Lurkers

by Sandi Tan

  “I didn’t mean to scare ya,” he said, closing in on her. He was a gray-haired guy in a Buccaneers T-shirt so long you couldn’t see his shorts. “I’m Larry, your momma’s neighbor from next door. You came to visit with my sinkholes the other day, remember?” He reached out to shake her hand. “Katie—that right?”

  She nodded, relieved. “Yes, that’s right. Hi there?”

  “I saw your car drivin’ by, and took it for a hearse. Darn near leapt out of my skin!” He chuckled. “So I strolled over to see what the matter was.”

  “Where’s . . . do you happen to know where my mother is?”

  His smile weakened. “I’ll take you to her.” He gestured for her to follow him. “Come. We’ll hop into my wagon.”

  Kate trailed after him—he was a fast walker in spite of his limp. With the butt of his flashlight he struck random bushes, warning off snakes, critters, maybe even alligators. Bugs blew out of there like dust off a beaten rug, but the cicadas squawked unperturbed.

  “Is my mother all right?”

  “She’s doing okay. Your momma’s doing okay.” He turned back and glanced at her pregnant form. He paused, about to say something paternal, then changed tack. “Hope you have some DEET on you. Or these skeeters here’ll have you for supper.”

  “No. I got on the plane without much planning.”

  “Ah, don’t you worry. I have some in the van.”

  “What about yourself? You’re wearing shorts.”

  “Oh, no, they don’t want my blood. My blood’s poison to them. Ever since I started my chemo, but even after I stopped.”

  She didn’t probe. They came finally to Larry’s driveway. He had a modest ranch house surrounded by palms and ferns so well pruned they looked artificial. His wagon was a white Ford panel van, the kind pop culture tied to child molesters.

  As Larry’s vehicle tooled through the rural grids, he told her he’d been picking up Mary-Sue’s mail and Miami Heralds every day, and making sure that the green things around her house didn’t overgrow and “make the place look like Andrew hit it.” He was referring, of course, in his parochial way, to the hurricane of ’92 that still showed its traces in the area. Kate thought he was fishing for gratitude, and so she thanked him. Then, just as they locked their doors and sped through a less prosperous neighborhood, he told her how impressed he was by the way Mary-Sue had driven into “the colored parts” to take the elderly to the polls during the last election, and even bought them lunch without making a fuss about it. It was the first time that Kate had heard about this, and she was surprised by her mother’s sense of civic duty.

  “I respected her for doing that though my politics and hers don’t mesh. At all. It was like what they say—never the twain? But we’re gettin’ there, we’re gettin’ there.” Larry smiled ruefully. “I reckon most folks are good people, no matter who or what they are. They just want what’s best for them and their families. And if it makes me a darn liberal for saying that, then so be it. Sticks and stones.” He glanced at Kate’s belly for a second. “Tell me if you need to throw up. I’ll pull over.”

  Kate watched the broccoli-shaped silhouettes of fruit trees melt into the black velvet nightscape. She hadn’t seen a single light in miles. They merged onto placid Dixie highway, flanked on both sides by curved-neck orange street lamps that evoked a fuzzy tropical melancholy. They passed big box stores, pet hospitals, jet ski wholesalers, and key lime pie bakeries with windows long boarded shut—murdered in their sleep perhaps by the Pillsbury Doughboy. So many stores but not one bookshop or library. This was the land of people who couldn’t tell you what a dust jacket was. Yet, this was her mother’s land now.

  “Your momma’s a real spatial lady.” Larry shook his head. It was the third time he’d said that, in that manner, and Kate had to wonder if he was in love with her. In the past, Mary-Sue would never have had the patience for anyone with a Jesus fish stuck on his bumper; now Kate couldn’t be so sure.

  “Don’t know how you can stand to live so far away from her,” Larry said.

  Kate scowled. Okay, now this cretin was trying to lay a trip on her. He had no right, he didn’t know her at all! And who asked him anyway? Then when she caught the soft look in Larry’s eyes, she realized all he’d meant was, Don’t you miss her?

  “God bless her, she’s a tough gal,” he said. “Never loses hope.”

