He kisses my forehead. I tilt my face and pull him close for a gentle kiss. His arms tighten, he presses against me, and the kiss gets hard and deep. He tastes like he’s been eating rodents.
I pull back and make a face. “Yuck! What’s that?”
His chuckle shakes the headboard. “Beef jerky. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be crawling in my bed today.”
I wave the air between us. “It’s fetid.”
“All right, I won’t breathe on you.” He rolls on his back. “Come here.”
I lay my head on his chest and he strokes my hair. I press my ear against his shirt. His heart beats lazy like a rocking chair. This is a good place to freeze time, right here, this very second.
“So, what did MIT say to your pretend mom?”
A telephone rings. Mrs. Pangborn’s heels clatter across the tile floor in the foyer. Her voice echoes up the stairwell, chattering about nothing and nothing and nothing. She is a fab saleswoman.
“Kate?” he asks softly.
I smooth his shirt over his chest. It’s a new shirt, I haven’t seen it before.
“I, um, I lack ‘oomph,’ that’s what the MIT god told my mom.” Spots dance in front of my eyes again. “I am one of a million wannabe geeks—great, just not great enough. And my essays sucked.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“So . . . you’re not going.”
“I’m not going. And look, I know things are a little weird between us right now, but please don’t make me talk. I just need you to hold me because it sort of feels like gravity doesn’t work anymore.”
He pulls me close.
“Not that tight,” I say. “I still need to breathe.”
“Sorry. Is that better?”
“Great, thanks.”
Mrs. Pangborn’s voice moves from the foyer to the kitchen. I can picture her taking the salmon out of the refrigerator. She’ll smell it to make sure it’s fresh. She’ll turn on the oven, spray a pan with no-fat, butter-tasting chemicals, and wash the vegetables.
Mitch’s voice rumbles deep in his chest. “Which safety are you going to take?”
I have not been nice enough to Mrs. Pangborn. She offered to go shopping for a prom dress with me a few weeks ago, and I blew her off. That was bitchy of me.
“Kate?”
“I said I didn’t want to talk.”
“You don’t have a choice. This is your life. Which safety?”
I curl into a ball and pull the sheet up over my head. “I don’t have a safety.”
“What did you say? Speak up.”
“I only applied to one school. MIT. I thought I was a sure thing.”
“So I was right? You never wrote those essays, that’s why you wouldn’t show them to me?”
I pause to swallow the jerky taste. “Much as it kills me to admit it, yes, you were right.”
My boyfriend, my enemy, my lust lies still for a moment. “What does your dad say?”
“He doesn’t know. You’re the only person who does.”
His heart is beating faster. Mine is about to propel me out of the bed. “If you call me stupid or laugh—”
He takes a deep breath. “Man, it’s hot in here.” He stands up, crosses the room, and opens the windows over his desk. Seen through the cotton weave of the sheet, his edges are blurry. He leans forward to look outside. “So . . . no college in September. That sucks. Really. I’m sorry.”
The oven door bangs in the kitchen. I bet we’re having spaghetti at my house. Spaghetti and bread. I bet Teri isn’t hungry, not after choosing a casket. It’s funny, the funeral director had his casket pictures in a heavy-duty, three-ring binder, the kind you use at school that would last all the way to June if you’re lucky, the kind you fill with handouts that have carefully punched holes in the left margin, holes that you reinforce with sticky white circles because you don’t want to lose any handouts because you never know what you are going to be tested on.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
I shrug, but he can’t see it. “I’ll come up with something. I guess I have to, don’t I?”
“Yep.”
Whatever is out that window sure must be fascinating.
“What’s up with you changing your major?” I ask.
“Mom told you, huh?” He turns around. “They’re thrilled.”
I take the sheet off my head. My hair crackles with static electricity. “Yeah, but economics?”
“Yep.”
I sit up and cross my legs. “What happened to history? You love history.”
“Waste of time.”
“I’m calling the tabloids. You’re a clone. The real Mitchell Pangborn has been abducted by aliens.”
