I get rid of my father’s misshapen word. Go to my blog. And I am surprised by a message in my comments. Usually no one comments on my posts.
“Very thought-provoking poetry.”
Thought-provoking? I’ve never had a comment other than from a handful of friends on the school’s literary magazine—and my mother—on my blog. The comment is from Brent. I don’t know a Brent.
“Thank you!” I write back, thinking that he must have randomly found my blog.
In a minute another comment snaps in. “I like your use of metaphors,” he adds.
That will be that; we’ll move on. But it’s not.
“‘She is I; I am her.’ Was this poem to anybody special, Claire? I understand if it’s hard to talk about your writing. I find it hard, too. I have to tell you, you should use a period instead of a semicolon. They lead to disorder, not order.”
He’s quoting the first line of a poem that I wrote earlier in the spring, immediately after my mother’s stroke. Is he a writer, too? Is that why he’s reading my blog? I really need to know who he is. And he has picked my favorite line in the poem.
“There is so much there. Like you are inside of these people, on the outside but looking in.”
That’s exactly how I feel: I’m observing the world, taking mental notes, on the outside, close enough to see but far enough away. I peer at the screen, waiting.
Nothing. Blank. White.
“Where did he go?” I say aloud. I study his sentences. He likes to write in full sentences like me.
But he’s gone as randomly as he found me, he’s gone—leaving me hanging, alone, listening to the crickets. The sweat beads at my neck. I throw off my blanket.
Finally, after a long minute or two, he adds another comment. “I want our conversation to be private, is that okay with you? May I call you? I found your phone number online, too.”
His voice in my head is clear: gentle, halting, questioning, and shy.
The house phone rings and I race for it in the kitchen.
“Claire?” he says. He sounds just like I thought he would.
“Do I know you?”
“No,” he says after a pause, as if he wants to be sure and careful.
“Are you in high school?”
“Not in high school,” and then he adds, “not anymore.”
I knew it. I just hope he’s not an old guy. That would be too weird. That would mean I’d have to hang up.
“If I don’t know you, I shouldn’t be talking with you. What’s your last name?”
He tells me, and I hang up on him. I’ll show him. But nothing comes up with that name on any search. This makes him more intriguing, absorbing, captivating—synonyms pile on one another.
Here is someone new.
I see if I can call his number back, and I can. It’s local and knowing the phone numbers in North Lakeshore, I can tell it is from that part of town. I hope this isn’t a prank. But he urgently asks, “Claire, are you okay?”
The shadows on the kitchen wall dance behind me. I am small against the exaggerated shapes of trees and this makes me feel slightly disoriented. The outlines grow, tremor, monstrous. “I didn’t find out much about you,” I say, breaking from the shadows. I turn the kitchen lights on.
“Not much to find out. But I am concerned about you. Are you okay?”
My white T-shirt is clinging, damp. My hair is wrapped around the side of my neck. Everything inside me is tight and knotted, but I like hearing his voice. “I’m okay.”
“I sometimes feel like I’m standing at a window, looking out at the world. Or, I am a bug. Like Gregor Samsa? Kafka, do you know Kafka? Are you still on your blog? I am going to send you a link to a picture so you’ll see that I am not vermin. You won’t be able to download it, but it’s the best picture that I have. Claire, is that okay?”
“Slow down. I shouldn’t be talking with you.”
“Claire.”
“I don’t know you.”
I return the phone to the receiver carefully, and trace along the walls to my bedroom, thinking: this is strange. Kafka? Of course I know Kafka. I had to read his novella, Metamorphosis, in eleventh grade, about a traveling salesman who wakes up one terrible morning as a bug. Who is this guy kidding? Believe me, if he thinks that I am some naive little girl, he has something else coming. I’m not clicking on any links.
I check in on Izzy, who is curled up in the corner of her bed. Unlike me, she is a light sleeper. Her head is thrown back on her flower pillow. She’s tangled in her sheets, one thin leg on top and one lost inside. I straighten up the sheets and say to myself: I love you more, knowing I’m saying what my mother always said to me. I love you more. Izzy doesn’t know that these are our mother’s words. My mother always said that, like she always called me angel, even when I wasn’t acting like one, like purple was her favorite color and lavender her favorite smell. There are things I remember about her, but other things I don’t, like her face before the stroke.
Back in my bedroom, I climb back into bed but ignore the laptop. I scramble for a pen and some lined paper. I can write the old-fashioned way. Wasn’t I going to try to write a haiku? Five, seven, five, isn’t that the form? Five syllables are all I need for the first line. But I can’t think of five. All I can think of is: I’m not going to click on his link.
I turn off the lights. Once again, I am alone in the house with the shadows.
* * *
After a half hour or more, in the dark and quiet, hearing his voice in my head say, “Claire,” I reach out and click on the link.
