Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  “Jesus,” I breathe. I slap LeeLee’s arm when she bursts out laughing. “It’s not funny!”

  “I’m sorry!” LeeLee gasps. “Ho-ly shit, Schmule, how old are you again?”

  Schmule pops the last sticky crumb in his mouth. “Why do people keep asking me that?”

  “Um, because you sound like a freakin’ college professor? Are you a midget by any chance?”

  “Midget is derogatory,” he admonishes, gaze glued to the excited, jostling kids. “You should say dwarf or little person.”

  LeeLee digs money out of her purse. “Here, go jump. You know you want to.”

  He recoils. “Didn’t you just hear me say I have no-o-o suicidal impulses?”

  “It’s not a good idea,” I add hastily.

  “Why not?” LeeLee nudges him playfully. “You chicken? Bra-a-awk, brawk, brawk!”

  “No!” he yells, but with a funny, intense kind of hunger in his eyes.

  “It’s perfectly safe.”

  She shoves the money at him. He looks at it, comes to a decision, and asks me anxiously, “Will you watch?” Taken aback, I nod. LeeLee brandishes a fist of triumph. “Will you call 911 if something happens?”

  “Nothing’ll happen,” I say without much assurance. “Go, already.”

  “Yeah,” LeeLee adds. “Be a kid for once.”

  Schmule slides off the bench and wanders away. “Why did you laugh?” I demand. “He is depressed.”

  “So what’re you doing about it?”

  I falter. “Well, he’s on medication—”

  “Oh, goody. Drugs.”

  “—and he’s seeing a psychiatrist.”

  LeeLee flutters a hand. “You guys are wa-ay off base.”

  I know what she’s getting at. “My dad won’t let him see Fran. We already talked about it.” I look away. “It’s not up to me, anyway. I’m not his mom.”

  “Right. His mom’s dead. Well, one of ’em, anyway.”

  Wordlessly I get up, gather the trash, and toss it into a bin. LeeLee follows me over to the bungee jumper line, where a zit-faced, gum-cracking guy straps Schmule into a harness.

  Behind me, she whispers, “If you’re so worried about him, Shawna, then do something.”

  “What, LeeLee? What can I do? My dad—”

  “Do you have to do everything he says? What is he, like, God?”

  I move away and watch apprehensively as Schmule rises by degrees closer to the ceiling. Face pinched, he clings to the sling with both fists, growing smaller and smaller by the second.

  LeeLee’s hand encircles my wrist. “What’re you gonna do when you find him hanging from a rafter? Or dead in the garage with the motor running?” Her nails bore through my sweater sleeve. “I don’t care about Fran. But tell me this: did he get to say good-bye?”

  “I don’t know,” I whimper. “I wasn’t there.”

  “It’s wrong,” she insists, as if I don’t already know this.

  Schmule, a tiny blur, reaches the mall ceiling after his momentous climb. For one breathtaking second he dangles, helpless, and then plunges downward with astonishing speed. I hear him scream as his impending death dawns on him with sickening finality, scrunch my eyes shut in terror—

  And then he leaps on me, hooting with joy. “Did you see? Did you see me jump?” He hugs me hard, nearly dragging me to the floor. “Ha, Shawna, you, like, totally freaked out! Why’d you scream? Did I scare you? DAMN, that was a blast!”

  LeeLee meets my burning eyes behind Schmule’s head. She forces a smile. Dizzy and embarrassed, I manage a nod back, because I know why she’s smiling.

  82

  A while later in the car, Schmule says, “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “Well, make up your mind.” Sorry, but I’m losing patience. This is nerve-racking enough without all his hemming and hawing.

  “Maybe I’m mad at her. Because she lied, okay? She says it’s wrong to lie and then she does it herself. Like, my whole life!”

  I just asked him how Fran told him the truth about our mom. He said she’d blurted it out and then abruptly left the house, leaving Arye to deal with Schmule’s reaction. Schmule hit her when she came back. Then he cried so hard he threw up.

  “Well,” I say gently, ashamed of my snarkiness. “You have to decide, Schmoo.”