“Nope. This is me. I’m finally growing up, I guess. Time to deal with real life.”
“But Mitch, you’re going be a college professor. You don’t like dealing with real life.”
“I changed my mind.”
I wave my hand in the air. “Hello? When did this happen?”
“When they put Mikey’s body in the ambulance.” He looks out the window again. “I’ve never seen a dead person before. Well, I did on TV, but that doesn’t count. One minute he was there, he was running around, his nose was snotty, and then . . . then I heard Teri scream and you scream. Everything got crazy. They put him in the ambulance. Farting around with ancient history is a waste of time. I want to do something useful, something that counts.”
I pull a pillow into my lap. “International economics wouldn’t have saved Mikey.”
He picks up a pile of papers from the carpet and shoves them in the trash bag. “No, but it’s practical. Why are you arguing with me? You’ve been telling me history is a waste of time for years.”
“I think I was wrong. I think you should study something that you love.”
Mrs. Pangborn calls up the stairs. “Dinner in ten minutes!”
“I’ll learn to love it. Are you staying for dinner? Mom’s been asking where you’ve been.”
“I can’t. I already told her. I want to see how Teri is doing.” I take my keys and a pack of gum out of my purse. I unwrap two sticks of wintergreen and put both of them in my mouth.
Mitch shivers once. “It got cold again. God, I hate spring. Blizzard, heat wave, blizzard, heat wave.” He shuts the window and pulls the curtains together. His edges blur again.
I sling my purse over my shoulder. “Teri and I slept at her house last night. In Mikey’s room.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to.”
“You can’t let her boss you around like that, Kate. You have to take control.”
He gives me another beef jerky kiss before opening the door. “Thanks for coming over. It’s kind of cool that you were worried about me.”
My mask slips back into place. I can hear the elastic band twang, vibrate, then go still. I smile. “Thanks for listening about the college thing. You really helped a lot.”
When I return home, Dad is sitting on the front porch with Ms. Cummings. The two empty teacups and a plate with cookie crumbs on the table are her touch. If he were alone, it’d be a beer bottle and an empty potato chip bag.
“There’s pizza inside,” Dad says.
“Did Toby eat?”
“He’s over at a friend’s house. I thought it would do him good to get away for a little bit.”
“What about Teri?” I ask.
“Watching television,” Ms. Cummings says. “She said the two of you were going to sleep at her house again.”
Well, no, actually I want my own bed, all to myself with clean sheets and no Litch odors or ghosts.
“Yeah,” I say. “Whatever. How is she?”
“Quiet. The funeral is all planned. Everything is ready. ” A rusty pickup truck barreling down the road backfires loudly. The sound makes Dad wince.
“Did you take your migraine medicine at dinner?” I ask.
“I forgot.”
“I’ll get it for you.” I p
ick up the cookie plate and teacups. Dad stands up to get the door for me.
“Is Mitchell Pangborn all right?” Ms. Cummings asks. “I heard he missed school today. He almost had the record.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame.” I pause on the threshold. “He lost it.”
11.0
Alpha Decay
SAFETY TIP: Fire-polish all rough glass edges.
It is Tuesday. The sun is supposed to shine. There is something obscene about burying a tiny body on a spring day that smells like lilacs.
I’m fighting something viral. It’s winning. I’ve got chills, my head hurts, and I want to heave. My eyes are so irritated and dry that I can’t get my contacts in. I shouldn’t have gone running last night.
I slip the black dress over my head, reach around, and pull up the zipper. A black velvet headband keeps my hair out of my face. I put on my glasses. A perfect little mourner stares back from the mirror, with clean hair, depressing clothes, and low-heeled shoes. Got to do something about the bags under my eyes.
Teri changed hours ago. According to Toby, she climbed up to the bell tower of the church and has been working her way through a pack of cigarettes. Shock is hardening her into something metallic and permanent.
Over in the church, Betty starts playing the organ. Funerals are an occupational hazard in a minister’s house. I grab a thick black sweater and button it up.
