Too Soon for Jeff

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Hey, Sis, you’ve got something to celebrate, too. Right?” Steve says, turning the attention away from me to Mom.

  She smiles. “Yep. Karen Browning, girl nurse. Can you believe it, after all these years of trying to balance night school and work, and training sessions at the hospital?”

  “Not to mention raising this hunk,” Stacy says.

  “When’s graduation?” Steve asks.

  “May 29th. You’d better all be saving that date for me.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Steve says.

  “Me, either, Mommy K,” Stacy says.

  “We’ll party hearty,” I say.

  Mom gives me a look, the kind that used to scare me when I was little. Ever since she had to come get me at the ranger station she acts like maybe I’m getting a big drinking problem. When I try to tell her I almost never have more than one beer, usually not even that, she gets this look on her face, like maybe so, maybe not. Between Christy being pregnant and me getting busted in the mountains, things aren’t quite as easy between me and my mom as they were before. It’s not like she’s mad—just kind of edgy, like she could get mad any minute. I think it’s a good thing I’ll be going away to school in September.

  “How about you, Stacy?” Steve asks. “What will you be doing after high school?”

  “I don’t know. I still want to be a vet, but I’m afraid it’s too hard.”

  “Maybe you should try nursing,” my mom says. “It’s a shorter course, and there’s always one or two patients in a ward who act like animals.”

  That gets us all playing the what should Stacy be when she grows up game—stuff with animals that doesn’t re­quire too much school. Work for the Humane Society, or at a zoo, or at the race track, or open her own pet-sitting business, or grooming shop.

  “Okay, okay,” Stacy says. “I get the picture. You want me to have a life—a plan. I’ll give it some serious thought,” she says, striking the classic “Thinker” pose.

  After dinner Stacy and I sit on the curb in front of my house and talk for a long time.

  “Everything will be different next year,” she says.

  “It’s different every year,” I tell her.

  She knuckle-punches me on the arm before I have time to flex.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “All of our friends will be going all different directions. You’re going to be in Texas. Who’s going to insult me when you’re gone?”

  “Someone will turn up.”

  “I’m scared,” she says.

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Growing up, I guess. My mom’s already telling me if I don’t go to school next year I’ve got to get a full-time job, and pay room and board. Can you believe it?”

  “Sounds fair to me,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah, easy for you to say, big scholarship dude. You’re not paying room and board anywhere!”

  She punches me again. I punch her back. Not mean or anything, just enough to let her know she can’t walk all over me. We argue some more, then she asks, “What about God?”

  “What about God?” I repeat.

  “You know, is there or isn’t there?”

  That’s how our conversations go—from one extreme to the other. I don’t know about God and neither does Stacy, but it’s been a favorite subject with us for a long time.

  “How could God kill Janie with breast cancer?” I ask my standard question. When Janie died, first I was mad at God, and then I thought maybe there was no such thing.

  “Maybe He wanted her in heaven,” Stacy says.

  “But why punish Uncle Steve?”

  “Maybe he did something really bad that we don’t know about.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say. “I think if there is a god, he just got us all started and forgot about us.”

  Then I see this bright shining shooting star that streaks across the whole sky.

  “Wow!” Stacy says. “Did you see that?” She laughs. “I think God was telling us something.”

  “Coincidence,” I say. But it’s kind of weird. Like maybe it was a special sign or something. It was the brightest shooting star I’ve ever seen.

  Chapter

  13

  Fourth period, a student aide comes in and hands a summons to Mrs. Rosenbloom. It’s the third summons already and we’re not even halfway through the class. She sighs. “I swear, we’ll never get finished discussing Herman Melville with all these interruptions.”

  She reads the summons, then calls my name.

  “Mrs. Gould wants to see you in the nurse’s office.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Go see,” she says. “I don’t know. My specialty is Melville, not mind-reading.”

  I jam my stuff in my backpack and leave. I walk past the principal’s office, past the guidance center, to the health center, where I take a seat on a cold metal chair. Across from me, some guy is curled up sleeping on a cot sort of like the one I slept on when I stayed at Steve’s, except I didn’t have to use a paper cover on my pillow. It’s not long before a short, stocky woman opens the door to her private office.

  “Jeff Browning?” she asks.

  I stand and hand her my summons.

  “Come in,” she says.

  I follow her into the office. It smells of rubbing alcohol, like the nurse’s office at my old elementary school.

  “Have a seat,” she says.

  There are posters on every wall—institutional style stuff with broad black letters warning Wash Hands After Using the Toilet, and the classic fried egg This Is Your Brain on Drugs, and one that says No Glove, No Love with a picture of a girl holding a condom at arm’s length.

  I remember Mrs. Gould from an AIDS talk she did in our Health and Safety class last year. She was funny and to the point, and she gave us plenty to think about.

  “So Jeff, I talked with your girlfriend yesterday,” she says.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, really?” she says, eyebrows raised, voice going cold. “Then I talked with the girl you got pregnant. Do you like that description better? Christina Calderon? Remember her? Or do you have so many other pregnant non-girlfriends running around that you can’t keep track?”

