After what must’ve been hours of play, Jimmy, Mr. Jeepers, and I collapsed onto the ratty sofa. The chimp crawled into my lap. A faint whiff of mud, circus hay, and clear night air still clung to him. He was all huge ears, bulging mouth, fleshy belly, and soft, dark hair. Had a nose so alert, seemed it could sniff in the entire world at once. His bright brown eyes were perched beneath a massive brow. Beneath those eyes, an intricate webbing of wrinkles. Those age-old eyes looked right into mine. Then he reached for my hand. Later, I’d learn how chimps were far less aggressive than humans in resolving disputes. Rarely would they go to bed mad. Just a touch could chill them out. Once Mr. Jeepers cleaned bits of trash from my hair, then stroked my arm with a weathered hand, I felt a sense of peace I hadn’t in some time.
Forget all the death, odd shadows, cryptic Ouija board messages, and pet jinxes I’d experienced in the past. I drew Mr. Jeepers close. He puckered his thin pink lips into a kiss, gave me a hug. That’s when I noticed morning light spilling through the BB-cracked window. I glanced over at Jimmy, who’d just awoken from a brief sleep. “So,” I said. “What now?”
Chapter 2
Back in 1975—long before that night at the circus, long before my twentieth year alive—I didn’t have Mr. Jeepers or anyone else to help chill me out. There was just Six-Year-Old Me surrounded by what felt like a very haunted Jersey. There was the Jersey Devil—the legendary flying biped with hooves, a forked tail, and blood-curdling scream—that roamed the Pine Barrens. There was also Blackwater’s huge, scarred white oak, Satan’s Tree. Over a hundred years ago people had been hanged from it. But when I lived there, all I saw, every day, were the newly posted photos, along with the weathered notes, wreaths, and crosses left by the heartbroken parents, friends, and siblings of victims that had crashed their cars into that tree.
There were also the ghosts. Jersey was full of ghosts—the Atco Ghost, the Parkway Phantom of Exit 82, the Ghost Boy on Clinton Road, and the Ghost of Annie on Annie’s Road. But those ghosts weren’t like the one closer to home. My mom would eventually become my ghost. Not literally. She didn’t die. But she always seemed to be there and not there whenever we were together.
My ghost story first began that one Saturday morning in ’75. It was spring. A bright blast of sunlight shone through the front living room windows, turning my mom golden as I watched her take part in one of her favorite rituals: housecleaning. Dusting, Pledging the furniture surfaces, arranging and rearranging her Hummel figurines. When she wasn’t looking, I bit into a celery stick from her Bloody Mary sitting atop the driftwood coffee table, a cork coaster beneath it. That celery stick: a tangy burst of bad medicine. I dipped it back into the drink. Took another bite. And another. It sent a shock through me. Made my eyes go high beam, body rubberbandy. Then all at once, everything eased into a peaceful, giddy glow. That glow: the equivalent of what Mom would experience after downing a couple drinks. There’d be more music in her voice. She’d hold me close, kiss me repeatedly on the cheek, tell me how much she loved me.
I’d never accuse Mom of turning me into the partier I’d later become. Even if she’d grounded me right then, I still would’ve found my way back to the bottle. But she never saw a thing. She was too busy singing along with Olivia Newton-John’s “Have You Never Been Mellow” blaring over the living room stereo, and gliding through that room, the roaring vacuum cleaner her dance partner.
I swiped another bite of celery. Even took a sip of her drink. The smear of her red lipstick on the glass tasted waxy like birthday candles, but sweet—the perfect chaser for that bitter shock of vodka. Next thing I knew, I was dancing through the living room, and everything spun. The ceiling. The Windsor Cherry grandfather clock with the astrological blue moon phase hovering above the twelve. The display shelf holding Mom’s Hummels.
Everything shimmered, blurred. Gone my parents fighting. Gone my only-child loneliness. Merry-Go-Round Me continued spinning. The white shag carpet spun. The hickory liquor cabinet spun. I called out to Mom. Told her I loved her. Twisting, glittering Mom asked if I was okay. I told her yeah. Everything was fine.
