C, My Name Is Cal

by Norma Fox Mazer

  Garo called home Saturday and again on Sunday. He was coming home on Monday, but he couldn’t wait to tell everything. “Cal, I ordered Mrs and Mr T with a Coke chaser on the plane.… We’re driving down the coast to San Diego. And then maybe down to Mexico. Too bad you can’t get on a plane and come out here, too. Cal in California.” He cackled.

  Even if Mom had the money, I wouldn’t go out there. I’ve only flown once, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the feeling of being up in the air in this metal bird, this thing made by people who, let’s face it, could be anything—stupid, lazy, careless, or just plain dumb. Something could happen. Something is always happening, isn’t it?

  Garo sounded so up in his phone calls that Mom and I didn’t realize he was unhappy. But when he came home, the first thing he said was, “I hope I never go back there. My aunt said the only reason she invites me so much is that my father twists her arm.”

  “She said that?” Mom asked. Her voice rose.

  Garo nodded. “She said me being there inconvenienced her a lot. She had to change all her plans. She said she only did it because it was her family duty.”

  Mom was furious. “Imagine telling a youngster that. I’m speaking to your father about this.”

  “Boy, am I glad to be home.” Garo hung on Mom’s arm, talking fast. They sat on the couch in the living room. It was a rainy day, and Mom had put a fire in the fireplace. “Cal, go make some popcorn,” she said. I brought it back with sodas.

  Garo was telling her everything, every last detail. The food he ate, every single meal, and every place he went with his aunt. Maybe she didn’t want him there, but she did a lot of things with him. I was working on the popcorn. I didn’t say anything. Words went through my head. Fuzz head … fat slimy fink … sweaty fish slime-mouth … dopehead. I walked out. I didn’t want to hear my head. I didn’t want to hear Garo. I didn’t want to hear Mom cooing over him.

  I went upstairs, to my real room, third floor, the one next to Mom’s in the attic. Attic sounds like we’re in the servants’ quarters or something, but it’s not that way. The attic is finished off with wood paneling, the bedrooms are big, and there’s a private bath.

  I don’t use my room much anymore, since Garo and I started sharing down on the second floor. But if we have a fight, I always have someplace to go and be away from him. And then, sometimes, I just want to be away by myself, which is something Garo never understands.

  I lay down on my bed and opened my book. When Mom called me for supper, I just kept on reading. I skipped supper, I skipped TV. Later, Mom came up and called me into her room. “Let’s talk, my son.” She patted the bed. “Sit.”

  “Arf arf.” I sat down. But I didn’t talk. I didn’t have anything to say.

  So she talked. She told me about when I was born, how happy she was to have me. She got out her envelope of pictures and showed me my baby pictures. I was never fat, even as a baby. There were a lot of pictures of me and her. “Do you have a picture of me and my father?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t he ever want to have his picture taken with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Cal, but I threw out every picture of him. I’ve told you that before.”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Never be jealous of Garo,” she said.

  “Who’s jealous?”

  “Just listen, Calvin. You have me. You always have me. That boy doesn’t have a mother.”

  “I don’t have a father,” I said.

  “It’s not the same. And Garo doesn’t have that much of a father, when it comes down to it,” Mom said. “And don’t you ever repeat that.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I said.

  “I know you wouldn’t,” she said. “I can depend on you.” She pinched my cheek, slapped it the way she does, lightly. Then she laughed and kissed me. “My boy,” she said. And she kissed me again. And I felt sort of light-headed, happy, I guess, as if I could leap out the window and fly.

  Garo came up to the attic later. He had his joke notebook under his arm. He keeps a record of jokes for the future. He says when he gets his job as a talk show host, he’s going to be totally prepared. “What are you doing up here?” he said.

  I held up my book.

  “I started one, too,” he said. “I read the first chapter.”

  “Congratulations. You going to read the second chapter?”

  “Sure. I might even finish it. I’m going to use it for a book report.”

  “What book?”

  “You know, the one the author guy signed.”