  He bites his lip. “I know.”

  I touch his knee. His clammy hand covers mine.

  83

  The next week, we do it.

  “You remember what I told you.”

  Schmule nods.

  “Say it,” I command.

  “I won’t stay,” he chants. “Even if she says no, I’ll still come back out.”

  “And?”

  “And I won’t tell her anything that’s going on in the house. Nothing personal, I mean. Can I tell her I have a Wii?”

  “Yeah. But nothing about me and absolutely nothing about Dad. Got it?” He nods, making a face. “Okay, now tell me why you have to come back out.”

  “Because your dad might call the cops and Mom’ll be arrested for kidnapping. You’re not making that up, are you?” he adds suspiciously.

  “Nope.” Well, at least contempt of court.

  “Oh, yeah,” he goes on. “And your dad will, like, ser-i-ous-ly kill you.” Your dad, Schmule says. Never “my dad,” or simply “Dad.”

  “Right. So promise me.”

  “I already promised you a bajillion times! I won’t say anything personal and I’ll be out in, like, fifteen minutes. I’ll even climb out a window if she locks me in.” He seems intrigued at that idea.

  “She won’t.” Though I’m not so sure.

  Schmule glows with heart-wrenching happiness. “I’ll come back, Shawna. I swear.”

  Now for the clincher. “So what’re you going to do for me?”

  “Be good. Don’t act crazy in school. Go to the stupid shrink. And,” he finishes reluctantly, “be part of the family. Be nice, even to, yuck, Aunt Colleen.”

  I pop the button to unlock his door. “Okay, go. See you in fifteen minutes. I’ll park down the street and meet you over there.”

  He needs no encouragement. He jumps out of the car, races up to the porch, and lets himself into the house with the key he’d wisely never returned.

  The illuminated numbers on my dash read 8:25 p.m.

  I know they’re not expecting him. I know they’ll wonder how he got here. Sure enough, the front door flies open and Fran dashes out to the porch, startled, searching. Not wanting to answer any questions, or even face Fran after what we just put her through, I hit the accelerator and park halfway down the street. Hopefully she can’t tell my car from the others parked at the curb.

  Then I stare at the clock and wait.

  84

  8:28: Well, Shawna. I hope you’re happy. You just made everything worse.

  How could I make it worse?

  8:30: He won’t come back. Why didn’t you go in with him?

  I didn’t want to go with him. I’m not part of that family.

  8:33: She’ll keep him forever.

  He promised he’d come back.

  8:37: Promises mean nothing. He hates you. He hates Dad.

  Shut up, Mom. Or me. Whoever you are.

  Plus you just blackmailed the poor kid. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed?

  La, la, I’m not lis-tening anymore . . .

  8:39: Do the right thing, do the right thing. Ha, ha, ha, you played right into your father’s hands. You’re Daddy’s little girl, Daddy’s STUPID little—!

  “SHUT UP!” I bash both hands on the wheel.

  8:40.

  85

  8:42 . . . 8:43 . . .

  And then my car door swings open and Schmule leaps back in.

  “You’re three minutes late!” Cold perspiration drips freely down my back.

  “Sorry,” he whispers, fastening his seat belt.

  Breathe, Shawna, breathe. “Are you okay?”

  He nods. “Mom wants to talk to you. She wants
to ask you why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you brought me here.” He turns his face away. His breath fogs the window.

  I glance fearfully into my mirror. No one in sight.

  I can’t believe Fran let him go. I can’t believe she didn’t barricade him in.

  “Well?” he demands, glancing back at me.

  It would be so easy to get out of the car, walk up those steps, and knock on the door.

  But then what?

  I peel away from the curb. “Maybe next time.”

  Schmule’s face lights up like nothing I’ve ever seen. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

  “I hope so.”

  As long as Dad doesn’t find out.

  86

  The next two weeks in a row we do the same thing. Schmule suffers through his head-shrinking; then, instead of stopping by the mall—the excuse I give Dad so he won’t wonder why we’re late—I drop him off at Fran’s, park down the street, and wait.