He’s older than high school, maybe in college, twenty, or twenty-one even. He has dirty-blond hair and sideburns. He’s striding across a campus with red stone buildings in the background. He is lanky and lean and muscled. He’s not exactly smiling. Maybe he hates having his picture taken, like me. And he’s carrying a book at his side. I can’t make out the title, even though I zoom into it; the book is turned into his side. It’s not a textbook, a slim paperback. His face is upturned toward the camera—forthright and intelligent and sincere. I think my mother would say he was interesting looking, if not a bit rakish. She used to like words like that: rakish. I zoom into his hand, the one curled around the book. It doesn’t have the heft of a textbook. Maybe it’s a graphic novel, or maybe a classic? Kafka? I inspect the picture closely. He doesn’t look dangerous or weird at all. And he is tall.
The phone rings again, and I hurry for it, thinking only: I don’t want it to wake up Izzy. But part of me knows, I want to hear the voice attached to that photo.
“Claire,” says Brent. “Where were you? I was worried. Did you get my picture?” He almost sounds as if he’s been running, or maybe it’s me.
“I did.” I’m not about to tell him he’s not hideous. I don’t want him to think I care that much about how he looks. “How old are you?” I ask instead.
“Twenty-one.”
“You know how old I am?” Once he learns how old I am it will probably be the end of this conversation. He won’t want to deal with a high school kid, even a senior.
“Old enough, Claire.”
“Sorry. Seventeen.”
“Sorry? You are very mature.”
I don’t know how he knows these things about me. I feel like I’ve gone from a kid to a grown-up in one summer.
“Do you know what it means to take control? To be free, Claire?”
A car rumbles down my street and I rush to the front window, but it’s not him. Not my father. “Brent? What time is it? It must be late. I have to go to sleep—don’t I? Don’t you?”
“I understand. Maybe we can meet someday, Claire?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” he repeats.
“It will be up to me if we meet.”
“Claire, one must listen to one’s inner voice.”
What I do is listen to him exhaling sharp, short breaths into the phone for a moment more before I ask, “Should I go? To sleep, I mean?”
“I
never sleep,” he says.
“I wish I never slept.”
Claire
Saturday, 12:15 A.M.
HAIKU
by Claire Wallace
Free, untouched. Freely—
unmasked, understood. Freedom—
undone, unraveled.
Barkley
Saturday, noon
The sun, high in the sky, strikes hard. I sweat. My sunglasses streak. The world is blurred. I retreat to a sliver of shade along the concrete wall of the men’s restroom. The damp from the showers or toilets sears my back. I feel different. I’m running on coffee and cigarettes. Coffee, cigarettes, and Claire.
Claire is the only one who knows that my true name is Brent. In all my hopes and dreams and plans, I am Brent. After this summer, I will be known by that name. I will do what so many others in Hollywood have done: change my name, reveal who I am truly meant to be.
I pace along the concrete wall. Max Cooper said noon, right here, before his one o’clock shift. He has the money, he said. I am trying to be helpful, to be here on time. I am never late to a promised engagement. I was never late to class, not to one class at that community college. I would show up early, even, wait in my seat for the professor. Never late for class. Perfect attendance.
Finger inside my pocket. Individual pills nestle in plastic bags. Jared, my cousin, has been supplying me with them all summer. He’s pushing me to distribute more. Even give them away—the first time. Samples. “Get them hooked. Like big fat fish, it shouldn’t be hard, Barkley?”
Jared has marked the bags with handwritten labels. Dumb titles. The ones in my pocket are Big X and Gators. Jared drove down to Florida and visited doctor after doctor, hunting for prescriptions, complaining of an aching back. I did not want to participate in this. But he said just once. Then once became twice, and then there was money for things that I needed. And so I bought things that I needed: extra-large coffees, a gun. I have money for my own trip at the end of the summer. I could go anywhere. Los Angeles. It is the only logical choice. Claire must come with me. I nod my head like I’m listening to music, but what I’m hearing is the voice, not Jared’s voice of course. His is high-pitched and anxious. The voice is calm, ringing of truth. O when will you come with me?
I wipe my head dry with my sleeve. Unlike me, Jared has pockmarked skin and shoulder-length hair. His ice cream truck plays music at decibels prohibited by the city. His policy is: kids first. He sells ice cream out of one window and pills out of the other window to anyone who looks over eighteen, a lot of parents.
Jared has never even received a parking ticket. Always makes his ice cream cones like towers. Always gives out free sample of ice cream to kids. He makes his profit from the pills.
Do I think for a minute that I should not be selling? I plan to use proceeds to leave Long Island and attend film school on my own terms, not my parents’ terms. My life will not be wait-listed.
And everybody is selling something. Or at least, this is what the marketing professor taught. Turn on the television or the Internet and all you see are ads. Everybody is selling something. America is capitalism. America is the free market. The business of America is business. That was his marketing 101 class. Taught by someone who had lost his job in corporate America. What else did the professor with the cheap haircut say? America is about a sucker born every minute, or was that history class? I was never late for class, not once, not even the day it snowed and classes were canceled. I was there.
Jared calls the doctors’ offices “pill mills,” interesting terminology in our post-industrial age. Mills were once places in America where steel or cloth was produced. We appropriate terms from the past, give them new meanings. This is how our society progresses, or not. We manufacture little steel or cloth, but have “pill mills.”
