I look away, away from them both, from my psychologist parents who are now practicing their craft on me. I survey Mom’s teapot collection on the wall, glazed clay renditions of citruses and berries, plus a smattering of select vegetables and flowers. I examine a strawberry with handle and spout, note the attention to detail. There’s even brown specks freckling the crimson surface, representing tiny hairs.
I regard a piece of ceramic fruit and wonder how this happened, how it came to be that I’m not comfortable in a room with my mom and dad, that the air in our kitchen feels as tense as an exam room during SATs.
I don’t know what to say to these two clinicians who until about a month ago were the parents I could say anything to.
Until Joey came over.
It started with his hands. Mom got weird immediately, when she shook his hand. That’s when her voice took on that soft, sing-song tone, like she uses on her patients. It was like she was trying to shrink Joey out, but even worse, because she wasn’t doing it to help him. No, she was gathering history like he was in a study. You know, one of those hopeless cases therapists deconstruct, picking them apart so they can help others avoid the same fate.
Then Dad came home, and he barely spoke to Joey. He just watched him.
It reminded me of the reptile room at the zoo. Like Joey was this creature, this lizard behind glass, and Dad was observing him from the other side.
There we were in the living room, separated by the black Art Deco coffee table topped with this week’s flower arrangement, lilacs. Their heady, too-sweet scent was everywhere. Mom sang questions and Dad observed from the stiff, mocha-colored leather couch while Joey sat sunken into the burgundy, overstuffed sofa across from them, hands tucked under the seat of his jeans, Nikes shuffling on the Persian rug. I sat next to Joey—cross-legged—getting more and more incensed by the change in my formerly liberal parents. Apparently an open mind closes real fast when your sixteen-year-old daughter’s involved.
In her soothing voice Mom asked how old he was (seventeen), did he plan to go to college (he did not), then what did he plan on doing with his life (he was studying auto mechanics at Boces). She asked what his father did (police officer), oh, my, how did he feel about his dad having such a dangerous job (he didn’t feel anything about it, it was just a job), what did his mother do (homemaker), where did they live (on the other side of town), did he have brothers and sisters (two brothers, sixteen and nine). And, of course, she asked what had happened to his hands (he sucked in some air at this one, let it out, and then said he’s had some trouble with people egging him into fights). He answered Mom’s questions and took in Dad’s scrutinizing stare without complaint while I seethed. What was next? Maybe Mom would request blood and urine samples. Finally I said Joey and I were going to hang out in my room, and you would’ve thought I’d said we were going to go screw or something the way they balked. For a second I thought they were going to say no—well, at least Mom, as Dad had apparently forgotten how to speak—and if that happened, that would’ve been it ….
But that didn’t happen, so I can’t say what I would’ve done or said.
Mom and Dad looked at each other, like they were having a wordless discussion, and then Mom sang-songed that it was fine. She said she’d call me for dinner. Then she asked if Joey would be staying, but her voice changed. The way she asked that, like the words were phlegm in her throat that she had to hack out, of course he declined the invitation.
So much for the sing-song.
Upstairs, Joey said to cut them some slack. He said he could only imagine what was going through their heads, me bringing someone like him home, and he was only grateful they let him stay.
That made me angrier, that he felt beneath them like that. They had no right, to judge him.
And speaking of judging, they needed to trust my judgment. To trust what I saw in Joey ….
Ever since that day, it’s like Dad’s had this permanent case of laryngitis around me. Either that or he’s morphing into an owl, the way he blinks, blinks, blinks with those questioning eyes. Like he’s waiting for me to pour my heart out, explain what was going on inside that made his good little girl go so wrong.
He doesn’t say it, obviously, and neither does Mom—no, she’s too wrapped up in her little fake la la land voice—but I know that’s how they both feel. That I’ve gone astray or something. For god’s sake, this isn’t the Victorian age. Where’s my corset? Where’s my chastity belt?
Mom, she’s been shrinking me out ever since with that maddening tone. I have no idea how that tactic could possibly be successful with her patients but I sure wish I could cancel my appointments at the kitchen table.
