Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
In the white space, in a boy’s messy scrawl, he’d written,
To Beatrice—the cutest girl in school!
I’ve had a crush on you since the beginning of the year. Maybe you could tell. (You should have—I asked you to the prom! Duh!) You seemed like you had other things on your mind. That’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to know you better, but the year’s not over yet. There’s still time. I’ll be around all summer. No pressure, I just think you’re cool.
Walt
I smiled. I felt happy and sad at the same time. I guess I did have other things on my mind. Why wasn’t Walt ever on my mind? I didn’t know. He just wasn’t.
Jonah hardly came to school anymore, and when he did, he kept his distance. He drifted around like a phantom, there but not there. He cut Assembly every morning. It was the end of the year. No one teased him or called him a g-g-g-ghost, even though he was more ghostly than ever. No teacher bothered to call on him. What did it matter now?
I called to see how he was, but he rarely answered the phone, and when he did, he was morose and untalkative. I left messages—Want to go to Carmichael’s for a beer? Want to go downtown for a movie? Want to come over to my house and just sit?—but they went unanswered. I listened for him on the Night Light Show every night, all night long, but Ghost Boy never phoned in.
One morning I caught him at his locker. I’d decided to ask him to sign my yearbook, even though I knew he’d probably hate the idea. I didn’t care; I’d be brave and ask, anyway. If Anne and Walt were going to be in there, I wanted Jonah too, for at least a little sense of what my life at Canton had really been like.
I started to ask him but then the first bell rang. He shut his locker and turned to go.
“Jonah, wait,” I said. “Please.”
“Sorry. Calculus.” He drifted down the hall toward his class. I watched him the whole way, but he never looked back.
So I left my yearbook in front of his locker, with a note. If someone stole it, so be it. The book meant nothing to me without Jonah in it.
Dear Jonah,
I would be honored if you would sign your yearbook page for me. You are the only person at Canton—or anywhere, really—that I care about at all. We’ve been through a lot together this year, and you are the closest friend (forgive the inadequate word, but we never came up with a substitute) I have ever had. I’m sure you think it’s silly but I would be grateful if you would grant me this small token of our friendship.
Love,
B
I checked his locker between every class. My yearbook sat in front of it untouched. Then after lunch I found it resting against my locker. He’d turned my note over and written on the back, Signed with an X. I opened the book to Jonah’s page. He’d drawn a big, fat, perfect X over it, right through his baby face. And that was all.
I came home from school that day to find Mom and Dad in the living room, talking quietly. They stood up when I walked in.
“Bea,” Mom said. “We have something to tell you.”
Ulp. That’s never a good sentence to hear from your parents.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to get an apartment,” Dad said. “Near Hopkins.”
I looked at Mom. “We’ve decided to live apart for a little while,” she said. “Just to try it out.”
I blinked, stunned. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Dad looked sad, but Mom looked composed, calm. She was fully dressed, with shoes, makeup, and everything. Even pearls. After all these months of craziness, now she was normal? Or at least normal-ish? What was going on?
“I got a job,” Mom said. “Finally. At the Walters Art Museum.” Something about antiquities, slides, permissions, reproduction rights…I barely heard her. “So I’ll be busy and more independent now.”
“That’s great,” I said without enthusiasm.
Dad came over and hugged me. I wanted to be cold and mean. I wanted to be Robot Girl, but I couldn’t. I hugged him back, hard, and tried not to cry.
“We’ll have a swinging downtown bachelor pad,” he told me. “You’ll love it. You can come over any time you want. I’ll only be a couple miles down the road. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. What choice did I have? I kept thinking, Why do you always leave me alone with her? But maybe she wouldn’t be so hard to live with now, without him around.
They prodded me a little more about my feelings on the issue, as if that could change anything, and made more sunny predictions about how fun it would be to have two homes. Then Dad kissed me on the forehead and left.
Mom got brightly to her feet. “Well,” she said, and I could almost hear her wiping the dirt from her hands, now that’s over… “guess I’ll get dinner ready.” She clopped into the kitchen in her sandals. I followed her, still dazed. She tugged at the chicken curtains. “These curtains are so ugly. What was I thinking? I’ll have to make new ones right away. Blue gingham might be nice.”
She opened the refrigerator and got to work on a salad. I watched her for a while. I felt like I was in a dream.
“Mom,” I finally said. “Your marriage is ending. Why aren’t you falling apart?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’m just not.” She washed a head of lettuce. “Maybe all that therapy is finally kicking in.”
“Uh-huh.” I wasn’t convinced that therapy could “kick in” so suddenly.
“Or maybe I feel better having things decided, one way or the other, you know?” she said. “It was hard on me, the way your dad was always kind of halfway here and halfway not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think I was too dependent on him. But after he left, I realized, Hey, I can live without him. It’s not that hard or anything.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Also, Dr. Huang said the antidepressants are working better now. That might have something to do with my good mood.”
“You think?” I was skeptical that even drugs could be so effective. Mostly I was just baffled.
