Circle of Three

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Mom—”

  “—or I’m uninvolved. Because, believe me, I couldn’t be more—”

  “Mom. You’re not lax. I don’t even know where you get that.”

  “I’m not?” I got it from Stephen.

  “No. Jeez. You’re a lot of things that aren’t so great, but permissive isn’t one of them.”

  “Oh.” That stopped my momentum. “I thought I was. As a reaction.”

  “Well, you’re not. God.”

  “Okay. Well.”

  Was she trying to make me feel better? Worse? I was thinking of what to say next when Ruth said, “I didn’t mean there’s a lot of things. You know, that aren’t so great. Some, a few things. That’s all.”

  My heart swelled at this overture. “Oh,” I said, low-keying it. “Well, that’s good. Some; that’s better than a lot. There are…almost no things about you that aren’t so great. To me. Well, one thing. That I’m thinking of right now, but that’s it.”

  Suspenseful pause.

  “What? The car, right? That was an accident. I was backing up—”

  “No, not the car. Last night. The things you said on the phone. And I didn’t know where you were, and I couldn’t find you, and I didn’t know what to do.” The deadliest time of my life. Like being buried alive.

  “I know.” Her pale face flushed. “That was, like, a really bad time for me.”

  “I know,” I said, anxious to forgive.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, playing with the door handle. “I thought about calling back. I knew it was rotten, and I just—did it anyway.” She shook her head, looking baffled, as if that instance of adult cruelty didn’t fit with her idea of herself.

  I reached out to stroke a dark, wet strand of hair behind her ear, something I’d been wanting to do for fifteen minutes. “It’s all right. It’s okay.” I’d have worried I was being too lax, but apparently that wasn’t one of my failings after all. On the other hand, Ruth’s perspective might not be totally objective.

  “God, I’m tired. I’ll tell you everything that happened, but not right now, okay?” Her face, bland and accepting as she suffered my increasingly affectionate caress, sharpened all at once. “Oh—I forgot.”

  “What?”

  “The car died. I think. I parked it down there—”

  “I saw it.”

  “And now it won’t start. I think this time it’s really dead.”

  Were we finished? For the time being? Ruth had a lot of explaining to do; I had a lot of discipline to mete out. Neither of us was in the mood to get on with either of those. “Let’s go see if it starts,” I said. “If not, we’ll come back for it later.”

  “Okay. Look, the sun’s out.”

  I started the car and drove down the hill. Double-parked, I waited while Ruth got out and tried to start the Chevy. No luck. “Nope,” she reported, getting back in. “All it does is make a clicking sound.”

  “Could be the battery.”

  “Or maybe the starter.”

  We drove out to the highway and across the river bridge.

  “Mom, I gotta say, it looks really cool.” She meant the ark. I glanced over, suspicious. She didn’t look sarcastic. “Too bad you missed all the action,” she continued, with breathtaking casualness. “Stop here for a sec, okay—look how it looks from here.”

  I pulled up behind a line of cars parked on the verge, just beyond the bridge, and we gazed down at the floating, bobbing ark, tied with taut, multiple lines between the two long piers. “Let’s get out,” Ruth said, and so we did, and stood on the grass with our backs against the car, looking down at the ark. “So it’s hollow inside? Because guys were walking on it when they put the animals in. Isn’t it cool that it rained just for the boarding part? Like, symbolic.”

  “It’s got a solid deck, but no hull, nothing underneath,” I said. “It’s a raft, basically—”

  “But I can see it going down, I can see the sides under water.”

  “I know, but there’s nothing behind, it’s just painted sheets of plywood, and they only go down about two feet. It’s an illusion.”

  “Cool.”

  “It’s a raft with two hollow boxes on top. You can stand on the main deck, but the other two are fake. You never saw anybody walking on them, I’ll bet.”

  “No, they went inside with the animals, and then put them out through the windows on the two upper stories. I figured there were stairs in there.”