And the ironic thing is, I’d love to talk to them.
I’d love to tell them how things have been, to get their advice on everything that’s been happening, good and bad. It’s all been so new, so much ….
First, there was that day. Up in my room. There was everything he told me, everything that poured out of him like I’d opened up a valve.
He stood in the doorway for a while, taking in my room—all my belongings, transplanted from Manhattan. Checking out my desk at the window, facing the water. It’s topped with my computer, books, and inspirational quotes in frames, my favorite being Emily Dickinson’s “Dwell in possibility ….” Turning toward my storage hutches lining the right wall, filled with baskets stuffed with stuff, everything from more books to DVDs to magazines to souvenirs from vacations with my parents. Looking up at my vintage iron chandelier with five individual lavender shades covering the bulbs, and strands of beads draped over the arms. Looking down at the chenille rainbow-striped rug. Across at the full-length antique iron mirror, next to my dresser. Finally his gaze landed on my vintage iron bed, white with a weathered finish. It’s surrounded with deep purple silk curtains on a cable system, and covered with fringe tassel bedding and a red, pink and violet calypso floral quilt and sham. It looks like Bohemian meets preppy, which kind of describes me. Joey headed to the bed, picked up my obese stuffed orangutan and gave him a squeeze. “That’s Ollie,” I told him.
Joey plopped Ollie back among the pillows and chuckled. Then he traced his fingers around one of the two throw pillows monogrammed in green with “DJF,” for Dorothy Jane Fields.
“You got your initials on your pillows?” he asked.
“And my bathrobe,” I said.
He laughed. “Is that is case you forget who you are?”
That made me laugh. “I guess so. I never thought about why I had them before.”
He walked back around my curtain, brushing against silk and stirring something inside me. He eyed the white trunk at the foot of the bed. “What’s in here?”
Amazing on how he zeroed in on my most private, embarrassing possession. “That’s my hope chest,” I told him. I smiled at his raised eyebrows. “It’s not like those chests girls put things in for when they get married. I put my hopes, my real hopes, in there. I put in pictures from magazines of things I aspire to and places I’d like to see. I put in poems expressing feelings I hope to feel, books I hope to memorize passages from and carry in my heart, articles from the newspaper about things I’d like to change in the world and ways I can make a difference; and I write down things I hope for—wishes and dreams.”
“Wow,” he said. He bent down and batted the chest’s brass handles, banging them on the wood. “Pretty big. Holds a lot of hope, huh.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I was guessing a lot, all of a sudden.
He smiled that little smile of his, with an added twist of wistful. “Maybe you could, like, share some with me sometime.” His eyes were big and bright with that plea again, like in Dunkin’ Donuts. Like something inside was desperate to break through, break free. “I could use some hope.”
“Sure,” I told him. “We can open up the chest anytime you want. Or even better, I’ll help you find hope that’s all your own.”
He studied me for a second, his gaze steadier now. “Good luck,” he said.
We sat on my bed, staying at the corner and keeping our feet on the rug just in case one of my parents popped in. First we talked about them for a bit—as I said, he totally defended them. Then he asked, was it okay to tell me now? Could he tell me about himself? And to tell you the truth, I would’ve loved to not know because he looked so sad about it all it had to be bad, but he was determined to get it all out and I knew it would stay between us until he did. And anyway, I’d promised him that he could.
He took my hand and it was so exquisite feeling that sensation again. It was so exalting it was almost torture, because I knew I’d have to eventually let go. And he looked me in the eyes—he looked at me with all his pain, and I held his stare even though it made me want to cry—and he went through each thing he’d done, starting with schoolyard fights in which no one had been seriously hurt, escalating to when he’d beaten another boy so bad he’d been in a coma for three days. He said that was when he’d been sent to jail. He said he didn’t know why he’d done that, the only explanation he could offer was that he walks around on the edge. That’s how he put it, that he teeters on the edge constantly and sometimes people just push him over.