  “It’s not like that,” I say.

  “Then tell me. How is it?”

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I liked Mrs. Gould when she talked to our class, but now she seems nosy and grouchy. Why should I talk to her? Do I have to?

  “Well?” she says.

  “Well . . . Christy used to be my girlfriend.”

  “She tells me you’re the father of her unborn baby, and now you don’t want to take any responsibility for it. Is that true?”

  “Sort of. But did she tell you that she pretended to be on the pill and she wasn’t? It’s not my fault.”

  “Maybe you’ll want to drop your child a line someday and tell him it’s not your fault he, or she, doesn’t have a dad who cares. I’m sure that will make the little tyke feel much better,” Mrs. Gould says, oozing sarcasm.

  “Can I go back to class now?” I ask, standing up.

  “No,” she says, motioning for me to sit back down. She looks at me intently, appraising me, it seems.

  “Maybe we got off to a bad start, Jeff. Let me start over. Okay?”

  “Okay.” What else can I say?

  “I’ve just finished getting Christina set up for the Teen Mothers Program. She’ll be going to school there, starting Monday. Teenagers don’t always understand what’s going on with their bodies, or the necessity of getting early medical attention, or how to go about getting certain benefits. The Teen Mothers Program can help with that, as well as help her keep up academically.”

  “What about debate?” I ask.

  “She can still take afternoon classes on this campus, if she can get her own transportation . . . But what I want to talk to you about is the weekly meeting with the dads over at the teen moms’ campus. I think it’s important the
dads be involved too, don’t you?”

  “I guess. If they want to be dads. I don’t want to be a dad.”

  “Well . . .” Mrs. Gould says. “Where do you fit into this picture?”

  “I don’t! I’m sorry I ever believed she was on the pill and stopped using condoms. I’m going away to college in Sep­tember. I wanted her to get an abortion, but no, she wouldn’t do it. And now I’m the bad guy because I won’t take responsibility. What about Christy saying she was on the pill and then not taking it? Why isn’t everyone bagging on her? Her friends won’t even talk to me. Not that I care, I don’t like her friends anyway . . .” I don’t know why I’m going on and on, because, like I said earlier, I hardly ever talk to anyone about Christy being pregnant.

  Then I surprise myself by saying what I’ve been trying not to think about all along. “I really don’t want some little kid running around without a dad—some little kid of mine.”

  God. Now I’ve said it, I feel like crying.

  Mrs. Gould gives me another of those appraising looks. “You’re caught between a rock and a hard place.”

  I nod. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t have any answers for you. I called you in to talk with you about rights and responsibilities, and to strongly suggest you involve yourself in the after-school teen dad’s program. Too often no one pays much attention to teen dads, except to criticize. I always try to have a conference or two along the way, if I can find out who they are. Of course, the dads aren’t as easy to spot,” she says with a laugh.

  Mrs. Gould tells me I have a right to regular visits with the baby, and to total custody under certain circum­stances. Christy can’t put the baby up for adoption without my consent.

  “But I want her to put the baby up for adoption,” I say. “That way it would have good parents who really want it, and we could get on with our lives.”

  “That’s what you say now, but people sometimes change their minds after the baby gets here.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Well, just as Christy can’t give the baby up without your consent, you can’t force her to give it up either. But to make sure all of your rights as a father are protected, it’s important for you to get to the hospital when the baby is born, so you can be sure your name gets put on the birth certificate. That helps protect your paternity rights.”

  “I don’t want to think about this stuff,” I say.

  “But it’s stupid to hide your head in the sand. No offense intended, but haven’t you been stupid enough already?”

  “I guess,” I say, smiling.

  “Okay. Another thing teen dads need to know is that just because they’re kids doesn’t let them off the financial hook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it’s up to you to help support your child financially. That’s not just my idea. That’s the law. You’re working. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Part of each paycheck needs to go to the support of your kid.”

  I groan.

  “Isn’t that fair?”

  “It’s not fair that Christy got pregnant!”

  “But we’re talking about a child now. Your child. Isn’t that fair for the child?”

  “Shit!” I say, forgetting I’m with a teacher-type. She seems not to notice.

  “Yep,” she says. “Nothing easy about being between a rock and a hard place. Like it or not, though, that’s where you are. It might be easier if you were on speaking terms with Christina.”

  “Maybe,” I say. But that’s something else I don’t want to think about.

  For the rest of the school day, I have trouble concentrat­ing in my classes. Why does life have to be so complicated?

  As if my talk with the nurse hadn’t stirred up enough troubled feelings, my dad is waiting for me when I get home from school. He’s sitting in front of my house, in a new Jeep with a personalized license plate. H-A-N-K-4-0, it says. What is he doing here? He honks and waves as I pull into my driveway. I wish I could disappear. He walks up the driveway to meet me as I get out of my car.

  “Hey, Jeffie,” he says, all smiles.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He gives me a big hug. I stand, arms at my side, wondering why now.

  “I was thinking about you today—thought I’d take a chance and drop by, see if I could catch you after school. I couldn’t wait to show my main man this new toy of mine,” he says.