  “Just tell me what happened to her.”

  “With all due respect, I will let her tell it to you herself.”

  He signaled at the sign for Homestead Hospital, and Kate’s hands gripped the edge of her seat. The angry part of her that raged to tell her mother, “This is what you get for living out in this godforsaken place on your own,” melted away. She fought the queasiness that had overcome her.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” her voice was breaking. “I was so . . . worried . . .”

  “Because—well, I didn’t think it was my place to go against your momma’s wishes. You know what she’s like.”

  They pulled into the parking garage. Larry had the three dollars for the attendant ready in advance, obviously a regular visitor. He took one of the hundred empty spots.

  “What’s your last name, Larry?”

  “You’re not going to tell the cops on me now, are you?” he smiled. “It’s Burk. Without the e.”

  “If this ever happens again, can I call you?”

  “Let’s better hope this dun happen again. But yes, honey. ’Course you may.”

  Mary-Sue was sleeping on her belly like an infant when Larry escorted Kate to her room. Apart from the Band-Aid on her left temple and the outlines of gauze under her hospital clothes, she looked pretty much the same as she’d always looked. Kate was relieved. With her eyes closed and her body rising and falling in a steady rhythm, Mary-Sue even looked restful. But Kate could hardly bear to glance at her mother. Each glimpse of her in that bed was a confirmation of some unstoppable truth—we aged, we got weak, we didn’t love our mothers enough.

  The room was decorated à la Golden Girls—salmon, jade, brass, all thrown together in a budget-conscious stab at island style. It was also shared. The other bed was occupied by a large Jamaican lady named Maggie, and Maggie’s way of celebrating the recovery of her collapsed lung was to crunch through a colossal bag of spicy Doritos.

  “You her baby girl?” Maggie asked, looking Kate up and down. Kate nodded, bracing herself for the usual comments. “You look just like her.”

  Kate scanned Maggie’s broad, smooth face for traces of sarcasm and was surprised to find none.

  “You’re right. She does look like her momma.” Larry gazed at Kate with avuncular tenderness. “What nature didn’t do, nurture made up for. They hold their heads in the same way, talk in that same voice . . .”

  “The hands. They have exactly the same hands.”

  Larry patted Kate’s back as if he’d read her anxious mind—it’s all right, we’re all family here. With a Southern gentleman’s bearing, he glided over to Mary-Sue and took her hand in his, pressing it gently to rouse her.

  “Good morning, milady . . .” he cooed. “Look who we have here?”

  Mary-Sue’s eyes peeled open slowly. She looked around in a disoriented haze until she spotted the unusual new thing in the room—a pregnant brunette standing with her back pressed up against the wall.

  “Katie?” Mary-Sue’s voice was hoarse. Larry brought a cup of water to her lips.

  “Get closer to her, child, she ain’t gonna bite ya.” Maggie laughed heartily as she watched Kate keep her distance. “Or is she now?”

  “Mom,” said Kate. She took tentative steps toward Mary-Sue.

  “Baby, what are you doing here?” Mary-Sue said. The control freak in her was waking up. She eyed Larry. “How long has she been here?”

  “Only a few minutes.” Larry closed the pink divider curtain between the two b
eds, and went over to whisper something to Maggie when she objected. Then he tiptoed to the door.

  “Larry? Larry!” Mary-Sue croaked. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’ll be right outside.”

  “Come back and take Kate with you. I don’t want her to see me like this!”

  “Now, Mary-Sue . . .” He gave her a be good look and closed the door.

  Kate stepped into Mary-Sue’s sightline. “Mom, what happened to you?”

  “Wait for me at the house,” Mary-Sue said. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  “Will you stop being such a fucking martyr?” Kate pulled a chair close to Mary-Sue so neither of them had to strain their voices. “Why won’t you tell me what happened to you?”

  When Kate sat, her swollen belly settled before her mother’s eyes—and Mary-Sue registered the pregnancy for the first time. Her shocked face crinkled with tears.

  “How long were you going to keep this from me?” She reached out to touch the mound. “How long has my grandchild been in there?”