“She said that once I feel strong on my own, I might want to let your Dad back in. I won’t feel so smothered by him. Maybe.”
“I guess that would be good.” I really didn’t know what to say.
“I think I’ll make a soufflé,” Mom said. “Would you like that?”
“You know how to make a soufflé?”
“Well, I can try, right?”
She made a cheese soufflé, and it turned out okay. Those antidepressants Dr. Huang gave her were some kind of miracle drug. I considered giving them a try, but I didn’t think they’d work for me. I had no cause to be happy. I felt sad with good reason, and it wouldn’t be right to mess with that feeling. I thought I ought to just stay sad for a while.
CHAPTER 24
Jonah called me on the telephone the Saturday before graduation. “This afternoon, five o’clock,” he said.
I was so excited to hear his voice I could hardly speak. After days and days of ignoring me, here he was on the telephone, inviting me to his house. At last.
“It’s a memorial service,” Jonah said.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Mr. Tate had picked up the urn of ashes and agreed to let Jonah keep it. Jonah decided to bury it in the backyard. It was probably illegal, but he didn’t care. Mr. Tate wasn’t invited to the service or even told about it.
Since Matthew’s death the two of them lived in an icy détente, side by side in the same house, speaking only when necessary. Mr. Tate woke up early, left for the office, worked late, and came home after Jonah was in bed. Sometimes at night, Jonah saw his father pacing in the garden behind the house, his face like stone in the moonlight, han
ds gripped behind his back, alone with his grim thoughts.
The day of the memorial service was cloudy and muggy. Jonah led me into the dark old house. Oriental carpets covered highly polished floors. The heavy furniture seemed set in place as if by God, immovable, permanent as rock. The rooms were shadowy, yet everything gleamed.
“Want anything before we start?” Jonah asked.
“Do I want anything? Like what?”
“I don’t know. A drink or something.”
I did want an iced tea, but it didn’t feel right to drink iced tea at a memorial service, even though he’d offered.
“No, I’m fine,” I said.
“Come on then. Everything’s ready.”
He led me through the kitchen—a dowdy old kitchen, I now noticed—down the rickety wooden steps and into the backyard.
Near the stream that bordered the property, under a willow tree, a small hole had already been dug. Catso and the Evil Miss Frankenheimer, tiny but fierce, stood guard over the hole. Jonah carried the urn.
We bowed our heads and stared at the hole in silence for a few minutes. Jonah raised the urn over his head. He shook it at the sky, as if shaking a fist at the heavens.
Then he set the urn in the hole.
“I’m sorry for everything, Matthew,” he said. “I tried to help you, but it was too late. It probably wouldn’t have worked, anyway. It was a stupid idea. Working at a carnival. Running the rides. Baby stuff.
“Beatrice would have helped me, though. She would have loved you too. The two of us—the three of us—together…”
He glanced at me in implied apology. He didn’t really think I hated Matthew. He hadn’t meant those terrible words. I was forgiven for suggesting that life would go on. I forgave him back.
“If we ever meet again, I hereby give you permission to punch me in the face. You’ll be able to punch hard, next time I see you. And dance like crazy. And tell a mean joke.”
He turned to me. “Beatrice, do you have anything to add?”
I swallowed. It felt like time for a prayer. So I bowed my head and recited a few words from the Canton School hymn. It was the only prayer I really knew.
“I don’t know if I remember this song right,” I said, but somehow, magically, I did.
For lambs without a shepherd
For fish who rivers roam
For ships without a compass
We pray Thee bring them home.
For all of us are wanderers
Our hearts are full of holes
We pray Thee lead us homeward
Embrace Thy poor lost souls.
“Matthew Tate, you were loved.”
“Thank you.” Jonah gave me a nod. “Catso and the Evil Miss Frankenheimer will miss you, Matt. I’ll take good care of them.”
He picked up the shovel. He touched the urn one last time. He covered the hole with dirt.
He rolled a smooth stone over the wound in the ground. Then he picked up Catso and the Evil Miss Frankenheimer and carried them inside. I started to follow.
“I’m sorry, Beatrice. Thank you for coming. But we need to be alone now.”
He left me in the yard. The kitchen door slapped shut behind him.
I stared at the door for a while. I guess I was hoping he’d see me and come back out. Finally, I walked around the side of the house to my car and drove downtown.
CHAPTER 25
For graduation, the girls wore long white dresses and the boys wore white dinner jackets with a red carnation pinned to the lapel. Each girl was paired with a boy based on height. I was paired with Harlan Zimmer. He reeked of pot.
“My mom made me take a shower this afternoon, but I refused to wash my hair,” Harlan told me as we lined up at the top of the hill, waiting to march down and receive our diplomas.
“Why?” I asked.
“Shampoo is really bad for you,” he said. “Besides, why should I graduate with cleaner hair than I usually have? Why should today be any different from a normal school day?”
“Well, you are wearing a white dinner jacket,” I pointed out.
“Only because they made me,” Harlan said. “Lockjaw said he would revoke my diploma if I didn’t.”