  “Dave Ramsey,” I said. Garo never remembers names.

  “Yeah, whatever. It’s pretty good.” He yawned. “Want to hear a joke?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Sure, it’s a free country.”

  “No, I’m not in the mood for a joke.”

  “How can you not be in the mood for a joke? A joke makes you laugh. Laughing makes you feel good. Feeling good is great.”

  I stared at him. “You know, Garo, everybody doesn’t always want to feel good. Sometimes you just want to feel not so good.”

  “That’s the way I feel when I can’t remember my mother. Do you think it’s bad I can’t remember her?”

  “No.”

  “Shouldn’t I, though? I wasn’t that young when she died. Six isn’t that young.”

  “Why are you saying all this?”

  “My aunt reminded me that the anniversary of my mother’s death was coming. She asked me if I was feeling sad.”

  “Garo, I don’t remember my father, and I don’t think that’s bad. Or sad, or glad, or anything. It’s just the way it is.”

  “That’s different. Your father’s still around, Cal. I mean, he’s alive.”

  “Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. And if he is, I should remember him better, but I don’t, because he might as well be dead. You see what I’m saying? My father’s gone, he’s history. So why be sad? And your mom is history, and that’s the way it is.” I spoke with my usual assurance. What a lie. Change the subject. “Garo, why do you like Fern Light?”

  “Who?”

  “Who, who, who? Are you an owl? Fern Light is a bigmouth. She’s got something to say about everything. She’s in my history class and she’s always got her hand up.”

  “Her eyes …”

  “They’re bug eyes.”

  “Shut up.” He leaped on top of me. “Take it back.”

  “Bug eyes.” I threw him off and we banged around the room.

  Mom thumped on the wall. “What are you boys doing?”

  “Homework, Mom.”

  “When are you guys going to sleep, anyway?”

  From the floor, Garo snored loudly.

  “Very funny, Cal,” Mom yelled.

  “What if your father showed up here?” Garo asked. “What if he came right to this house and knocked on the door?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I grunted. “Eaah.”

  “What if you didn’t recognize him?”

  “Eaah.”

  “Wouldn’t it make you feel terrible?”

  “He’s never coming here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know the way I know everything, Garo. I’m all knowing, all wise. Everything is revealed to me. I am in touch with cosmic secrets. Are you taking notes, Garo? Write it down in your jokebook.”

  Chapter 5

  “You coming?” I said. I bent down to check myself out in the mirror. I needed a haircut.

  “Where you going?” Garo asked.

  “Princesteins … then a haircut. You need one, too,” I said. His curls were falling over his ears and into his eyes.

  “I’m letting it grow down to my shoulders.”

  “Sixties look,” I said. He didn’t like having his hair cut. He always resisted.

  “Boys,” my mother yelled up the stairs. “Throw your clothes in the laundry.”

  “We did,” I yelled back.

  “Then chan
ge the sheets, and get that pigpen straightened up.”

  “Saturday warpath,” I said. I looked around the room. It seemed okay to me. Garo picked up a pair of pants off the floor and hung them in the closet. He’s neater than I am. He started to pull stuff out from under the bed.

  “It’s clean, it’s clean,” I said. “Let’s go.” Saturday mornings, once my mother gets done working us, we usually shoot baskets or hang around the playground to see if we can pick up a game. Today, though, I had a baby-sitting job.

  “You’re lucky,” Garo said, on the way over to the Princesteins. “Most people won’t ask boys to baby-sit their kids.”

  “I’m not lucky. Nobody wants to take care of their brats. I got the job by default.”

  “Did they really lock their mother in the cellar?”

  “Could be,” I said.

  “They’re good kids, just a little hyper.” Garo likes kids, all kids, all types. He talks to them in the street. Why aren’t people breaking down the door to get him to baby-sit? Because they look at Garo—his round face, his freckles—and he looks like one of their kids himself. And they think, Too young! Too young to be responsible. Then they look at me, and even though I’m younger than Garo, because I’m taller and look older, they think, Right. Ask him.