Mikey’s casket is the size of a small toy chest. It’s closed, thank God. Teri folded his favorite blanket and set it on the foot end. She taped some of his drawings to the sides. The casket rests in front of the altar, a wooden island in a sea of outrageous flowers: roses, hyacinths, tulips, carnations, daffodils, lilies, mums. There has never been so much color in this church before. It makes my nose think of jazz in Central Park.
As people walk in and take their seats, Betty plays Sesame Street tunes on the organ, which is a first for this church. Teri insisted. Betty was worried that it wasn’t quite holy enough or something. But this morning she said Jesus came to her when she was watching a quilting show on channel 17 and said He’s a big Sesame Street fan, and that she should play with joy.
Toby and I sit near the front. Mitchell, Sara, and Travis join us. Mitch is decked out in a suit and tie, his shoes shined. Travis put on corduroys and a button-down shirt with a tie. I had no idea that he owned a tie. Sarah is wearing a red top and a long, twirly skirt that has little mirrors sewn into it. She doesn’t believe in wearing black to funerals. She gives me a hug before she sits down. People keep coming, more people than I would have thought. The entire hardhat crew is here, all the kitchen ladies, the ambulance drivers, our principal, and a couple of teachers from the vo-tech and preschool, and the librarian.
Teri walks her mother down the center aisle with some help from Ms. Cummings. They sit in the pew in front of us. All of us—Toby, me, Mitch, Sara, and Travis—reach forward one by one and pat Teri’s shoulder. She doesn’t move.
Betty changes to a dirge. No more Sesame Street. We stand and try to sing. Dad isn’t even mouthing the words. When the last minor chord warbles away, we sit. Dad takes his place in the pulpit and bows his head. In this light, there is more white in his hair than brown.
One minute ticks by.
He’s staring straight down at the closed Bible in front of him. Two minutes. My hands curl into fists, the nails biting the palms. People shift in their seats, bulletins flutter, throats clear. Dad doesn’t move. Three minutes pass. Quiet muttering starts in the back of the church. Choir members nudge one another through their gowns. Their pointy elbows look like baby wings.
Dad raises his head. His slack face is streaming with tears.
The conversations stop.
Sara pokes me. “Is he okay?” she whispers.
“Maybe you should do something,” Toby says.
Cripes.
“Something could be wrong,” Sara says. “Help him.”
Just then, Dad pulls a white handkerchief from under his black robe and blows his nose loudly. When he tucks the handkerchief away, he forces a smile. “Sometimes even your pastor can’t find the right words,” he says. “If you will open your hymnals . . . ”
Dad is back on track. The adults in the congregation sigh and spring into action. They fumble a bit with their hymnals, looking for the right pages. Toby takes my fists out of my lap and loosens my fingers. The service rolls on: a prayer, a hymn, more prayers, a sermon. It’s like a stage play, with Dad as the leading man. I try to think of the casket as a prop, but it’s useless. Every time I look at it, my stomach flips over.
After half an hour of religion, it’s time to wind things up with a closing hymn. Teri chose “Rubber Ducky.” I can’t get the words out.
11.1 Beta Decay
TV news cameras have set up across the street. They film the mourners crossing the driveway that separates the church from the graveyard. They focus on Dad and Mr. Lockheart carrying the casket, zoom in on Mrs. Litch leaning on Teri’s arm, on Teri’s frozen face, the run in her stockings, her work boots and flowered dress. Look at the stupid, poor people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people. Look at the stupid people, poor people, burned-out people, look at their dead baby. It’s death porn for the masses.
Dad and Mr. Lockheart set the casket down next to a small hole dug in the ground. Mikey’s grave is in the back corner of the cemetery, uphill from the Litches’ house. (He and Mr. Lockheart will lower it into the grave later. People don’t like to watch that part.) Betty helps Teri guide Mrs. Litch to the folding chairs lined up by the grave. The rest of the crowd tiptoe in and stand with their heads bowed. My friends and my brother join them. I can’t. I stay outside the gate, my back to the cameras. I flex my fingers, try to get some circulation going. Even though the sun is shining, it’s freezing today.
