Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  From his hunched over position, Steve groped upward until he had Matt’s t-shirt in his hand. Clutching at the fabric, he yanked, but it didn’t bring Matt down. Instead, the hulk jerked away and kicked. Steve’s arm snapped back with a horrible sound

  Then it hung limply at his side.

  “Please, no,” I whispered, started to see things that weren’t there.

  Cruel faces jeering.

  Ronny standing over me, fist raised.

  Mom dabbing makeup over bruises.

  Slamming doors.

  Mom crying out in pain. Me unable to do a thing.

  Kyle asking to sleep in my bed.

  Pulling the covers over my brother and me. But they don’t muffle the sounds.

  Bitch! Slut! I’ll fucking show you.

  “No, no, no.”

  Steve glanced down at his arm, then at Matt, before punching wildly with his left. One jab connected with Matt’s jaw and wrenched his head back.

  “Stop it!” Jan shouted. “You’ll get us busted!”

  Retreating, I backed into a corner and sunk down to the ground. Why won’t they stop?

  Matt cuffed Steve’s shoulder. Struck his gut, chest, neck.

  I drew my knees up to my chest and began to rock back and forth. “You guys p-please, no more. No more. No more...”

  More crashes.

  “No, no, no.”

  I guess either my tears finally got through or they were tired, because a moment later the fight was over, and the counselors were gathered around me.

  “Hey Joy, you okay?” Gina asked, patting me on the back.

  I rocked. “It’s so wrong.”

  “I know,” Gail said.

  I gazed up at Matt and Steve with gulpy sobs. “You guys should f-forgive each other.”

  “Grow up, kid.”

  “Matt!” Gail chastised. “She’s fifteen. Give her a break.”

  “Like you did me? Fuck you.” He stormed toward the exit and shoved the door, slamming it against the wall with a bang.

  I looked to Steve, hoping my innocent eyes would change his heart. “But we should have peace,” I sniffled.

  Steve wiped his nose on the back of his forearm, leaving a trail of blood and mucus. “Sorry, kid. That’s a dream. A song on the radio.”

  Gail went to him, a wad of napkins in her hand. He took them but when she tried to touch his shoulder, he jerked away. “Leave me alone.” Then he followed Matt out the door.

  The room got so quiet you could hear the waves crashing on the beach way below.

  I tugged on a stray thread that was hanging from my tank top. The hem started to unravel.

  Gail chewed on a fingernail while a crossed-armed Jan shook her head.

  Gina broke the silence. “Well, that was a friggin’ blast,” she said, holding out a hand to help me up.

  I took it and we shuffled back to Clipper Cabin.

  Twenty-Six

  Joy

  “Carl?” I called approaching his trailer. “You around?”

  He wasn’t sitting in his usual lawn chair, which looked even more forlorn without leathery legs filling it. I went up to the steel door and knocked.

  “Vat is it?”

  “Oh, just Joy. I thought…”

  “Vait un moment.”

  Maybe this wasn’t a good time. Today, his friendly-as-a-Kindergarten sing-along voice was clipped and angry. He sounded more like the Sex Pistols’ Sid Vicious than a German Mr. Rogers. I hung my head and started to turn away when the door flung open.

  “Ahh, Joy. For you I visit.”

  “You sure?” I asked, not wanting to be a bother.

  “Of corze.” He waved a hand, inviting me to sit on a lawn chair.

  I hesitated. His gray-blue eyes weren’t sparkling, and no smirk lifted the corner of his mouth.

  “Sit!” he insisted.

  Nodding quickly, I lowered myself into the chair.

  “Zo. How are you?” he asked, taking the seat opposite.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged.

  “Somezing has happened?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It was bad.”

  “So, tell me.”

  How could I tell him the previous night’s events without talking about weed? Carl was a man I looked up to, a minister, mentor, grandfather, and teacher all rolled into one. If he knew I was getting high, he’d lose respect and might not even talk to me anymore. Couldn’t deal with that.