  I do an okay job baby-sitting; I get by and the kids come out alive. But if I could get enough other work, I wouldn’t baby-sit at all. I rake leaves in the fall, cut grass in the spring, shovel snow in the winter, and baby-sit if I have to.

  “I’ll be only two hours,” Mrs. Princestein said when we got there. “You think you can manage for two hours, Calvin? I just can’t get back any sooner,” she said apologetically.

  “Sure, we’ll be fine.” She didn’t even notice Garo.

  “I’m flying, Mom!” Jamie screamed. Why do people think little girls are sweet and quiet? Jamie was jumping from the couch onto a chair, and then from the chair to the couch, and again from the couch to the chair. Every time she jumped, she screamed, “I’m flying, Mom!”

  “Yes, darling. Uh, Cal—” Mrs. P. gestured vaguely at the living room. “Maybe you could get the kids to put some of their toys away?”

  I looked around. The living room looked like a nuked toy store. The pillows were off the couch. The curtains were knotted. You couldn’t take a step without crunching a red or blue toy. If the governor had been there, he would have declared it a disaster area and allocated funds for the victims.

  “Nice place, Mrs. Princestein,” Garo said politely.

  “I’m flying, Mom!” Jamie screamed. “Watch me or I’ll hit you!” She was little and blonde. Three years old. I think she was the one who locked her mother in the cellar.

  Rick was walking around holding a toy telephone to his ear. “Come home now,” he kept saying. “Come home now! Come home now.” He was little and blond, also. Two years old, something like that.

  “And, uh, Cal, if you could just wash up the dishes while you’re here,” Mrs. Princestein said, getting her car keys. “Bye-bye, babies.” She bent down to give Jamie and Rick kisses. “And wipe the cupboards, and give the floor a little sweep,” she added.

  She wanted me to take care of her little apes AND clean up her whole house? After she left, I got a good look at the kitchen. Another major disaster area.

  “… flying, Cal!” Jamie screamed, launching herself off the windowsill. Garo caught her, or she would have brained herself.

  “Come home!” Rick threw his phone down. “Where’s Mom?” He kicked me.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault she’s gone.”

  He puffed out his lips, getting ready to cry.

  “Hey,” I said, “look, look!” I blew out my cheeks, then popped them with my fists, left, right. He liked that. He kept me popping my cheeks for five minutes. “Enough,” I said. I was getting dizzy.

  “More!” His lips puffed out again.

  “Okay, okay, don’t cry.” I blew out my cheeks, popped them.

  “I’m flying, Cal!” Jamie screamed. She was back on the couch.

  “Come home now. Where’s Mom?” Rick hiccupped.

  “Do you think these kids are retarded?” I asked Garo. I sprawled on the couch and checked my watch. Ten minutes, and I was already going crazy.

  “Never again,” I said to Garo when we left. “That was the longest two hours of my life.”

  “She pays good money, though.”

  “Yeah.” I liked the feeling of the bills in my pocket. I wished my conscience didn’t keep reminding me that half of it really belonged to Garo. He’d washed the dishes and played horsie with the two monsters. He’d probably worked harder than I had.

  We stopped at Hair Today, where I always go to get my hair cut. So does Mom. It’s one room, hair all over the floor, glossy posters on the wall, lots of mirrors and chairs, and two of those big pink plastic domes they put on ladies’ heads when they’re giving them permanents or something. Actually, I’ve seen guys under them, too.

  “Hey, Cal,” Fred said, when we walked in. “How you doing, baby?” He was cleaning the glass door that said UNISEX HAIR SALON. Fred works at Hair Today. Bob owns the place. “Sit down,” Fred said. “You want a cut?” He was wearing a pink smock.

  Bob waved to me. He was cutting an older woman’s hair. They were talking about living in Buffalo and the terrible winters. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there,” Bob said, “and then I ended up here. You think the winters here are any better?”

  Bob has a mustache and long straggly hair. He always looks like he needs a haircut himself. I think he’s gay, but I’m not sure. I don’t think Fred is, but I’m not sure about that, either. How can you really tell?