  “Nope. A ladder.”

  “Wow. Everybody really liked it.”

  “Did they?”

  “There were a million people at least, I mean, it was like the Fourth of July almost, you should’ve…” She pulled on her hair, a childish habit, and usually an indication of moral uncertainty.

  “I got here about nine-thirty or so,” she started again, speaking slowly. A news report. “They were just starting to put the animals on. Some TV cameras were here, and people doing radio interviews, I guess—they just had tape recorders and microphones. I saw Landy, he was with about six guys, I guess Arkists, rolling animals up the gangplank or whatever you call it—which is gone now, they took it away when they were done. Everybody thought the animals were great. For a while I was standing near this family, the parents and these two little girls and one boy. They went nuts over the monkeys especially, Mom, but also that flying cat and the elephant. And the owl. Everybody liked the polar bear. I think the big animals were more, like, crowd pleasers, but that’s because most people were far back—anybody on either one of the piers could see the little animals perfectly. I like the prairie dog a lot. And the chicken. The mouse—that was cool how you had it going up the chain.

  “I heard this guy near me saying how there was only one of everything, how come there weren’t two, so I told him about the different sides. He thought that was neat. I didn’t tell him I was related to the person who made everything. I was going to, but then, I don’t know, I just didn’t.

  “I saw Mr. Pletcher. And his wife. He had on a black suit and she had on a navy blue suit and a flowered hat. In fact you could tell all the women who were Arkists because they all wore hats. They had cameras on Mr. Pletcher; I think he gave an interview. He looked pretty, you know, blissed out. Maybe he was on drugs. Landy went and stood with him when they were finished with the animals, and then he gave a speech.”

  “Landy gave a speech?”

  “Yeah, and it wasn’t bad. But you could tell he was nervous. He stood right down there, right there, on this raised box thing, right by the water. He just said thanks to everybody for coming out, and he named the people who had helped. He named you. And—Jess. And some others. He read the ark story from the Bible. Then he carried the microphone over to his dad, who was behind him. The P.A. system must’ve been really cheap, at first all you could hear was squeaks and squeals. Landy held the umbrella over the old guy and he said something, but we couldn’t hear him. Everybody got really quiet. His voice was so weak, and it took him forever to say what he said. Which wasn’t much, but I can’t quote it or anything. Just about how the ark doesn’t mean God’s wrath, it means forgiveness, and like, starting over from scratch. Purification. And then something about how kind people were to him, all his dear friends and his family. How much love he felt. Their generosity to him. Because they saved him. Then he said good-bye, and—some people cried, which was weird because, before, it had been like a carnival, almost. The Arkists sang one song, a hymn, and it was really…how can I say this…terrible. So then the ceremony part was over, and people just crowded around the ark as close as they could get and looked at it. Anybody who had a camera took about a million pictures. They really…they really liked it.” She paused, thinking. “I guess that’s about it,” she said, and sat back.

  I gazed down, easily imagining, thanks to Ruth, a milling crowd under umbrellas around a makeshift platform in the rain. Landy mumbling into a squawky microphone, screwing up his courage to read the story of Noah to hundreds of strangers. And Eldon, struggling to say
his piece in the little bit of time left. Giving thanks for a singular act of love, the expression of which was floating on the river in front of him. An ark.

  “Hey, Mom. Wanna see my tattoo?”

  “Oh.” I tried to sound thrilled. “I definitely do. Is it wonderful?”

  She laughed.

  “I’ve been thinking maybe I should get one,” popped out of my mouth. “Think I’m too old?”

  “No way. I think you should get one exactly like mine.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Mother-daughter tattoos.”

  There was a glint in her eye that tipped me off. Oh Lord, what had she gotten, a swastika? Coiled snakes? I put a light, very tentative hand, just my fingertips, really, on her spine as we turned away from the river. Immediately her arm came up and circled my waist.

  “Want to drive?”