God, he looked so sad. I should’ve been horrified, probably, but all I could think about was how sad he looked. He’d been so concerned about damaging me, yet he was the one who seemed broken.
He was telling me these stories about how he’d hurt people and the more violence he confessed, the more bound I was to him. It was his honesty.
He was exposing his soul to me.
I couldn’t possibly turn him away.
He told me he drinks and smokes weed. He said he wasn’t going to lie and say he’d quit, because he wouldn’t. He said he wasn’t proud of himself doing these things, and he’d try to cut down, but he couldn’t give them up completely because they were sometimes the only things that got him through.
Got him through what, I asked.
He stared at me for a few beats, wordless. It was like he was running something through his head—or maybe, he was running away from it. Finally he answered, “You know, through life. In general.”
But I sensed it was something way more specific.
Back in the kitchen, Dad blinks, blinks.
Mom flips at the griddle.
I lean back in my chair, think back to what happened two weeks later.
Joey and I were hanging out with a big group of kids at the spot they go to drink. It’s this little bridge connecting two parts of Highland Park divided by water. They like it because if the cops come by, they can pitch their bottles right over the side. Mom and Dad would’ve died if they knew I was there, but I wasn’t doing anything except talking. I just wanted to be where Joey was, get to know his crowd.
I have to say, they seemed to have more depth than Amy. At least while they were coherent.
I was talking to a couple of girls in denim jackets about song lyrics in heavy metal, and how intense they could be. I told them about the poems of Robert Frost and Robert Browning, and how profound I found them. But as the girls got more and more wasted on beer their attention and eye contact drifted, and finally they wandered away. Then I got hit with the sickening sweet scent of weed—god, I hoped I didn’t stink of it when I got home. It smelled kind of like the lilac bouquet in the living room, though, and for a second I thought maybe Mom and Dad wouldn’t know the difference.
Yeah, right.
I moved away, slid down the bridge railing a bit, craning for Joey. There were at least three dozen people there now, and he’d melted into the throng. Everyone was stoned and laughing, the mix of voices getting louder and louder as the six packs and liquor bottles emptied. I leaned against the metal, stared out into the dark waters, at the boats roped at their docks, bobbing faintly with the current. Up, down, up, down. They made me feel lonely, and I wished I could just go home.
“You okay?” A male voice behind me asked.
I turned around, faced him—a boy in a black T-shirt and jeans. He had a lanky build and sand-brown hair. “Where’s Joey? You’re … with him, aren’t you?” he asked.
I nodded. “He’s in there somewhere,” I said, motioning to the burgeoning crowd.
“I’m Brian,” he said. “You’re Dorothy, right?”
I nodded again. His breath was hard to take. Vodka, I’d guess. I knew what most alcohol smelled like on people, from my parents’ parties.
“So, you named after Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz?” Brian asked. His words wobbled.
“No.” I’d answered the question about a dozen times that evening, and I was too tired to elaborate.
“Oh,” he said. There was a pause as he tried to think of what to say next. Inebriation runs contrary to intelligent conversation.
I leaned back against the railing, sighed. Brian found something to say, but I wasn’t listening. I stared at the moon in the distance above him, round and shimmering, beaming lines of light into the tide. Looking to the side of Brian, who slurred on, I watched a lone duck float through a moonbeam.
“What the hell you doin’, man?” Joey’s angry voice yanked me back to the bridge. Joey was leaning into Brian, poking his finger into his chest.
“Nothing,” Brian said, moving backward. Joey moved with him, practically on him. “I wasn’t doin’ nothing, I swear.”
“I seen you over here, talking to Doll.” Joey’s voice was even more sloshed than Brian’s, and he reeked of that horrendous Bacardi 151.
“Who’s Doll?” Brian asked.
“Don’t act like you don’t know who I mean.” Joey gave Brian a shove. “Dorothy. She’s with me.”
“Joey, stop,” I said. I couldn’t fathom these caveman antics. “He was talking to me. So what?” I grabbed at his arm. He shrugged me off, bunched up the front of Brian’s shirt into his fists. Brian had backed up as far as he could. The steel railing pressed into his lower back from behind, while from the front Joey pressed his weight into him.