When I first said this about words, about their new definitions, in the English class, the professor called it “provocative.” He liked to use words and phrases like this. “Thought-provoking. Provocative. The rules we live by are under fire. Even simple rules. One has to start with definitions, doesn’t one?” That’s what he said. He never used one word if he could use two.
My field of vision narrows. Sand flies bite at my ankles. “Hey, Bark,” comes a voice from behind me.
Cooper is wiry, muscled, and something else. Taller. Now at the end of summer, we stand almost eye to eye. He will be even more competitive on the varsity soccer team this year.
Once I was the assistant manager to the varsity team. But I could never make the team. Nevertheless, my father said I would be an “awesome,” “unbelievable,” “phenomenal” player. He urged me to work harder. It was a lie. At least I was there at every game, never late, not once. In eleventh grade, I was briefly given the job of keeping track of the team stats. They became jumbled and confused. The coach asked me to be in charge of supplies instead. Now I count water bottles at the Snack Shack every day and I am fine with arithmetic. Nothing is wrong with my counting skills.
“Barkley, what’s up?” He shifts his gaze left and right. “Everything good? Can’t believe I’m here at the beach early today.”
“Sure,” I respond with care. “You are one great employee.” Nevertheless, I must clarify. “You said you would be here at noon.”
“What time is it?”
“Not noon.”
“You didn’t have anywhere else to be, did you, Bark?”
“You are looking good, Max.” He does not look comfortable at the compliment, or maybe it’s with me using his first name like we were friends.
“Last day.”
“You are working second shift to closing.”
“Still thinking you’re the manager?”
His voice may be friendly, his eyes are not.
Beware, my friend. He is not listening. But we know better. We know who has the ideas; we know who is the one who holds the future. You are the one. Only you do. You walk perfectly. Smile.
I adjust my sunglasses. But I cannot smile. I can only focus on Cooper. See into him and understand that his motives are less than pure. Blue eyes range under heavy dark brows, a nervous, hungry pose. “I have exactly what you need. I am here to help you.”
“Good!”
Cooper speaks in exclamation points—like he is overcompensating, slapping me on the back with every sentence. “I have a back that feels like it’s been stretched on a torture rack.”
“I want to help.”
Cooper leans into me. I back away. He is not allowed to touch me. “Are you sure these are prescription, Bark? I don’t do drugs. It’s just not my thing. Are these from a doctor?”
“Dr. Jared” is the joke my cousin makes. But I am not good at jokes. “Maybe this is not a good idea,” I say, testing the demand.
“For who?”
“Not a good idea.”
“Not a good idea?” he repeats, as if this is ironic.
I do not like it when people repeat what I say. Thoughts must be original. The pills go back in my pocket. I do not like or appreciate irony, or repetition.
On the beach, a hundred yards or so from us, people stake out a plot of sand, the essence of capitalism, the illusion of owning the land and sea and air. I scan over the bikinis, tensing. I have learned to beware certain colors, that they represent warnings and signs like weather flags. Red flags indicate a high hazard from surf and current. Yellow or green flags, and you should exercise caution. My warning sign is special to me—pink.
“Barkley, you okay, man?”
A boat bobs at the horizon. I follow it across the beach and spot her at the edge of the crowd, off by the dunes, on a purple-and-white striped towel. A much younger, blond child runs around her. The little sister in a bathing suit with pink stars. And then from the ocean waves: Claire.
I zoom in on her: Claire, dripping wet, rises from the crest of a wave. She is not in pink. Claire is a girl who, I am sure, would never wear pink. Now that I have her, I know I have always wanted Claire, the one who writes poet
ry, the quiet, lonely one. I know loneliness. I know sadness. Her breasts push against the top of her bathing suit. My father’s words echo, “Big tits,” and I block them out. I do not want to hear his voice in my head. I listen for the other voice, but I am alone. I suck in a breath, smell disinfectant mixed with seawater. Everything reeks of low tide, of downed ships.
Cooper shifts from one foot to another. He may be the state senator’s son, but he lacks focus. “Do you ever think of the politics of it all?” I ask him.
“Of what all?”
He is as unhearing as his father. “Of who we are? Of what we want? We all came from the sea, didn’t we, Max?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your father is running for reelection, isn’t he?”
“Everybody knows that.”
“But does Glenn Cooper know who controls his chances?”
“Who?”
“People like me.” I close in. “Maybe even me.” Max Cooper backs up against the wall outside of the men’s bathroom as if giving me a clear shot with my mind’s camera. He offers me an inconsequential smile. I continue, “He has to listen to me.”
“Hey, he has to listen to everybody—except me.” He glances side to side as if someone is watching us. No one is. I know he wants his pills, but as the representative of Glenn Cooper, he has to listen to me now. And Max Cooper is full frame: sweat breaks across the bridge of his nose, the dimples disappear, the skin is unevenly scorched by the sun, peeling, blotched with acne. My mind’s camera films all imperfections.
Before My Eyes Page 9