Dad opens the faded book and speaks the old words. As he reads, Teri puts her head in her hands and sobs. Dad has to speak louder to be heard. A cardinal lands on my mother’s tombstone and chirps, looking for lunch or a mate. Dad can’t see it from where he’s standing. I have to study the pebbles under my feet and breathe through my mouth. I do not understand death. It is a physical law that energy is neither created nor destroyed. So what happens when people die?
The wind picks up and more birds fly overhead. Teri keeps crying. Dad’s voice cracks once. He pauses to rub the back of his neck with his left hand. Other people are sniffing, wiping their eyes. Travis and Sara have their arms around each other, her head on his shoulder. There is still a bit of yellow paint behind his ear. He hides his face in her hair. Mitchell has his hands clasped behind his back. Toby is sitting on the ground plucking grass. Dad’s voice deepens, calling on God, spirits big and small. Mikey is, Mikey was, Mikey will be nevermore. Dust.
I walk around to the front of the house and open the door. Somebody has to start the coffee and get the napkins out.
After the funeral, the mourners invade our house armed with casseroles and sympathy cards. Dad greets them at the door. After a quick handshake, they move to the living room to pay their respects. Mrs. Litch sits on the couch, flanked by Betty and Ms. Cummings, the three of them holding cups of black coffee jittering on china saucers. Respects are paid—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, we’re so sorry for your loss,” playing over and over and over again. Mrs. Litch is wearing sunglasses. She nods her head like a queen. Teri is nowhere to be seen. Betty tells people that “she’s resting, poor dear.”
Part of our church’s funeral ritual is to stuff your face. The dining room table is buried under cakes, plates of sandwiches, chips, dips, and several varieties of tuna casserole. I set up the coffee urn and pitchers of iced tea on a card table. The cakes and cookies are laid out on the sideboard. I buzz around resupplying paper plates, cutting cake, and mopping up spills. I make sure there is enough toilet paper in the bathroom. My flu symptoms seem to have abated. Maybe I ate something that was spoiled, or the lack of sleep caught up with me.
Toby disappears into his room with h
is Game Boy and Mr. Spock. Teri is gone, too. I’m too busy to worry about them right now. I send my friends back to school, back to normal. We all hug-hug, kiss-kiss. Mitch tries to hold on too long. I squirm away.
The adults mingle and murmur—“I’m so sorry, we’re so sorry, have another piece of that nut bread, did you get something to drink, your rosebushes look so healthy, what are they going to do, is it true what I heard, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree . . . is that a new dress?”—blah, blah, blah. Nobody talks to me, which is fine. The cat raids the ham platter and I stick her in the basement.
And then they leave. Betty and Mrs. Litch are the first to go, then the choir, then one by one the house empties, the cars fill up, and they drive away. Dad has changed out of his robe and into jeans and a sweatshirt. He mutters something and walks back over to the church. I bet he’s going to take a nap on the sofa in his office. I wash the dishes. It’s my house, after all.
Toby joins me in the kitchen once the coast is clear. “They’re gone?”
I set a bowl of tuna casserole on the floor for Mr. Spock. “Perfect timing. The show is over.”
“Excellent.” He cuts a monstrous piece of chocolate cake and takes a quart of milk out of the fridge.
“Use a glass.”
He sighs and grabs a cup. “Dad sleeping?”
I spoon ambrosia salad into a plastic container. “Yep.”
“What’s with all the food?”
“It’s for Teri and her mom. I’m going to freeze it. We can take it down to their place once they get the kitchen finished and the electricity fixed.”
“Ummm.”
While he eats, I pack up the food. Leftover casserole is dumped into plastic containers, the extra ham is wrapped in aluminum foil, sandwiches are wrapped in plastic. I work steadily, the little engine that could. Toby eats another piece of cake. When he’s finished, I point to the dishwasher. He licks the plate before putting it in.
“Is this what it was like when Mom died?” he asks.
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