  “So what’s new with you guys?” Fred said. He shampooed my hair, then I got in the chair and he started cutting. “You making waves with the girls, Cal?” He always says that; he was saying that when I was eight years old. I never answer.

  But Garo! As if a button had been pressed, he started talking about girls, only not himself and girls. He had to talk about me and girls. He got into this whole Leslie Branch thing, telling Fred that she was hot for me.

  “Shut up, Garo,” I said.

  “She told me so herself, Fred.” Garo was sitting in the empty chair, twirling around. The higher he twirled the chair, the faster he talked. “You should see the valentines Calvin got. Leslie sent one with a red lipstick mouth.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Fred said. “Look at that face on this kid.” He pointed at me in the mirror.

  “Yeah, Leslie says he looks like Clint Eastwood.”

  “Shut. Up,” I muttered.

  Fred winked at Garo. Then he called over to Bob. “You hear this, Bob? You see this face? We got a junior stud here.”

  I wanted to kill Garo and his big mouth.

  Fred took off the sheet, dusted my collar, and handed me a mirror. He whipped the chair around so I could see the back of my head. “Okay,” I said. I didn’t even look.

  “Just okay?”

  What did he want, great? I jumped out of the chair and grabbed Garo. “Now do Garo, Fred.”

  “Hey!” Garo tried to squirm out of it. “I didn’t come for a haircut. I haven’t got any money. I can’t pay.”

  “Cut his hair, Fred. I’m paying.” I threw all the money I’d earned down on the counter. Even if I didn’t have enough for two haircuts, Bob would let me owe. “Cut, cut! He’s going to look a lot better with a haircut.”

  Garo tried to get out of the chair, but I held him right there. “You don’t have to shampoo him, Fred.”

  “What kind of a cut?” Fred asked, scissors raised.

  Garo was still struggling. “I’m going to punch out your lights, Cal.”

  Just then, there was a tapping on the window. Three girls were looking in, smiling and waving. Three beaming faces, and we knew two of them—Fern Light and Angel Hayes. Superior and submissive, I said to myself. Snotty Fern, skinny Angel. The third girl was a black girl I didn’t recognize. Extremely pretty.
<
br />   “Hey, Garo,” Fred said, “those girls are flirting with you, man.” Garo straightened up, and Fred started cutting. Hair fell to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Garo said.

  “Better behave, Garo,” Fred said. “The girls have got their eyes on you.”

  I glanced over at the window. Angel Hayes was gone. But the black girl was bending over Fern’s shoulder, and the two of them were watching.

  Fred started by taking off just a little of Garo’s hair. A little here, a little there. The curls were flying. When he got through, he held up the mirror for Garo. “How do you like it, Garo? I think it’s really you.”

  Garo stared. Probably in shock. I was a little shocked myself. There was his hair all over the floor. There was his head sticking out nakedly. Fred had shaved Garo up the sides and back, leaving just a little lonely patch of curls on top.

  Chapter 6

  When the phone rang, I licked peanut butter off my fingers and picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Cal, this is Alan.”

  “Hi, Alan.” I knew it was him. I could always recognize his voice, rumbly and reassuring. Probably a perfect voice for an airline pilot: Folks, we’ve got a little delay here, it seems the fuel gauge isn’t working and one wing is drooping, while the emergency fiderator moderator is wacko, but not to worry, your captain will work out the bugs and we’ll do like the birdies do.

  “I’m in Atlanta,” Alan said.

  “Want me to get Garo?”

  “How are you doing, Calvin?” Alan asked.

  “I’m okay, Alan.” I had the phone between my ear and shoulder. I opened the refrigerator and looked around for what else to put on the sandwich.

  “How’s school going?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Good.”

  “You on the honor roll this time?”

  “I think so.”

  There was a silence. I could almost hear Alan wondering what to say next. Our conversations were usually like this—both of us trying hard. “What’d you do this week, Captain A.?”