“Shit, man,” Brian sputtered. “I’m sorry, all right?”
“No, it ain’t all right,” Joey barked at him. “It sure as shit ain’t all right.” Despite those angry words, he let go of Brian’s shirt. I thought he was done, that he’d come to his senses. Instead, he clasped into Brian’s neck, hanging Brian halfway over the railing and throttling him.
“Oh my god! Stop, Joey,” I screamed. “You’re killing him!” Brian was bright red, gurgling and convulsing. The whole crowd semi-circled around us, watching, but no one did anything to help. “Joey, look at me. I’m begging you ….” He ignored me, continued to choke Brian, who flailed helplessly. “Joey, look at me.”
He did it then.
He let his fingers slip looser, turned my way. His eyes were glossy, wild with rage. I didn’t know this Joey.
“Let go of him,” I said quietly. “Please.”
He looked back at Brian then, with surprise, like he didn’t know how he’d gotten there, on top of this guy he was strangling.
He let go.
He moved off of Brian, who sank coughing to the walkway. The crowd moved in then, surrounding Brian, offering him drinks and assistance. Now, they cared.
He came over to me, tried to touch me. I moved away. “Don’t,” I said.
He looked at me again, then, his eyes still glossy but now tame—remorseful. “Doll … I’m sorry. I don’t know why ….”
“Joey, you almost killed him.”
“No … yeah, I know. I don’t know what happened to me ….”
“Gee, maybe that rum you were guzzling happened to you.” I started walking. I should’ve done it earlier.
God.
Someone had almost died.
Because of me.
He followed me through the streets, all the way home. “Doll, Doll, come back. I’m sorry,” he kept repeating. His voice tapered, getting lower and lower until it dropped off completely, leaving him silent behind me except for the sound of his scuffling sneakers and his labored breathing.
At least he
kept his distance.
At least he didn’t try to touch me again.
Halfway down my driveway I turned and saw him there. Illuminated in streetlight, peering through my gate, hands gripping the bars. Lost. Forsaken. I almost gave in, went back to him. But then I thought of those hands clenching Brian’s neck. I thought of Brian’s veins bulging between those fingers, trying to flow.
I shivered, went inside.
For a week he called my cell phone over and over, leaving apologetic, pleading messages.
I finally picked up. I’m not sure why. Maybe those things they say about time are true. Or maybe I just missed him more than I hated what he’d done.
He’d never do that again, he swore. He’d stop drinking the rum. I was right, it was the rum for sure, he agreed. He said for now on, he’d only drink beer.
For him, that was something.
I forgave him.
That night, right before I went to sleep, I opened up my hope chest, slipped in a paper. It read, “I wish Joey would stop drinking.”
But even as I closed my trunk, I knew he wouldn’t. I knew he wouldn’t because of what he’d said, about the drinking and smoking weed getting him through. I knew there was something eating away at him, gnawing bit by bit at his soul.
I just didn’t know what it was.
The smell of pancakes wafts through our kitchen as Mom stacks them up. Dad blink, blinks at me. I stare away, at an orange teapot, complete with little pockmarks all over it, just like a real orange. Whoever made it must’ve pecked away at the orange with a mini-spear or something.
You have to give those teapot sculptors credit.
They’re good.
I drift back to a third memory. Last Saturday, two weeks after the incident on the bridge. Joey and I had seen each other every day since I’d forgiven him, but it had taken me a while to feel comfortable letting him touch me. He respected me, he tried nothing. He was just happy to be with me. Finally, on Thursday I let him hold my hand again. I slipped it to him while we were walking back to my house, and it was there again—that magic. It was like nothing had happened, nothing had changed between us. That made me relax completely, and I asked if he’d like to take the train into Manhattan on Saturday. He said sure, although his enthusiasm dampened when I suggested we go to the Met—the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I explained to him. Apparently he was not a huge art connoisseur. Still, we went.
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