  “I saw a fight last night. Steve and Matt,” I began. “It was horrible. They really hurt each other. Then I tried to get them to make up, but it didn’t work. Why?”

  “Humans are complicated, Joy.”

  “But people should love each other. Make peace. Like John Lennon and the Beatles used to. I read—”

  Carl cut me off. “So you sink zat those four men never got angry? Or fought?”

  “No way. They sang that we should give peace a chance.”

  “Just because one sings a song does not change zee fact zat zey are human. With many nuances.”

  “I know, but when someone hurts someone else, on purpose. It’s, it’s…” My throat got tight as I struggled to find the words.

  Carl patted my knee. “It iz very hard to see the ugly side of man. I, too, have vitnissed such things. That is one of the reasons I am here.”

  I sniffed and dabbed my nose on the corner of my tank top. “You never told me.”

  “Why repeat sad stories when such beauty surrounds?” He jerked a chin toward the blue Pacific below.

  “Yeah, but still, I’m curious.”

  “Suffice it to say that I vas married and in love. A father. A husband. And happy once.”

  “They died?”

  “No, no, no. All three are living.” He stared at the ocean again. “Far away.”

  “People go away. I know about that.” I paused, trying not to think of Dad. “But you’re so nice. Everyone likes you. It doesn’t make any sense. Not like me. If I’d been better, Dad would have—”

  “Stop now! You are not to talk zis way. You are as beautiful and amazing as the sea around zis island.”

  “But I make people want to go away.”

  “You do not. They make their own choices, that have nothing to do with you. As did Matt and Steve. I heard of zee fight and understand. When two men pine for zee same woman, he who loses become very angry.”

  I nodded, trying to understand. I really didn’t get it.

  Carl must have known that because he raised a finger and said, “I have something for you. I vas going to wait until your last night, but I believe you need zis now.”

  He rose from his chair and hobbled inside his trailer. When he returned, he was holding something in his hand. He limped down the steps and turned his fisted hand over. Slowly, he opened his thick fingers.

  I gasped.

  There in the palm of that wrinkled hand was a piece of abalone shell cut into a perfect teardrop. Its turquoise, pink, and lavender colors swirled around a fingernail-sized nugget of blue sea glass. Combined, the two looked just like the sunrise I’d seen over Empire Landing when our cabin had gone on a pre-dawn hike.

  I extended a single finger and touched the smooth shell.

  Carl smiled and went over to his workbench where an assortment of rope, plastic tubing and shoelaces hung on pegboard. He ran a finger over the wall and shook his head and then fumbled around in one creaky drawer for a few seconds before drawing out a long string of leather. This he laid flat in front of the yardstick glued into the edge on the bench. As he measured the leather and trimmed it to size, he kept glancing back as if sizing me up.

  With the long piece of leather cut, he threaded it through the hole he’d bored into the abalone and looped the cord so it would lie flat. Then he pulled out some needle nose-pliers and attached something to both ends. A few minutes later, he was dangling a beautiful necklace in front of me.

  The stone caught the light, reflecting rainbow shades onto Carl’s trailer. I blinked and smiled, my eyes br
imming with tears.

  “Well, stand up zo I may put it on.”

  Nodding, I turned and lifted my hair.

  Carl draped the necklace over my throat and did the clasp. Then he patted my shoulder.

  “Zere. Keep this. As a reminder.”

  I didn’t ask him of what. But I knew.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Twenty-Seven

  Joy

  The Following Year

  This molded plastic bench below deck sucks. Why can’t the people that run the Catalina Express make comfortable seats? Probably wouldn’t cost much to throw a few cushions down. Jeesh. I know the trip only lasts an hour, but when you have a skinny butt like mine, hard seats dig into your bones.

  Especially when you are on a less than triumphant trip home.

  Shit. Going home again. And it started off great. I was so jazzed because I’m sixteen and got to be a counselor in training. We called them CIT’s for short. Sounds cool, huh?

