How to Say Goodbye in Robot
Page 4
The Morgue was bustling. We pushed our way through a small front area selling candy and magazines, past a long counter crowded with old ladies and kids from the local private schools, to a table near the back. A bunch of boys from Canton had colonized the corner booth. I spotted Tom Garber and a few others from our class.
“How’s it going?” the waitress muttered.
“Just French fries for me,” Anne said. “And a Diet Coke.”
“Me too,” AWAE said.
I quickly scanned the menu. “I’ll have a grilled cheese and a Coke.”
The waitress nodded and left. Anne and AWAE took out their cell phones and started poking at them. I’d left my cell at home. We weren’t allowed to use them at school, and I wasn’t expecting to hear from anyone, anyway. I ran my fingers over the old wooden table scarred with names and initials carved over the years. “How long has this place been here?”
“Forever,” Anne said, still staring at her phone’s tiny screen. “My parents used to come here when they went to Canton.”
“My dad did too,” AWAE said.
I touched one of the fresher carvings: TG & AS. “AS,” I said to Anne. “Is that you?”
She leaned across the table to peer at it. “Yeah. Somebody carved it in middle school.”
“Who’s TG?” I said. “Anyone I know?”
Anne and AWAE exchanged a glance. “Maybe, maybe not,” Anne said.
“Tom Garber?”
“It was middle school,” Anne said. “It was nothing.”
“Tom was totally in love with her,” AWAE said.
“He was not,” Anne said.
“What’s this one?” I rubbed a scratched-out MTMTMTMTMTMT. “Someone was obsessed with the initials MT.”
AWAE shrugged. Anne glanced at the mark. “Maybe Jonah did that.”
“Jonah?” I was surprised. “You mean Ghost Boy? Who did he have a crush on?”
The waitress brought our plates. The fries came with a dish of brown gravy. Anne and AWAE swiped their fries through the glop. I ate my grilled cheese.
“Nobody,” Anne said. “MT was his brother.”
“MT could stand for Mandy Torelli,” AWAE said. “Remember when Jack Harper liked her?”
“It doesn’t, though,” Anne said. “If Jack Harper scratched initials into a table, it wouldn’t look like a crazy person did it.”
I swiped a finger over the initials. There was a touch of crazy about the way they were scrawled into the wood, a desperate edge. “What happened to MT?”
“He died,” AWAE said. “In third grade.”
“They were twins,” Anne said.
Twins. Jonah had a twin. “How did he die?”
“In a car accident,” Anne said. “With their mother. They both died.”
I stopped eating.
“Jonah used to be sort of normal, before it happened,” Anne went on. “I live down the street from him, and we played together when we were little. He was, you know, okay. Approaching human.”
“His brother was retarded,” AWAE whispered.
“He wasn’t retarded,” Anne said. “Well, not just retarded. Brain damaged. His brain didn’t get enough oxygen when he was born. He was basically a vegetable. He couldn’t talk or walk or anything. He couldn’t feed himself. Jonah’s mother took care of him all the time.”
“My father told us it was merciful that he died young,” AWAE said. “But it was really sad about Mrs. Tate. Remember those skeleton cookies she used to bring to school on Halloween?”
“What was his name?” I asked. “Jonah’s brother.”
“Matthew,” Anne said.
“Were they identical twins?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Anne said. “It was hard to tell, because Matthew was always slumped over and drooling. But they both had blond hair and that sickly pale skin.”
“Can we talk about something less morbid now?” AWAE said. “Like, when did St. Mary’s girls start wearing their knee socks that way? Have you noticed how they all bunch them up around their ankles? It can’t be a coincidence.”
I tried to imagine a twin of Jonah’s, disabled, now dead. Jonah called himself Ghost Boy, but he was alive; Matthew was the real ghost. I wondered if he haunted Jonah at night, in his sleep, like Dottie’s cat or Myrna’s Elvis. Maybe that was why Jonah listened to the Night Lights, to keep the ghosts away.
“She’s doing it again,” AWAE said.
“Beatrice.” Anne tapped my plate with her fork. “Beatrice. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“This thing you do sometimes. I’ve noticed it in Assembly. You get this blank look on your face. Kind of like you hear what we’re saying but you don’t care.”
“It’s so weird,” AWAE said.
She was right: I didn’t care about how the St. Mary’s girls wore their socks. But maybe I should have. Everyone else seemed to care about those things. Even if it was only as an observer, a sociologist of high school mores, I should have cared more than I did.