  “I left you messages. You never called back.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mary-Sue sighed and looked away. “I fell down in the parking lot and hurt my back, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

  “Oh, was that all? And you preferred to have me worried sick, thinking you were attacked or murdered, than return my calls?”

  Mary-Sue shuddered at the word attacked. Kate softened her approach. She held her mother’s hand, moved at how tiny and pale it had become. But Mary-Sue pulled away before Kate could see the happy-face scar on her inner wrist, , her souvenir from the unfortunate encounter with a Prius in the Publix lot. (Mary-Sue hadn’t heard the damn car coming; the driver didn’t stop because he never realized he’d hit her. It was a prosaic, irritating, humiliating, expensive mishap.)

  “I’ll pay you back for your airplane ticket,” Mary-Sue said, “if you want to go.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Mom, who did this to you? I’m not going to judge you or think you were asking for it.”

  “Of course I wasn’t asking for it! I don’t want to discuss it anymore.” Mary-Sue’s eyes ignited. “I hate being this frail, okay? You think it’s fun being old? Catching up with friends, finding new hobbies? That’s all a pile of horseshit. Propaganda from drug companies, corporate America and the fucking AARP!”

  Mary-Sue calmed herself down by staring at Kate’s belly.

  “Is there a father in the picture?”

  “No.”

  “Well, who’s going to take care of you when the baby comes?”

  “I’m the age you were when you got me, and you did it on your own.”

  “How many more months?”

  “Four. I think.”

  Mary-Sue paused. “Move out here. Let me take care of you, and the little one. At least till you’ve figured it out.” Then realizing the ridiculousness of making this offer while she lay in a hospital bed, Mary-Sue started laughing.

  “Don’t burst those stitches.” Kate placed her head on the bed next to her mother’s arm. A wave of exhaustion swept over her and she closed her eyes. She felt like climbing onto the bed and curling up by Mary-Sue, sucking in her Mommy smell. She could sleep right there, she could reclaim every one of the million and forty winks she’d lost.

  Neither of them heard Larry open the door.

  “Oh, forgive me, ladies. Take your time. I’ll be right outside.”

  “No, Larry, don’t you go.” Mary-Sue jerked her head up. “Take this woman with you. I’ve got to go to the bathroom anyhow, and I doubt that either of you want to be here for that.” She reached for the nurse’s call button and pushed it. “And don’t you let her come back till I’m on my feet.” She elbowed Kate to get up. “Hospitals are so damned depressing. If I were you, I’d go to the Coconut Grove and get myself some piña coladas—and yes, they make virgin ones for persons in your condition. Or South Beach, where the young people like you congregate. Take an airboat ride through the Everglades. Just don’t come back here. Hospitals are such awful, awful places. And Larry?”

  “Yes’m?”

  “You be her jailer. I’m holding you to it.”

  “Yes’m.”

  School was back on, and as usual it felt like a long-running CW show that’s sprung back from hiatus. The same, only older and more emotionally promiscuous—more laughter, more tears, often both at once. New haircuts, new clothes and new backpacks to fit the better-defined character arcs everyone had acquired. They strove to open themselves up to new ideas and new friends, and there was always much mingling between the sexes, the cliques, the tribes, this first week.

  By the second week, all the old storylines and allegiances would kick back in. Winners and losers would head to their respective turf; those who were neither to their former corners, sick for the long, unconfused days of August. But this was only the fifth day and the laissez-faire spirit hadn’t yet dissipated. Arik had on his faded Green Day T-shirt—now his “lucky shirt”—and Rosemary wore a peasant blouse with baggy blue jeans, and they walked side by side through the piazza around which the school revolved. Where they previously would have each taken elaborate detours to avoid this heartless runway, they now crossed it with nary a qualm. For years, the mock-Grecian balustrades on three sides of the quad had been claimed by the seniors, who text-messaged and people-watched until the last bell rang, sparing no one their withering commentaries, especially not the awkward freshmen in pastel sweaters dispatched by BMWs like unwanted Easter eggs and the pierced punks who drove their moms’ minivans. The ongoing remodel of the piazza had left these social predators homeless; without their perch, they now struggled to find pillars to lean against in order to look cool.