  I’d passed sailing, canoeing, and was about to take my kayaking test when I got caught with a pipe. This time, it wasn’t a cool counselor wanting a hit who found it, but some straight-edge named Martha, who wore shorts so long you’d think she was living back before women could vote. She marched me double-quick up to the camp director, who said she wouldn’t send me home, but that I wouldn’t be welcome back.

  Ever.

  I couldn’t tell Carl. No way. Instead, I pretend-strutted up to his trailer, hoping my shining pendant would keep him from noticing the fake smile on my face. It must have worked, because as soon as I topped the rise, he limped toward me saying he was glad to see me still wearing it but that it was time to make a new chain. Since I never took it off, a year of swimming showering, and sweat had pretty much worn the leather out.

  “Joy. You look better zis year,” he commented.

  It was true. Things have been better. Two whole years without Ronny’s fists; well, except for those couple of times when I got in trouble. Then it happened again. Not that I explained it to Carl. I never told anyone about it.

  I undid the clasp at the back of my neck and passed him the necklace. He carried it over to his workbench and began measuring a new piece of leather. A little thicker this time.

  “Yep. I sent some of my poems to the school paper. They even published two. I’m thinking of joining.”

  Carl looked at my necklace. “As you should. Just like zis abalone shell, you are many colors, Joy. Make zem shine.” He finished attaching the new clasp and fitted the pendant around my neck.

  I made sure to visit every day but that last one was hellish hard. After packing and making sure my campers were all set to board the boats, I made an excuse to Martha and stole up to Carl’s trailer. We chatted for a minute or two before the conversation lagged and the sound of the ferry boats arriving told me it was time to leave.

  Tell him the truth, I thought.

  I rose from the faded lawn chair like I always did, ready to say goodbye with a nod. But that didn’t feel right. With a rush of emotion choking my throat, I reached out both arms to give my mentor a first, and last, hug. I expected that leathery skin to be soft and supple like a well-worn wallet, but instead I was met with a skeletal back barely covering his bones.

  Tell him, I thought, as I clung to him like a reluctant toddler resisting going to preschool.

  As if not knowing how to respond, Carl patted me on the back and I finally let go.

  You’re such a wuss, Joy. And a fuck-up

  I swallowed hard to hide my tears. “’Bye, Carl.” I turned quickly, blinking them away.

  “Zee you next year!” he called.

  No, you won’t.

  With a final wave, I walked down the steps into the fog, toward the waiting ferries that would take us to the Isthmus. For the next half hour I kept busy, herding my campers onto the gangplank, telling my fellow counselors that I would write, and smoothing little Heather and Sydney’s hair. All of Dinghy Cabin squeezed my waist before boarding the Catalina Express for Long Beach.

  And my counselor-in-training job was done.

  I staggered up the tilted deck toward the bow and looked down at the waves lapping against the hull. Thought about how different this day was from that first twenty-nine-mile trip, when I’d watched shining waters meld with an azurine sky.

  Today there was no sun.

  Only fog misting my cheeks and an ink-black sea reflecting shadows.

  Twenty-Eight

  Joy

  I’ll be a senior in a couple of weeks, and you know what? The colors are better right now. Not from being high, but from two whole years with hardly any black and blue. No Mom buying four jars of Cover Girl Camouflage or wearing long, dark sleeves. Instead, she’s sporting flouncy sun dresses and her glowing skin shines pink.

  Not that the last two years have been all rainbows. I’m not an idiot. That horrible fistfight on Catalina last year wasn’t the only one I wished I could hide in a puff of grey smoke. One race war between Stoners and Cholos made me wish I had superpowers to stop it.

  I was at the fair with Lisa. We were laughing and shaking our skinny butts for every fox that walked by when this crowd started to gather near the Flying Bobs. When we trotted over to see what was happening, we found a group of chest-thumping Stoners from our school faced off with about eight or nine Chicanos.

  Seething anger vibrated the air so much I could feel it pressing against my chest. Clutching my t-shirt, I gaped as kids I usually thought were cool struck war stances, as if they were in some friggin’ elite squad or something.