Why didn’t I? Maybe Mom was right after all. She’d given birth to a mutant. My heart was cold and steely. It was so obvious even AWAE could tell.
Dad made dinner that night: lasagna, his specialty. “The chickens spoke to me,” he said, tugging on the kitchen curtains. “They said if we don’t ease up on eating their fellow fowl, they’re going to come alive at night and jump off the curtains and peck out our eyes. I hear and I obey, O Great Kitchen Chickens.” He bowed to the curtains, hands clasped in prayer.
I couldn’t help laughing, even though it was stupid. Mom flashed me an angry look. She was wearing big, dangling chicken earrings she’d made out of cardboard that day. “Don’t encourage him,” she said. “He’s teasing us.”
“I think he’s teasing you,” I said.
“It isn’t nice,” Mom said. “Why can’t we be nice to each other in this family?”
“We are nice,” Dad said.
“I don’t mean fake-nice,” Mom said. “I mean real-nice.”
I could see Dad checking out then, his eyes glazing over. “Have some lasagna.”
“Nobody’s nice all the time,” I pointed out.
“That’s for sure,” Mom said.
I cut a bite of lasagna with my fork and ate it. “Good lasa-gna, Dad.”
“Thanks.”
“Why are you always on his side?” Mom said.
“I’m not. I just like his lasagna. Jeez.”
I was afraid to say anything after that. I didn’t need her jumping on every innocent little comment I made. Dad and I ate, and Mom deconstructed her lasagna, separating the parts into categories: noodles on one side, bits of meat next to that, vegetables circling the plate, a pile of gooey cheese in the middle.
“Making an art project?” Dad said.
“I’m just trying to understand how it’s put together,” Mom said.
After I finished my homework, I got into bed to read To the Lighthouse for English. I found myself restless, glancing at the clock, waiting for midnight to come. I wondered if Dottie’s cat had visited her in her dreams. I wondered if Ghost Boy would call in.
At last it was time to turn on the radio.
Burt:
Herb, it’s Burt from Glen Burnout.
Herb:
How’s the Amoco station tonight? Busy?
Burt:
You better believe it. How’s Peggy?
Herb:
[clears his throat] Doing well, doing well.
Burt:
Getting a lot of face time with her, Herb?
Herb:
Burt, you know the rules. Nighty-night. [Herb hangs up on Burt.] Next caller. You’re on the air.
Morgan:
I’m glad you hung up on that pervert. [Tinkle of piano keys in background]
Herb:
Hello, Morgan.
Morgan:
You all haven’t been out to visit me in a while, Herb. The Mermaid Lounge is open year-round for your dini
ng and drinking pleasure. We serve the finest in steaks, seafood, and cocktails. Tequila Sunrises a specialty. Come on down and visit our lovely waitresses: Linda, Donna, Dawnielle, and Betty Ann. Say hello and give them a wink. Oysters are in season! With yours truly on the keys five nights a week, Wednesday through Sunday. [Emphatic trill on piano]
Herb:
I was thinking of firing up the Flying Carpet. Have you got room for a few visitors at the Mermaid this evening?
Morgan:
Come on out. It’s quiet tonight. The season’s over, and I could use the company.
Herb:
How about a little taste to tempt the listeners?
Morgan:
Happy to oblige. [Morgan plays “Feelings” full of flourishes, Liberace-style.] How’d you like that?
Herb:
Lovely, Morgan. Nighty-night.
Morgan:
Nighty-night, y’all. Come down to the ocean and see me soon.
Herb:
Next caller, you’re on the air.
Weird high-pitched voice:
Hello? Herb? This is Irene from Fell’s Point. First-time caller!
Herb:
Welcome, Irene. How are things down in Fell’s Point?
Irene:
Good, good. I’m just a little old lady, living alone with my cats. My children never call me…
Herb:
You know how kids can be. They get busy, but I’m sure they’re thinking of you.
Irene:
They are not, the little brats. I’ll take cats over children any day. One of my cats is about to have kittens. Her first litter.
Herb:
That’s great. What’s your cat’s name?
Irene:
[voice suddenly drops from a falsetto to a baritone] Don Berman! Don Berman! Don Berman! Don Berman! Ha ha ha ha ha! [Hangs up]
Herb:
[chuckling insincerely] What would we do without our regular calls from Don Berman? Heh heh heh. Next caller, you’re on the air.
Ghost Boy:
Hi, Herb, it’s Ghost Boy.
Herb:
What do you know, Ghost Boy?
