with his knees spread apart and his hands folded in between. The resemblance was striking. The only differences were that his double’s hair was squeaky clean, and that Frankie was a loner, except in the cafeteria where he was surrounded not by girls, but by other apparent losers.

  I planned to enclose the ad along with his gift. I imagined that he might be confused at first, maybe even insulted. However, I imagined too that when he tried on the pants and the shirt and looked in the mirror (would he have one?), he would see how much he resembled the model in the picture and see, as well, my vision for him, for his future, that I, at least, realized that he was no Elmer Cowley, that I believed him capable of escaping the abject circumstances of his life.

  It did not stop there. I had hopes that the day would come when he would yet allow me to tutor him. I had offered once, but he had said, “I get C’s, Jarrell. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  I imagined that one day I would read poetry to him the way Sharon had read it to Terri and me, that we would eventually embark on lengthy discussions of literature and philosophy (God, did I miss my former life), that he would excel in his senior year and ultimately would be offered a scholarship to some small school in Boston.

  And that was only the beginning. I imagined late night dinners in candle-lit cafés, afternoon walks on the Commons. His love for me, I imagined, would enable me to conquer my fears and enjoy such public places again. There would be rendezvous in his dorm, rendezvous in mine, marriage, successful careers, checks sent to his father to help him to rehabilitate, children (my smile, his eyes and shapely brows), a small brick house with a white picket fence and a pond in the back yard for Surge.

  Mom and I had to go to Florida. A gift of such import could not be given if it were clear that he was taking Surge merely for his own amusement.

  I heard Mom’s whining cease and then her footsteps coming down the hall. Her bedroom door opened and closed, and then I heard her voice again, on the phone in there.

  She was on quite long, a half hour maybe. I could hear nothing of what she actually said, but as her tone seemed persuasive, I concluded she must be talking to Ida, still trying to get her to go. Then there was silence, so that I supposed she had finished her call and was resting on her bed. Thinking she might be calm enough now to be sensible, I jumped off my trampoline, got my pad and pencil, and opened my door.

  She was just coming out of her room, which was across from mine, and we nearly collided. She had washed her face and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Ginny!” she said, smiling.

  I need to talk to you, I wrote, about Florida.

  “Don’t worry about Florida. We’re not going. I already told Grandma.”

  I went to write again, but she slipped my pencil out from between my fingers and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. Then she took my arm and led me
back into my room, closing the door behind her. “You, young lady,” she declared cheerfully, “are going someplace very special for Christmas.”

  I looked with longing at my pencil, but she covered it with her hand. Then her eyes hardened, and I realized all at once that what I had taken for cheerfulness a moment before was actually an attempt to conceal an emotion far more bizarre. “Your father has agreed that it would be a wonderful experience for you to go along with him and his friend and the Newets on this sailing trip,” she said.

  My mouth dropped open, and I might have voiced my revulsion aloud if she had not, just then, lifted a finger and thrust it at my collar bone just hard enough to cause me to fall back onto the bed.

  “It’s all arranged,” she went on. “Your father says you’ve been like a stranger with him lately. In fact, he tells me he hasn’t even seen you since Thanksgiving. This will give you a chance to patch things up. You’ll be chartering a plane … nice to have money, isn’t it? … and flying to North Carolina. From there, you’ll be taking a boat to some little island where nobody lives. So you see, you won’t have to worry about people carrying guns and shooting tourists and that kind of thing.

  “So, where was I? Oh yes, this little island you’re going to. You’ll be pitching a tent there for a few nights and then sailing back again. You’re a very lucky girl, and I’m a lucky woman,” she stated, and then, in an incredibly loud voice, “BECAUSE I’M GOING TO SPEND CHRISTMAS ALL ALONE, ALL DAY LONG IN BED, SLEEPING AND READING AND READING AND SLEEPING AND THINKING OVER MY LIFE. IN FACT, YOU CAN TELL THAT SLOPPY YOUNG MAN THAT YOU’VE BEEN HANGING AROUND WITH THAT HE CAN STILL COME AND GET SURGE AND I’ll STILL PAY HIM THE $50 OR WHATEVER IT IS. BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO GO OUT AND TIE SURGE UP AND THEN GO OUT AND GET HIM AND BRING HIM IN WITH HIS FEET ALL MUDDY.”