  Thirty minutes the first week. An hour the second. No more than an hour, because the mall closes at nine.

  I don’t speak to Fran. I’m afraid she still hates me.

  I’m more afraid that she doesn’t. I deserve her hatred after everything that’s happened.

  After the second visit, Arye IM’s me: Thanks.

  Me, stupidly: You’re welcome.

  Arye: Why don’t you come in next time?

  Me: It’s better if I don’t.

  Arye: Can we TALK at least?

  Me: Talk about what?

  Arye: Stuff.

  Me, embarrassed: You don’t have to be nice to me.

  Arye: LOL. Me, nice?

  I type nothing, unable to think of a reply.

  Him: Well, thanks. It means a lot.

  Me: I know.

  87

  The following week, Arye’s waiting on the sidewalk. Schmule high-fives him, rockets inside, and Arye jumps into the front seat before I can zoom off.

  “What’re you doing?” I yelp.

  “Let’s go get some coffee.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Tea, then. Whatever.”

  Bizarre ideas batter my brain: Arye sticks a gun to my head and forces me to drive a hundred miles. This gives Fran and Schmule a significant head start to the Canadian border. Dad, of course, kills me, dismembers me, and dumps me in a national forest. I make CNN. All of Wade Prep turns out for a candlelight vigil. Cadaver dogs discover my remains. Susan weeps over my casket: how could you die without forgiving me?

  “You fly, I’ll buy,” Arye says, with no clear intention of getting out.

  Too rattled to argue, I let him direct me to a coffee shop on Coventry. We sit together at a small table like boyfriend and girlfriend, only in abject silence. I watch him covertly. Arye’s still stocky, though not fat, and shorter than me, but he lost the lame ponytail. Dark hair, as curly as Schmule’s shorn locks, frames his sober face. I can’t see his eyes through the glare on his glasses.

  “So why are you doing this?” he asks me at last.

  “Because I think it sucks what everyone’s doing to him?”

  Arye stirs his coffee before he speaks. “That first time Schmule ran into the house? I thought my mom was having a heart attack. She didn’t want him to go. She totally spazzed out when he said he had to leave.”

  “Why’d she let him?” I wouldn’t have.

  “He said he promised you.”

  “Well. He did.”

  Arye shakes his head. “I can’t figure you out.”

  “I can’t figure me out, either.” I sip my usual chai latte. I don’t want to talk about me. “So, what’s been going on?”

  “Well. . . Mom hasn’t found another job yet. Aunt Rina’s letting us live here rent-free, but she can’t afford that forever. I told Mom she can cash in my college fund if she wants to pay for a better lawyer. But she says enough’s enough.”

  “Cash in your college fund?” I repeat in horror.

  “You’d do the same thing if it’d bring back your brother, right?”

  Yes. In a blink of an eye.

  Arye looks straight at me. “So what’re you risking by pulling this off every week?”

  “My head.” I giggle weakly. “If my dad finds out, you’ll see me on Forensic Files.”

  “Well, he won’t find out from me.” Inexplicably, he rests a finger on my wrist. I stare at it, mesmerized. “Not to make you feel worse, but . . . my mom’s not the same. She hardly gets dressed. She won’t take phone calls. Aunt Rina almost put her in the hospital a while back. But now . . .” He flushes. “Okay, this sounds dramatic. But now it’s like she has something to look forward to, you know? Like, every Tuesday she comes back to life.”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about you guys when I decided to do this,” I confess. “I just want him to be happy. I’m only doing it for him.”

  Arye links his fingers through mine. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay.”

  A peculiar energy passes between us. I study his hand. Square, like his mom’s, with bitten-down nails and wisps of fine black hair—

  I plunge ruthlessly back to reality. “What time is it?”

  “We still have fifteen minutes.”

  “No. Let’s go back.”

  He releases my hand and grabs lids for our cups, and we don’t speak a word on the way back to his house. Schmule wanders out as soon as we pull up—proof once again that Fran didn’t whisk him to the airport and abandon me to the wrath of the Gallagher wolf-clan.

  “Maybe we can do this again?” Arye nudges me hopefully.