  Jelly Brain Jeff, usually the campus joke, was about as funny as infanticide when he pulled off his leather belt and snapped it together. “Go back to Mexico, dirty spic!” he shouted.

  One of the Cholos smoothed his Pendleton shirt. “Fuck you, white boy.”

  I grabbed Lisa’s arm, praying it would end there. People were massing, and the cops were sure to be called soon. I closed my eyes and made a wish. Police, please come.

  Wishes don’t always come true.

  A second later, Chuck, a Stoner I’d actually thought was hot, swung his wallet chain at my friend Gabriel, who grabbed it and pulled. Chuck fell forward and the two hit the ground rolling, clawing, and scratching.

  A second later, they all went at each other like a bunch of crazed hornets over spilled Coke. It was chaos. One dude hurdled into the nearest Cholo, who arm-blocked him before crashing into the next guy. Feet kicked as dust rose and swirled. Three more white guys flew at Chicanos, their arms raised like angry wings. It was a friggin’ arthropod tornado.

  Jelly Brain Jeff approached a junior-higher so tiny he probably didn’t even have pit hair yet, and knocked him down. Then the fucking jerk grinned at the audience while raising his belt overhead. He flicked his wrist and the air cracked. Next, he whipped it over the boy’s head, taunting, teasing, tormenting.

  No! my mind screamed, as time stretched. He’s just a little kid.

  “Spic,” Jeff spat, before bringing the belt down like a whip. Its lashing tongue left a tire-track welt across the kid’s face. He turned toward the crowd and raised both arms triumphantly.

  Asshole.

  A tall guy named Beto rushed forward and cried out, “Hermano!” Then he knelt by the young kid’s side and cradled his face in the crook of his arm.

  By now, a swaying Gabriel and Chuck were back up with fists swinging. When one connected, Chuck’s head snapped back like an old Bop Bag clown that’d just been punched. He went down with a crash.

  A few feet away, Beto’s face had turned an angry shade of purple. Jelly Brain had just attacked his baby brother. Never removing his gaze from Jeff’s back, Beto rose to his feet.

  Then I saw the glint of steel.

  “Blade!” somebody cried.

  Bile rose in my throat and I covered my mouth. The knife loomed as I waited for the hand of God, or Zeus, or Superman to freeze time.

  In that moment, I imagined how every belt, chain and knif
e would be transformed into a flower. Next, the clouds would part, and a great voice would blare from the heavens. We would hear tales of brotherhood and how color is only skin deep. Then each flying fist would become a high five and each snap-kick a warm embrace.

  Of course, none of this happened.

  A second later, Jeff fell to his knees clutching his gut. The police whistles sounded. And we all ran.

  Lisa and I dashed out the gate toward the parking lot, not stopping until we reached her rusty Volkswagen Beetle. As soon as we hopped inside, I pulled out a doobie and some matches. I didn’t know why, but my hand was shaking when I tried to light one. Even though Lisa reached out to steady it, I couldn’t stop quivering. I finally gave up and handed both to her. But even Lisa had to try three times before sweet smoke was clouding the car windows.

  This was a quiet high and neither one of us said a word. Instead of giggling, we sat in that dirt parking lot looking back at the fair. Earlier, it had been bright and full of color, the most exciting thing to hit our town in months. Now, the gleam had been replaced with the harsh neon of night.

  The distant voices sounded less like a summer family than an angry mob. Instead of wafting cotton candy and kettle corn sweetness, an animal manure stench rode toward us on blue smoke and cigarette ash. I took a long hit and the Ferris wheel lights blurred.

  Then we got out of there.

  The world is changing. The war is over, and they say civil rights have been won but I don’t believe it. I mean, look at that fight at the fair. You’d think Martin Luther King Jr. had never marched or said “I have a dream”. I wonder if that revolutionary flame has been snuffed out.

  After years of bong hits and shots and making life the colors of imagination, there’s still this barrier, an invisible line dividing kids into whites, Mexicans, and blacks. Oh, sure, we cross over and party with each other, but we all know that there’s this glass wall between us.