  She stopped to take a deep breath. “AND WHETHER YOU TALK OR DON’T TALK WILL BE YOUR FATHER’S CONCERN FOR ONE GLORIOUS WEEK. AND WHETHER YOU DECIDE TO GO INTO THERAPY OR TO SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE CLINGING TO YOUR ANGER … YES, THAT’S RIGHT, LITTLE GIRL. DON’T MAKE THOSE EYES AT ME. I TALKED ALL ABOUT IT TO MY TAI CHI TEACHER, AND HE EXPLAINED ALL ABOUT HOW YOUR ANGER CAN CREATE KARMIC TIES WHICH IN TURN CREATE SIMILAR SITUATIONS …”

  She lowered her voice a little. “And you know what? When you come home, I’m going to be a new woman. Yes, that’s right. Just like a butterfly crawling out of a cocoon. I’m going to beat my wings and take flight. MY LIFE IS GOING TO BEGIN AGAIN!”

  12

  12-24

  Dear Sharon,

  Who do you think you are, anyway?

  Do you realize what it took for Terri and me to keep from getting in touch with you those first months? We’ve fallen apart, our little group. Terri and I don’t even speak to each other anymore. I suspect she has turned to drink. Can you even imagine that, Sharon? Little, shy, peaceful, intelligent Terri coming into school everyday half-cocked? Red-eyed? Slurring her way through her responses in class? Walking through the halls with her head dangling? Sitting alone in the cafeteria, pretending to be reading, but never as much as turning a page?

  You were the one who insisted we suspend all contact, and then you go and break your own rules, although in the most bizarre way imaginable. What were those “documents” supposed to be? What were we supposed to make of them? Did you actually acquire them? And if so, how? Or did you simply make them up for the sake of some wild experiment meant to drive us even further into our respective infernos? What is going on in your mind? If your object was to dissuade us from communication, then why did you bother to send them in the first place? You must have realized that with Terri and me being curious by nature, they would have the opposite effect.

  Anyway, it is on the assumption that your “documents” were actually an appeal, whether conscious or not, that I am writing. If I am wrong, if either you or your therapist feel that this letter may have the potential to do you further psychological damage, please tear it up this instant.

  (The above line of space represents a change in tone, in attitude.)

  You won’t believe it, but I am writing to you from somewhere out in the middle of the sea—well, not quite the middle, actually we’re in the sound, on a sailboat. I am here with my father and Goliath. You see, I was right; he was seeing her. Ida and Charles Newet, who you met once or twice at our house, are with us too.

  I should mention that I’ve been working for Ida, at the day-care center for a total of fifteen hours a week. I wish I could tell you why I took the job and what it has enabled me to acquire, but it would be remiss of me to specify in a letter. Let’s just say that after months of horrifying dreams by night and even more horrifying fantasies by day—involving everyone from the mailman to the president at the bank where I go to cash my paycheck—I have finally achieved a feeling of relative security.

  Our boat is a nineteen-foot sloop. It sleeps only two, but as we intend to reach our destination, a small uninhabited island off the North Carolina coast, by nightfall, this is not a concern. The cabin is small, but the weather is lovely, sunny skies and about 70 degrees, and we are all above deck. Dad and Goliath and the Newets are drinking beer in the cockpit, and I am lying on the bow. Except for the lapping of water, it is so quiet that I can hear Goliath when she sighs, which is often.

  The boat has a swing centerboard, and if I understood the man from whom we chartered it correctly, if we run aground, we only need to pull up the centerboard, get out, and give the boat a little push to get her going again. I am on the lookout for sharks, which the man said are sometimes seen in these waters. So far I have seen only tiny flying fish.