That’s when all my spinning dropped me to the floor, and the sparkly room went black.
From that moment on, well into my teens, it felt like all I did was stumble from one dark moment in life to the next: Getting My Lights Punched Out Dark. Partying Till I Couldn’t See Straight Dark. Maybe that’s why I never really got those clues Mom had been leaving along the way.
The first clues: starting when I was thirteen, Mom began spending more time away from home. Beds unmade. Dishes unwashed. At the time, I figured she was just working her usual Mary Kay overtime, or having a blast joyriding in the big pink Caddy she’d recently been awarded for being top-selling regional sales director.
Next: her suppers were often late. And when they were on time, meals were off—lukewarm TV dinners, Tater Tots, or cold pizza as the main course.
I didn’t pick up on that either. I could go for days living on little more than the good times and the occasional brew I’d share with Jimmy.
As for my old man, he was another story. Like always, when dinner wasn’t sitting in front of him, piping hot, promptly at seven, he’d holler.
When I was little, Mom would just retreat into her dark bedroom to cry and pray. But that had changed, too. For years, she’d busted her ass, working her way through the Mary Kay ranks of Independent Beauty Consultant to Senior Consultant, then on to Team Leader, Future Sales Director, Sales Director In Qualification, and finally Sales Director. The grueling process had made her an armed and armored Wonder Woman. Whenever she was home, she’d stand her ground and fight my old man.
Still another clue I didn’t completely get: I rarely heard my parents argue anymore. Back in those days, I’d lock myself in my room and blast my bedroom stereo. I used to refer to my music as my sonic walls, the way that sound would rise all around me—thunderous drums, thumping bass, wailing guitars. Whether it was the Clash singing “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” or Springsteen sending me hopeful greetings from Asbury Park—“I strolled all alone through a fallout zone / came out with my soul untouched”—my music shielded me from the outside world.
The last clue, and perhaps the trickiest: Mom’s hugs came less frequently. That clue was the hardest to detect, as she’d never been big on physical displays of affection. But on those rare occasions when she’d expressed those emotions, she could never hold me long enough or close enough. So unlike my grandmother, where I’d be gathered into thick arms and pulled so close that I was no longer outside, but in.
Some months after I turned fifteen came that dreaded day I stepped out of one dark and into another far greater. That’s when I finally put all those clues together to form the picture of Mom leaving me.
It was a Sunday morning. Like most Sundays, my old man should’ve already been at work filing the week’s police reports and accident records, which meant the only sounds filling the house would be those usual Mom sounds: her NASCAR-sounding hair dryer; the asthmatic coffee maker; and her merciless critique of her Jackie O-like, widely set, stunning brown eyes, high cheekbones, and crisp bouffant hairstyle in the bathroom mirror. On that particular Sunday, there were no Mom sounds, so I slept right up until the last minute, when I thought she’d shake me awake to accompany her to church. Upon rising, the place was quiet: loud quiet. Eerie quiet. All I could hear was the soft burble of birds outside, and the low, steady hum of the neighbor’s lawn mower. I lay there, bristling to the densely charged electricity of my old man moving through the house, he and Mom not so much arguing as simply not talking. Then, with the slam of a door, he was gone.
I hopped from bed. Didn’t bother flipping on my stereo or lava lamp. Didn’t even engage in my morning ritual where I’d face down my two Bruce posters—Bruce Springsteen Darkness on the Edge of Town, Bruce Lee Enter the Dragon. Instead, I dug deep into my dresser, threw on the first couple things I found—je
ans and a Superman T-shirt—then stumbled down the hall. When I reached the living room I spotted Mom. As Catholic as she could be at times, she never bothered with a rosary. Cigarettes were her worry beads. Decked out in a V-neck, shoulder-padded, floral knit dress and pink suede pumps—not her usual sober, business-like church attire—she was sitting on the faux leather love seat, huffing a Virginia Slims. The cigarette’s fiery red tip pulsed like a full-on cop siren.
Afraid to move any closer, I asked: “What’s up?” My voice felt like something limping out of my mouth and staggering over to my mother.