  Something new prickles inside me. Something kind of nice. “Okay.”

  “And . . .” He hesitates. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But do you think you could bring him for Shabbat one Friday? My mom would love it. I think he misses that stuff.”

  Maybe, but what excuse could I give Dad? This mall story won’t hold up forever.

  “You can come, too.” With that, he touches my face. I’m utterly immobilized. “Seriously. My mom wants to talk to you.”

  “I know.”

  Arye waits. There seems to be no way out of it.

  “Um, this Friday might work,” I mumble, mind racing.

  “Cool.”

  Sliding out of the car, he exchanges a friendly punch with Schmule before Schmule jumps in. On the way home I only half listen to his chatter, because I’m thinking, insanely, about that burst of electricity. That bizarre, totally out-of-the-freaking-blue attraction to: Arye Goodman? How is this possible? God must be laughing his ass off.

  Then I notice the heart-shaped picture frame in Schmule’s lap. The one Fran clutched to her chest when I found her crying in her room. “Did Fran give you that?”

  “Yeah.” Schmule extends it face out. Mom and Fran smile at me, their fingers intertwined, the single red rose brilliant against Mom’s white gown.

  “I like it,” I croak.

  He touches Fran’s face. “Yeah. Me too.”

  88

  LeeLee gawks at me after school on Friday. “You want me to lie for you so you can get Schmule over to Fran’s?”

  “Not lie. Just cover.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, let alone come up with another way.

  LeeLee, true blue, agrees. “Say you’re bringing him over to my house to play with the kids. Just keep your cell on you in case your dad calls me or something.”

  “Omigod. I totally love you.”

  “Sh-h!” LeeLee gleams wickedly. “We got enough rumors flying around.”

  “Shut up,” I say around my smile.

  I tell Dad the “plan” for tonight. He repeats, “Play where?” as if I just suggested Schmule take a leisurely swim in a crocodile-infested swamp. “Mm. I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Dad. Schmu—Sam doesn’t have that many friends of his own yet. It’ll be fun for him. Maybe he’ll pick up some Spanish.” Not that this is much of a selling point with Dad.

  “Well, I’m taking Julie out for her birt
hday tonight, so . . .” I wait. “Don’t be too late, okay?”

  “We won’t. Tell Julie happy birthday.” I kiss his cheek, and hug him an extra second. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  89

  Schmule skips up Fran’s steps ahead of me. “We’re he-e-ere!” he shouts.

  I lag back, not entirely convinced Fran won’t disembowel me on sight. But she rushes to the living room, smiles when she sees us, and hooks an arm around Schmule’s neck. “Hey, dude.” She kisses his head with a loud smack. Her brown eyes meet mine. “Welcome, Shawna. Shabbat shalom.”

  “Shabbat shalom,” I repeat, and accept a glass of wine as Schmule torpedoes to his room. “Um, where’s Arye hiding?”

  “He’s here. But first I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  Crap, I think as she guides me to the sofa and sits beside me. Here goes.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I twirl the glass of purple liquid. “You don’t have to thank me. Really.”

  “I think I do. I can’t even guess how you’ve been getting away with this, and, well, I appreciate it. More than you can imagine.” Fran’s own glass trembles in her hands. “You can trust me, Shawna. Do you understand? I won’t use this against you. Ever,” she adds firmly.

  I believe her. Suddenly, all my fears about her smuggling Schmule out of the country disappear just like that. She wouldn’t do that to me. She’d never do it to Schmule.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. The same words I’ve repeated so many times over the past few weeks. “I’m sorry this whole thing happened.”

  “Me too. But . . .” She zones out. I wonder if she’s thinking about my mom. Cursing Penny Sorenson for being stupid and selfish. Maybe cursing herself for playing along from the start. For living the past ten years of her life knowing that something, like this, could happen at any time.

  Feeling jumpy, I finger my cell phone. I haven’t planned any defense should Dad track me down, but that’s not very likely. I bet he’s whistling once again as he rolls back the bedsheets, elated at the chance to be alone with the birthday girl.