  Since Ida is Mom’s best friend, she was reluctant to acquaint herself with Goliath, but in fact they seem to be hitting it off quite well. Goliath was once a dancer and now teaches yoga to business people, Charles and his staff among them. She has quite a body, which was, I thought initially, what must have attracted my father to her. She is all legs and breasts, with shoulders that are quite broad. She laughs often, opening her mouth wide and throwing her head back. Actually, she’s rather comical, and I have to admit that I am beginning to like her myself.

  For instance, earlier, when there was a lull in their conversation, Goliath said, “I read this incredible thing in Ann Landers sometime back.” Her voice is raspy, loud, and deep for a woman. In fact, between that and her incredible height, there is a manishness about her, as if she is the embodiment of both sexes equally.

  “This unemployed man was having an affair, at his house, in the afternoons while his wife was at work. Well, one day he and his mistress had concluded their business and the mistress was dressing and getting ready to leave and he was still lying in bed, naked, watching her, when all of a sudden the wife comes home unexpectedly. But he’s one of those guys who’s good on his feet,” (“I thought he was lying down,” goofy Charles interrupted.) “so he smiles when his wife comes into the room and introduces her to his mistress who he says is a massage therapist.

  “Since he’s got a bad back and because he’s such a convincing liar, and maybe because she’s stupid too, the wife believes him! She even asks for an appointment for herself, because she wakes up with a kink in her neck every morning, and also she’s got tennis elbow.” (“You’re embellishing,” my father said here. “I read that one too.”)

  “So, anyway, the mistress is the one who wrote to Ann. Now that she’s been giving the wife massages on a regular basis, and getting paid for it, what she wants to know is not how she can get out of this outrageous situation, but whether or not she can get into trouble for practicing without a license!”

  I laughed, and Goliath winked at me. The point, however, is that the things that Goliath comes up with are always impersonal, and after listening these past months to Mom and Ida, who are always talking about their feelings, it’s refreshing. I imagine my father thinks so too.

  Oh, I should mention that I don’t talk at all anymore—except to one new friend who I will tell you about another time.
I have become an avid listener, and when I have something to say, which is seldom, I write it on this little pad I carry and show it to whomever it is intended for.

  Well, Sharon, have a merry Christmas. I’m sorry you can’t be here with me. I am sure there are a number of things worth investigating on this island. Without you to guide me, I will probably miss half of them.

  Much Love,

  G.J.

  13

  12-24

  Dear Frankie,

  I took your advice and wrote a letter to Sharon. Of course I won’t be able to mail it to her until we get back to the mainland. We will be staying in a hotel in New Bern for two nights before we fly back to New York, so she should receive it before I return. My hope is that by the time you come by to bring Surge home, I will have had a full account concerning her acquisition of the “documents.”

  But that is not what I really want to talk to you about.

  I am very embarrassed by my reaction to your “Christmas gift.” You see, you hadn’t told me that your brother had concluded his dealings, and so when you handed me a shoe box wrapped in the funnies and tied with a piece of yellow yarn, naturally I thought it was a real gift, something you had gone out and chosen for me. Given the fact that I know very well that you are saving every penny you make for your car, I was deeply touched. That’s why I threw my arms around you and kissed you like that. Then, when you pushed me away, naturally I was confused. And when you said, “It’s only the _____, Jarrell”, in that tone.… Well, I was deeply hurt. That’s why I called you that. I had promised myself that I would never call you that again, especially after I learned that your father does. But I was hurt and full of conflicting emotions, and it just came out. I’m so very sorry.

  You must understand that there were some other things going on too. I mean, you can imagine how I felt, having just learned that I am an affliction to my very own mother. And I overheard enough of her telephone conversation with my father to know that he had to be begged to take me along. I know you can relate to this. I know you know what it’s like to be unwanted.