“The dinner jacket is definitely not an issue worth taking a stand on,” I said.
“Secretly, I think the jacket’s kind of cool,” Harlan said. “Like James Bond.”
He didn’t look like the James Bond type, but you never know about people and their secret identities. In Harlan’s mind, he might be a stoner 007.
“Sean Connery talks kind of like Lockjaw,” Harlan added. “Ever shink about it?”
Jonah stood a few couples ahead of me in line, paired with AWAE. He hated AWAE on principle, the principle being that an acronym is not a good substitute for a real, proper name. I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me.
The Homeland Brass Quintet played the Processional. We marched down the stone steps couple by couple, arm in arm, like a mass wedding. At the foot of the hill, in front of the auditorium, the parents and underclassmen awaited our arrival. We filed into our seats beside the podium and faced the audience.
Lockjaw spoke, then Mr. Meath (we’d voted him Teacher of the Year), then the Commencement Speaker, someone’s aunt who was a published poet.
I watched the audience while the aunt read her inspiring yet amusing words. My parents sat together in the third row, as if they’d never split up. Next to Dad sat Caroline and Ed Sweeney. In the last seat of the last row, a man in a black suit and hat sat alone, stiff and grim-faced. Mr. Tate. He had come. Of course he had. His son was graduating from high school.
I peered down the line of seniors at Jonah. He stared straight into the audience, not looking at his father, not looking at anyone. He seemed to be off somewhere far away. We hadn’t spoken since Matthew’s memorial. I’d hoped that including me in the service meant we could start working our way back to friendship, but he still avoided me. He’d just wanted a witness, I guessed. I didn’t know.
I missed him desperately, even though he’d said he hated me, even though his anger—the rampage at his house, the X through his yearbook page, the cruel way he withdrew from everyone—scared me. I didn’t care if he wasn’t my boyfriend, or even my friend. He was my Jonah. I felt more alone without him now than I’d ever felt before I met him. My life had a hole in it.
The speeches finished and Lockjaw began to call out our names. We stood up one by one, walked to the podium, shook Lockjaw’s hand, received our diplomas, and sat down again. That was it. Graduation.
The post-graduation party was held at Anne Sweeney’s house. My parents stopped by for a little while. They stayed in the living room, where the small parents’ party took place, holding hands as if they were on a date. Maybe Dr. Huang was right: Mom had to drive Dad away before she could start liking him again. Whatever. Their behavior baffled me but it was my graduation—my milestone, not theirs—and I didn’t want to think about them.
In the backyard, where the seniors’ party sedately raged, I found Jonah standing alone next to the cake.
“I saw your father,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He shook my hand and said, ‘Well done.’ Then he went home.”
“Want to get out of here?” I said. “We could go down to Carmichael’s and grab a beer.”
“No, thanks,” Jonah said. “I think I’ll just go home.”
He turned away from me, but I clutched his arm to stop him.
“Hey,” I said. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
I let go of him, feeling awkward.
“I’m sad that Matthew died,” I whispered. “But I’m still here. I’m still your friend, just like before.”
His expression didn’t change. He said nothing. I pressed on.
“Jonah, don’t you remember all the things we did this year? The radio? The Night Lights? Your birthday, the ocean and all our plans�
�”
“No,” Jonah said.
“We went to the Christmas luncheon together and met Myrna and Larry and Herb…You waited for me on New Year’s Eve, out on my porch in the cold for hours. You gave me a boardwalk prom, with a tiara and a corsage and everything…”
His face didn’t move. I hardly recognized it. The features were the same but the person behind the skin had changed. My heart cracked, a sharp pain.
“That couldn’t have been me,” he said.
“It was you,” I said. “It was you and me, both of us, together. We can have more happy times. We can spend the rest of our lives together if we want to…” Even as I spoke, I saw the distance growing between us. He was sliding away from me. “Or not, whatever. Just don’t tell me it wasn’t real.” I felt like crying but my whole body was wrung dry. “I miss you. Why won’t you let me back in?”
His face remained immobile, but I thought I saw a flicker in his eyes—the icy gray melted to milky blue in a flash, then froze up again.
“Let you back in where?” he said.
Then he walked away, dissolving into the dusk. How you say Go to Hell in Ghost. I stood nailed in place. Gradually I became aware of my own breathing, in, out, in, out, and came back to the world.
Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around.
“Hey! We did it! We’re done!”
“Hey, Walt.” His timing had never been great.
And, as usual, he didn’t seem to notice. “Aren’t you excited?” he asked gleefully. “No more school!”
“Well, there’s college.”
“Sure, but that’s different.” He must have finally sensed my sour mood, because he cooled the enthusiasm. “What’s wrong? Is something up with Jonah?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.
“Mind if I ask what?”
“He’s just…sad,” I said.
“He’s been sad since the third grade,” Walt said. “But he did seem a little happier this year. After you came.”
I tried to remember how Jonah seemed when I first met him. Sad wasn’t quite right. Vacant was closer. Absent. Was that the same thing as sad?
How to Say Goodbye in Robot Page 20