  Right. That’s why the Jeep has personalized license plates firmly attached to both bumpers. It’s like he still thinks I’m some stupid little kid. Everyone knows it takes at least two months to get California plates on a new car. But I let him think what he thinks. If he wants to pretend he just drove his car off the showroom floor and straight to my place, let him pretend. It’s nothing to me one way or the other.

  He puts his arm around my shoulders and walks me toward the Jeep. “Here, get in. I’ll take you for a ride.

  “I’ve got to get to work pretty soon,” I say.

  “Okay, just around the block.”

  I climb into the car. It still smells new.

  “What do you think? Nice, huh? CD player, leather interior,” he says, rubbing his hand along the back of my seat. “And check this out.” He points to a digital display over the middle of the windshield. “What do you want to know? Temperature? Direction?” He presses a button and the display says NW 72 degrees. “Great, huh?”

  I think of the Honda my mom’s been driving for twelve years. We’re heading toward the freeway.

  “Dad,” I say. “This is more than around the block. I have to be at work in thirty minutes and I’ve got to change clothes before I go.”

  I glance over at him. It’s creepy, like looking at an older version of me. Brown eyes. Brown hair. High forehead. Dimple in the chin. Pointy teeth to the side of the front ones. Our hands are alike, too. We both have long fingers, and our little fingers turn inward—not just a little either— they’re bent big-time. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg is my grandma’s description. No one else in the world has pin­kies like we do.

  When I was little I loved it when people said how much I looked like my dad. But then when I realized what a butthead he was, I wanted to dye my hair black, get my dimple filled and have my fingers straightened.

  “Still working at the gym?”

  “Yeah. I’m assistant manager now.”

  ‘You shouldn’t have given up football.”

  I just look at him. Who is he to be telling me what I should and shouldn’t do?

  “Do you miss coming out to the games and watching me play?” I say, sarcastically.

  His salesman smile fades. “I know, Jeffie. Turning forty caused me to think about my life. Little Donny, he’s seven now, you know. He reminds me of you sometimes, and I feel bad that I didn’t pay more attention to you when you were a kid.”

  I can’t look at him.

  “So, anyway,” he goes on, “I was thinking maybe we’d pile in the Cherokee and go camping over the long Memo­rial Day weekend. Just you and me and Donnie. Give you a chance to know your brother better . . .”

  My brother! That’s a laugh. I’ve seen him four times in my whole life. I guess technically he’s my half-brother, but whenever anyone asks me if I have brothers or sisters, I always say no. I can’t think of a total stranger as my brother.

  “Mom’s graduating from nursing school that Saturday. It’s a big deal,” I say.

  “She’d understand,” he says. “It’ll be fun, Jeffie. You can be with your mom any time. We haven’t been camping together since you were about four years old. Remember when we camped down at Doheny Beach?”

  I remember. He’d carried me on his shoulders out in the ocean, Mom yelling at him to not go out so far. I’d felt safe though, gripping his hair, laughing when he dunked me up and down. He’d built a fire in the evening and we roasted wienies. And then, not long after, he was gone.

  “Remember how much fun we had in the water, you on my should
ers?” he says.

  “No,” I lie.

  We pull up in front of the house, and it suddenly looks shabby to me. The paint is peeling around the front windows, and the driveway is all cracked. I know my dad lives in a fancy new townhouse over in Santa Monica, with his new family.

  I want out of the car, but I can’t find the door handle at first.

  “At least think about the Memorial weekend trip, would you? I know I screwed up, Jeffie.”

  I find the handle.

  “Everyone calls me Jeff,” I say. I get out and walk up the driveway to my back door. I don’t look back.

  After I’ve officially finished my shift at the Fitness Club, I get on a treadmill. I run seven miles an hour for forty minutes. Usually I only stay on the treadmill for twenty minutes. I guess I’m running off the conversation with Mrs. Gould, and the visit from my dad, trying to sweat everything out of my system. Too bad it’s not that easy.

  How could my dad just show up like that and expect to be all buddy-buddy? Usually I see him once or twice a year, near Christmas and maybe near my birthday. He takes me someplace for pizza, I open my gift, and he takes me back home. This year for my birthday he sent a check for twenty-five dollars and a card that said Happy Birthday Son on it. What had I expected for my eighteenth birthday, anyway? Pony rides and balloons?

  Now and then he calls, but usually it’s just to tell my mom that his check may be a little late. The last phone call he made he said hi to me, then talked to my mom and reminded her that his child support responsibilities end as soon as I finish high school.

  Then he turns forty, feels guilty, and decides a camping weekend in his Yuppiemobile will take care of all those Saturdays when something else came up. I’m sorry, big H-A-N-K-4-0.1 think it’s not that easy.

  Chapter

  14

  The people I’ve known all my life show up at my mom’s graduation. We take up a whole row of seats in the Hamilton Heights Community College auditorium. Next to me is Steve, then Stacy, then my mom’s best friend May, and May’s kids, Dayton and Norma, and some other people from the real estate office where my mom worked until just this week, when she started work at the hospital.