Ghost Boy:
I’m feeling restless tonight. Warm night, can’t sleep…I sure could use a trip on the carpet. I bet the ocean’s nice and calm tonight.
Herb:
All right, you talked me into it. Anybody want to take a ride to Ocean City with Ghost Boy and me, the carpet’s warming up. I can take three more callers.
Ghost Boy:
If you’ve never taken a ride on the carpet, don’t be shy. Call in. It’s worth it.
Herb:
The number is 410-555-7777.
Jonah knew I was listening—he was inviting me to call in. I wasn’t sure what this Flying Carpet thing was, but I picked up the phone and dialed. If Don Berman wasn’t afraid to talk on the radio, why should I be? Herb Horvath was Mom’s ideal: real nice to everyone.
Herb:
Who’ve we got here? Caller Two?
Louanne:
It’s me, Herb. Louanne from Mount Washington.
Herb:
Welcome aboard, Louanne. Caller Three?
Robot Girl:
Hi, I’m Robot Girl from Homeland.
Herb:
Robot Girl, eh? First-time caller?
Robot Girl:
Yes.
Herb:
Welcome. Caller Four?
Burt:
Burt here. Why do we always have to go to Ocean City on the stupid carpet? Can’t we go somewhere cool once in a while? Like Vegas?
Herb:
Burt, you’re not supposed to call in more than once a night.
Burt:
I know, but you hung up on me, Herb. I didn’t get my five minutes. And I’ve got to get to Ocean City tonight. That weasel Morgan owes me twelve bucks.
Herb:
Sorry, Burt. Another time. Have we got another Caller Four?
Myrna:
Me! Myrna! I’ll go if Morgan promises to play “Delilah” when we get there.
Herb:
I can’t make any promises for Morgan, but I think we can talk him into it. Everybody on? All buckled up?
Ghost Boy, Louanne, Robot Girl, Myrna:
Yes.
[Funny little sound effects: ding-ding! whoosh!]
Herb:
Off we go! [Sound of wind rushing by] Isn’t it a beautiful night? Look at the lights of the city below us.
Myrna:
I see my house.
Louanne:
I see the cars on the Beltway.
Ghost Boy:
I can see Horribleplace. The tourists look like bugs. The tourists ARE bugs.
Herb:
We’re flying over Annapolis. Here comes the Bay Bridge.
Ghost Boy:
Slow down. Robot Girl is new in town. She hasn’t seen all this before.
Robot Girl:
How did you know I’m new?
Ghost Boy:
You said so.
Robot Girl:
No, I didn’t.
Louanne:
See the lights on the bridge, Robot Girl? All white like a diamond necklace.
Myrna:
The bay is full of boats tonight. Anchored in the little coves. Big ships chugging toward the ocean.
Herb:
Over the bridge…Now we’re on the Eastern Shore. It’s dark over here.
Louanne:
Nothing but cornfields.
Myrna:
And melons, and tomatoes.
Louanne:
Peaches.
Ghost Boy:
And rivers winding through the muck.
Robot Girl:
It’s beautiful.
Herb:
I see it up ahead. The tall buildings—
Myrna:
Ocean City! I can smell the salt air.
Louanne:
And the French fries.
Herb:
Let’s ride down the boardwalk. Any of you ever stay in the old Commodore Hotel? They just painted it aqua blue.
Myrna:
I liked it better white.
[The tinkling of piano keys and glasses, murmur of voices.]
Herb:
Here we are! The Mermaid Lounge. Well, Morgan, we made it.
Morgan:
[Breaks into “Happy Days Are Here Again”] Table for five? Have a seat everybody. What’ll you have? Just tell Johnny the bartender here.
Myrna:
I’ll have a sidecar.
Louanne:
Just coffee for me.
Herb:
A nice stiff martini for me. Since it’s make-believe.
Ghost Boy:
I’ll take a Jack-and-Coke. Since it’s, you know, make-believe. What about you, RoboGirl?
Robot Girl:
Red wine. And it’s RoBOT Girl.
[Glasses clink.]
Morgan:
I heard what Burt said about me. I don’t owe him no twelve dollars.
Herb:
You and he will have to work that out off the air. Who has a request for Morgan?
Myrna:
I do! “Delilah,” remember?
Morgan:
Gee, I never get requests for that one. [He pounds out the old Tom Jones song and wails.] “WHY, WHY, WHY, DELILAH?”
Ghost Boy:
Robot Girl, you look lovely in the candlelight.