Mom wasn’t as cold as Jimmy’s basement’s Dark Side of the Moon, but she did possess her own icy calm. Without responding to my question, she just kept huffing her cigarette.
At her feet, I spotted the baby-blue Samsonite suitcase my old man had given her on their first wedding anniversary. Over the years Mom had taken many things to church—her sins, my sins, even my old man’s on those rare Sundays when he wasn’t working. All those things and more she’d taken to church, but never luggage.
Mom snubbed out her cigarette in the coffee table ashtray, then said: “Your mother needs to go.”
“When will you be back?” I asked.
She shook her head.
I wondered if that meant no, she didn’t know—or no, no.
A bit of her iciness melted away. Her chin quivered; her eyes grew red, strained.
I took that as no, no. I froze. Couldn’t speak or move. All I could do was go camouflage with the living room’s off-white walls.
Mom’s lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear her. It was a bit like how I’d get in math class: simple addition, subtraction, division, and multiplication problems I could handle. But word problems and math formulas—volume, surface area, laws of exponents—always numbed me out. Spun my mind off into a black hole. I was better versed in the mathematics of life: partying times ten equaled Me. Lipstick plus leaving: Mom.
“Did you hear me?” she said. “It’s not your fault, honey. I just need to go.” She stood, brushed her hands along her dress, then picked up her suitcase. Switched it to the opposite hand, then back again, then sat it down by her feet.
Both of us stood there staring at that suitcase.
“So what is it?” I asked. “Is it Dad? Is he cheating on you?”
That one made Mom almost laugh. “Heavens no. Your father’s far too busy for that.” She grabbed the suitcase, clutched it tightly in front of her heart.
Later, when talking with my old man, he’d tell me how criminals could rat themselves out without ever saying a word. I’d realize that Mom had done that, too. And while I didn’t have the cop jargon to explain her behavior in that moment, it was obvious that her suitcase translated into I’m already gone. I stormed across the living room, got in her face. “You suck.”
“How dare you talk to your mother like that,” she blasted.
“I’ll talk how I want,” I counter-blasted.
She sat the suitcase down, then reached out a hand to touch me, but withdrew it. In a voice there and not there, she said: “You and your father will do okay without me.”
I figured she must’ve downed a couple Bloody Marys because she was talking nuts—Code 10-37: mental case. No way would my old man and I survive on our own. With him working so much, I’d have to manage things alone. But I’d never be able to accomplish what Mom had done before going AWOL on housekeeping duties. I was clueless when it came to making the place smell like that wonderful blend of garlic, bacon, and onions whenever she’d whip up her special home-fried potato recipe. Wouldn’t be able to make the kitchen sink dishwater that perfect blend of sudsy and hot. I’d forget to put lemon pieces through the garbage disposal for a clean fresh smell. Wouldn’t bother using that gross paste of cream of tartar and water to clean the porcelain. All those things and more Mom had done perfectly, and for very little reward, to keep my neutron-bomb old man from blowing up in our faces. Once she left, though, he’d explode in full force. Only this time I’d be his only target. “Please,” I said. “Take me with you.”
“It’s best this way,” Mom said, still maintaining most of her icy calm. “A boy needs his father.”
I gave the coffee table a solid sidekick. Books, votive candles, and a bowl of sickly sweet potpourri went flying. “What’re you crazy? He’s an asshole.”
“How dare you talk about your father like that,” Mom said.
“You’re one to talk. You’re the one leaving him.”
Next thing I knew: slap! Felt like a sudden rush of bee stings and flames had ravaged my face.
I raised a hand to hit her back, but punched my thigh instead. “Don’t ever hit me again. I get enough of that shit from Dad.”
Mom pressed a French manicured nail into the center of my chest, right over my Superman S. Lines bunched up around her mouth, as she seethed: “Now you listen, young man. No matter how upset your father gets with you what he’s really trying to tell you is how much he loves you.”
I snorted a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“It’s true,” she said. “He needs you.”