  She flashed me a look of surprise. “Sure,” she mumbled, pleased, coloring. “Thanks.” We separated casually.

  “We’ll come back for the car tomorrow.”

  “Good deal.”

  In the car, Ruth showed me her new tattoo. And then we went home.

  27

  The Last Straw

  SCHOOL’S OUT, FINALLY. For the very last thing in English, Mrs. Fitzgerald told us to make a list in our journals of the two or three major things most on our minds as we say good-bye to sophomore year and look forward to becoming juniors, and then try to develop strategies for dealing with these issues over the summer vacation. Most kids didn’t bother because she was never going to check and see if we did it, but I came up with a big list, a huge list. The first item was—

  No. 1. My tattoo.

  This experience continues to suck and be as putrid and humiliating as ever. First I put a bandage over it for school and told people I had a burn. Then I told Jamie the truth after making her swear never to tell a living soul, not even Caitlin. Surprise, surprise—the whole school knew all about it within one day.

  Gram hates my tattoo and said she’d pay to have it lasered off, so she and Mom took me to the dermatologist, Dr. Ewing, who said it would be pretty major to remove the whole thing and how about if he just took off the arms and the top of the circle, and after that healed I could go to a reputable tattoo place and have the arms put in lower and the loop more oval, so like a real ankh tattooed over the old one.

  Nobody was in favor of this but me. Luckily the money factor kicked in, so that’s probably what we’re going to do. I’m pretty stoked, but it won’t happen until August, and meanwhile I’ve got this, like, lollipop on my hand. Not to mention a lot of stupid gay jokes to put up with. Some guy at school called it an “all-day sucker.” Which, when you think about it, is pretty much what I was.

  Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking. Why is the female symbol a lesbian thing? Men wear stupid macho symbols, swords and guns and flaming motorcycles and what-have-you, and nobody says they’re gay. Just the opposite. I don’t know, I’m torn. Sometimes I think screw it, I’m keeping this, it’s a sign of my female power. I’m strong in myself, I know who I am, and to hell with what anyone else thinks. Okay, but then I think—but why does it have to be so hard? And do I really want a tattoo I’ll always have to be living down? And besides, I really want an ankh. Because I’m for life.

  So I don’t know. I still have a few more days to decide.

  No. 2. Raven.

  I guess he’s not my boyfriend anymore. Not that he ever was, except once for about five minutes. I’d been noticing he wasn’t as friendly as before, and I found out why: The Other Woman. “Cindy.” She’s this total Goth, a sophomore, honest to God she looks like a corpse, they’ve sent her home twice that I know of for ghoul makeup. I saw her with him in the library two times and once in his car. They’re perfect for each other. I don’t miss him. In fact it’s a relief not to have to hear his atrocity stories anymore.

  I can’t believe I used to worry about my name, like it wasn’t dark enough or something, I should change it to Hecuba—and now this. Cindy??

  No. 3. Krystal.

  Mom made me quit working at the Palace. God, she’s still so mad. Much madder at Krystal than me, which doesn’t make too much sense. “You’re not the adult, she is,” is all she’ll say. I ran into Krystal in the video store one night—luckily Mom wasn’t with me. It was weird at first, but after a few minutes of chatting, it was like old times. She broke up with Kenny. Now she’s going out with the UPS man—Walt, I’ve met him plenty of times. “He’s a very gentle meat eater,” she says. When we finished catching up and all, Krystal said, “You stay in touch now, and don’t be a stranger.” I said I wouldn’t be, and then I thanked her for helping me out, letting me sleep on her couch and everything. She said, “Anytime,” and I was about to go on and thank her for the rest, but when I heard in my head how it would come out—“Thank you for lying to my mom and not telling the cops that I took the car and drove by myself illegally to D.C.”—I couldn’t say it. Like, it almost sounded sarcastic or something.