  Rosemary and Arik sauntered to the Shakespeare wall, a garish mural (purportedly of Stratford-upon-Avon) created by talent-free sixth-graders bussed in from some “urban” pocket right after the 1992 riots. The Wall was where the ragtag theater geeks hung out—not that Rosemary and Arik belonged with them either—hunched around stone benches, exchanging sacred texts of Kenneth Lonergan’s This Is Our Youth and Playbills saved from trips to see Dame Judi Dench on Broadway. All of these kids, with the exception of Arik and Rosemary, dreamed of being on an HBO series. A handful absorbed the annoying tics of various characters from The Sopranos, though the person who did the most chillingly precise impression of Tony Soprano was a petite Latina named Ana Baretta. A couple of the kids had headshots made for their birthdays, and chattered about building up their resume of special skills; the boy who took juggling classes in London over the summer showed off with little beanbags (“English juggling’s more evolved than American juggling”), the girl who went to mime camp paddled through imaginary rapids, and the South Asian twins, Anil and Ashok, who called their comedy duo the Aryan Brotherhood, shared fresh material about “kikes” and “Chinks.”

  Three months ago, Rosemary would have found these people vaguely amusing; now, she saw them for what they were. Repellent loveless outcasts. Freaks.

  “Fuck me, it’s the phantoms!” said the fat boy who asked to be called Betty. “Where have you been? You two just vanished from class like Vin Diesel’s career.”

  “I had to go to my grandma’s in Oregon,” Arik said, calmly. Rosemary almost believed him—he’d become such a good actor.

  “Et tu, Lucy Liu?”

  “I quit,” Rosemary said. “Lost interest.”

  “Oh.” The boy tried to fathom how anyone could have lost faith in something that meant the world to him. “You’re still welcome to hang out here though, if you like.” He lowered his voice. “We badly need to improve this gene pool.”

  Rosemary and Arik gave each other a look—Let’s amscray.

  As they fled the Shakespeare Wall, Betty called out after them in his falsetto: “In case you’re curious, we’ve been reading the canon with Mr. De S
ouza, who’s even more pretentious than Mr. Z, if that’s even possible. No farces—imagine!” He made a face. “He’s issued a fatwa against Neil Simon . . .”

  Behind the aluminum shed that stored the theater props, Arik and Rosemary stood in a foot of fallen leaves. There were five minutes left to steal and they devoured them greedily. Once their lips locked, it became impossible for them to keep their hands off each other. Rosemary wouldn’t let Arik pull away even after the last bell rang.

  “Let’s cut school today,” she gasped.

  “If we did that today, I’d never come back.”

  “Then let’s not come back.”

  “What about Workshop?”

  “Fuck that, it’s retarded.”

  “Rose . . . you’re crazy. Where would we go?”

  She was effortlessly coquettish all of a sudden. Her hand slid down the waist of his jeans until it found his swollen cock. She fondled its tip, and rubbed the silky-soft ridge. Arik trembled.

  They kissed deeply again. He put both hands down the back of her jeans and squeezed her ass. “Oh, Rose, I want to fuck you . . . I need to fuck you.”

  A few feet away, there was a rustling in the leaves. They looked up, expecting the groundskeeper, José. But it was Mr. Z, approaching the props shed with a heavy red backpack in his hand. When he saw them, he froze in his tracks, as if he were the one caught in the act.

  “Mr. Z,” said Arik, his voice all jittery. “We were just practicing. For Workshop this afternoon.”

  “I see,” Mr. Z said. He cast his eyes on Rosemary for her excuse.

  Instead of speaking, she reached around Arik’s waist. He flinched, self-conscious in Mr. Z’s presence. Still, something egged her on—she rested her head on Arik’s chest and gazed back defiantly at Mr. Z, her fingers tracing the edge of Arik’s fly.

  “Well,” Mr. Z said, giving her the lifeless stare of a disappointed parent. Dark rings were forming under his eyes. His chore at the shed interrupted, he turned to leave. The red backpack seemed to weigh down his arm even more than before.