Based on past experience, that sounded like total crap. But I didn’t say so. Still stunned by her slap and threat of leaving, I stood there quietly, awaiting her next move.
Looking more at her suitcase than me, Mom managed to say: “I was only twenty-two when I had you. I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids. But your father did.”
That one snapped me out of my stupor. “You’re saying I was an accident?”
“I’m just saying I was too young, honey. I wasn’t ready. I don’t think I’ve ever been ready.”
She had it all wrong. She’d been a fine mom. And once gone, a big part of my life would be gone, too. No more beauty. No more prayers. No more smiles and tears to fill the house. Gone color. Gone cleanliness. Ditto with that voice calling me honey when I hurt. No more advice about girls. Gone heart. Gone kisses. And while she’d never done any one of those things that great, she’d done just enough to keep me happy.
“So what?” I said. “You were just gonna leave and not say nothing?”
“I left a note for you and your father in the kitchen.”
“Where? By the vodka bottle?”
Right then, I wanted my words to pack more of a wallop than the smack she’d delivered. But if she was feeling any pain, she didn’t show it. My words barely watered up her eyes. Not even enough to shed a single tear. She swiped a Vicodin from her purse, downed it, then grabbed her suitcase, and headed for the door.
Without looking back, she said: “I’m not leaving you, Mark. I’m leaving your father.” She paused, then added: “You may as well get used to it. This is what people do best. Leave.” She continued to the door. As she opened it, golden October light spilled into the room.
“Wait,” I said. “Where’ll you go?”
“Harborville.”
Harborville was only three towns away. It was a dump, though not as big a dump as Blackwater. Screw Mom for going to that lesser dump without me. “If you leave,” I said. “Dad’ll find you, you know. He’s a cop.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “He already knows.” Then she gave me a look: looking right at me, looking right through me. On. Off. Total Mom.
“Fine,” I said. “Then go already.”
She placed a hand on the screen door handle, but couldn’t bring herself to open it.
Later, when recalling that moment, I’d be reminded of a Bruce Lee quote: “Optimism is a faith that leads to success.” While I’d often tried to live by that creed with mixed results, right then I was a goner. Once Mom walked through that door, all I wanted to be was a loser in spades.
I started my new life by grabbing one of Mom’s cheery Hummel figurines—a pigtailed girl playing a violin—and whipping it across the room. It rocketed past the floor lamp, the grandfathe
r clock, my old man’s recliner, and slammed into Mom’s LeRoy Neiman print, Beach at Cannes. Like the Bruce Lee quote, that print—filled with colorful umbrellas, blue skies, and sunbathers strolling by an even bluer ocean—was a constant reminder that happier days were just ahead. Screw that. Along with the shattered figurine, the picture frame glass and print were totally smashed and torn apart.
If, on any other day, I’d smashed one of her Hummels like that, Mom would’ve grounded me for a month. But on that day, she just silently stepped through the door.
She was gone. Gone for real. I was so frozen with fear that I couldn’t even pick up the phone to call Grandmother for support. All I could do was puke all over Mom’s white shag carpet. That puke was chockfull of her lousy Spaghetti O’s dinner from the night before, along with the beer I’d later downed at Jimmy’s place. In the past, whenever I’d thrown up due to stress, Mom had been there to help clean up. Now there was only me.
My gut knotted up even more. Felt like I was giving birth to a brand new me: Nowhere Me. Blown To Bits Me. Like Mom, that new me just wasn’t there anymore.
Chapter 3
Once Mom left, the last shreds of home sweet home vanished, too. Family photos in the living room appeared sadder, grayer. The toad lilies out front wilted. Dust conventions gathered on every furniture and décor surface—from the charcoal-gray, wide-wale cord sofa to the creepy porcelain harlequin wall mask. The rich brown and red rag rug in the hallway now seemed a total sham. I’d once read in history class that female settlers had woven those rag rugs as a way of dealing with the sadness of their husbands being away hunting.
Certain aspects of Mom still remained, or at least seemed that way—the Sweet Bay Magnolia scent of her hair, and the music of her voice drifting through every room—but the house told a different story.
New Jersey Me Page 3