  I’m not saying Mom’s right about Krystal—I definitely think her heart was in the right place and she was a true friend when I needed one. Just saying, there are different ways to be a person’s friend, and maybe aiding and abetting them no matter what they do is not the best way every single time. That’s all.

  No. 4. Punishment.

  I got grounded for three weeks, including all the end-of-school parties I was invited to, and I have to pay for the dent I made in the car out of my allowance. I guess this puts to rest for all time Mom’s theory that she’s too lax. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

  The worst was when the cops were going to push back by one year my eligibility to get my driver’s license. Which would’ve been the end, I might as well have committed suicide. But somebody intervened (guess who? Jess, who’s like a big effing deal on the city council), so that went away. Thank God.

  No. 5. My new job.

  Grampa hired me to type on disk all the corrections and revisions to the book he and his colleague are writing. So far there aren’t very many, so obviously this was a pity hiring. He gives me the minimum wage, same as Krystal, but it’s nowhere near as much fun. I have to work in his office at his house for the first few weeks, until I know what I’m doing. It’s more or less part-time.

  One thing I’m learning, besides more than I ever wanted to about minor English eighteenth-century poetry, is that Grampa isn’t as quiet as I’ve always thought he was. In fact I can’t get him to shut up. What does he talk about? The weather a lot; he’s got a weather radio, and he likes to watch the weather channel on TV. Yesterday he talked about this incredible deal he got on four radial tires for his Honda. I mean at length. And other stuff, how his lawn is doing, his tomato crop, how lawyers are ruining the country, why the Atlanta Falcons aren’t as good as the Carolina something or others. It’s boring. But it’s sort of nice, too, because it’s easy and relaxing, I can listen or not. I can tell he likes me. We’re almost getting to be friends. He’s nice. I’ve figured out the reason he doesn’t talk to Gram is because she talks all the time. Which is so funny, because she complains to Mom that she can’t get a word out of him and she might as well have married a mute. I feel like sending her an anonymous note—“Shut up for a while, why don’t you, put a cork in it!” But I bet she wouldn’t even see herself. She’d think it was for somebody else.

  No. 6. The Ark.

  Old Mr. Pletcher died. Late in the afternoon on the day of the ark launch, he had to be rushed to the hospital in an ambulance because of his heart. He stayed there for four days, then he said he wanted to go home to die. And that’s exactly what he did, two days later. The Clayborne paper did another long story, and more people than you’d think showed up for his funeral, including Mom, and afterward the ark was even more popular. The Richmond paper did this sort of tongue-in-cheek article that made fun of the whole situation, but not in a mean way, and they said the “animal constructions are imaginative and delightful” and “unexpectedly affecting.”
Mom was dancing on the ceiling. The only bad part was one night when some kids from out of town (the paper said, but since they never caught them how do they know?) threw a burning stick from the pier onto the ark and started a fire that did damage to the owl, the pelican, the panther, and the grizzly bear. Well, that stirred people up and ended up causing even more visitors to come and look at it. It was a genuine tourist attraction.

  But then the forty days and forty nights were over, and they dismantled it and sold it for scrap lumber, proceeds going to the Arkists. Up until then, nobody had thought about what would happen to the animals. (I thought they’d just throw them away, but that was before I realized how imaginative and delightful they were.) Mrs. Pletcher, who is the actual owner of them, called up one night and told Mom a big petting zoo in Pennsylvania, which happens to be called Noah’s Ark, had offered to buy the whole menagerie for three thousand dollars, to put in their welcome building. She wanted to know what she should do—sell them to the zoo and give Mom the three thousand minus expenses for materials, which takes it down to about two thousand, or give them to the new Church of the Sons of Noah she’s having built out on Route 634 in her husband’s memory. We could really use two thousand dollars. But Mom told her the church should have them—especially since the petting zoo could never have used all of them and would’ve ended up throwing some away. Plus Mom likes the idea of them decorating the aisles in the Church of the Sons of Noah. Sort of like Stations of the Cross, she says.