by Henry Turner
I mean, I knew I’d probably get away with it.
I’d been hanging around the house all summer with him, and it’s not like he ever really paid much attention to me. He felt too bad about what had happened with my mom, and mostly lay on the sofa watching TV, like I already told you everything about.
The only real problem would be if my mom showed up.
That would be hairy.
She still came by sometimes—well, practically every other day—because she hadn’t exactly packed up all her stuff when she left, but rather just sort of stormed out the front door and walked the two miles to her mom’s house over there in Greenway Terrace.
She’d come around every couple days, and because she refused to talk with my dad, she’d come up to my room and sort of look around and cry about how much she loved me and how sorry she was about leaving, which always made me feel pretty miserable, and then she’d grab something from the bathroom like her styling iron or toothbrush, and without saying too much to my dad, who was always sacked out on the couch anyway and not really up for much conversation, she’d sort of tramp out the door again.
Most of the time her visits were fairly undramatic, but if she were to come by and see I wasn’t there and he didn’t know where I went, I knew she’d totally blow her top, because one of the things she was always on him about was that he never kept enough of an eye on me.
The truth is, my dad was sort of out of it—well, actually completely out of it—and had been all summer since my mom left him. I mean, he might not have even noticed I was gone; it wasn’t like he spent a lot of time checking up on me anymore. And it wasn’t like I’d missed having breakfast with him or anything, because we no longer did that sort of stuff. In fact, we didn’t really do too much at all together, at least no family-type stuff, because with my mom gone he just wasn’t up to it, because like he said, he no longer had much vital energy.
I really felt pretty bad for him and wished I could help him, because when my mom left he just felt he’d lost everything, and of course because of what was going on with Laura, that was certainly a feeling I could relate to. I felt it was really my job to sort of incentify him, if you get what I mean, and sort of get him psyched again about his life and back on his feet and everything. A couple times I even made suggestions to him about a few dad-son experiences, like we should go out to the movies or maybe go to the zoo, which I hadn’t been to since I was a little kid. But he was never up for anything and just went on watching TV.
I guess the truth is, I felt it was my fault that my dad had just sort of given up on everything, and I really wanted to do something about it, even though they always tell you not to think you’re the one responsible for your parents’ problems, which, however, is something you might not exactly be able to believe if you were me living in my house in the weeks after my mom left.
I know I haven’t said too much about why my mom left. And I don’t really think it’s good to just sort of come right out with it, because it was very personal and hurt my dad a lot, and her, too, and they feel very uncomfortable around each other now—I guess you can see that.
But the big reason she left—the one I think I can tell you about—was really because of me.
My mom, I will admit, was sort of always riding my dad about various mistakes he’d made with my upbringing. At least, this is the stuff she always brought up when she was really angry, and also that my dad did not actually care about the family in any way that seemed real, even if he felt he cared, because my life—what with me not being too good in school, and not really having a lot of friends, and not having done a lot of extracurricular stuff like a lot of kids do at their parents’ behest to sort of investigate their potential, if you know what I mean—well, my mom sort of blamed my dad for everything and always said I had a lot of problems fitting in because my dad hadn’t, you know, sort of provided me with much of an example.
His argument was that just earning a living and paying the bills was hard enough. But she’d get him there, too. Because the truth is, my dad had never really found himself when it came to all of that. He tried a lot of things, like selling real estate and opening a couple businesses, but nothing ever really clicked for him, and even though I always had new socks and something to eat, it wasn’t like we had a lot of expendable income, if you get what I mean. But my mom would sort of go to work on him for that every once in a while, for his not ever, you know, having amounted to anything, although I will say she forgave him for it, as really any girl should if she knows her husband or boyfriend really, really loves her and just can’t otherwise make much sense out of what he should do with his life. And she’d yell about what her dad had said—my grandpa, I mean, who died a few months after I was born—about how he felt she could have done better than with my dad, because my grandpa, he always said my dad wasn’t good enough for her, and that she deserved a better life than he could give her, even though he did get her out of Greenway Terrace. He’d been in the army, Grandpa, and was pretty tough-minded, so I’ve heard. I won’t say my mom agreed with what Grandpa said, because she went ahead and married my dad and they had me and everything, but the truth is, she’d bring it all up every once in a while, when my dad had made her mad, just to sort of remind him of what she’d sacrificed so as to be with him.
But those weren’t the problems that made her leave.
I never found out the real reason.
All I know is that finally there was this big thing that my dad did to me, or rather didn’t do, that really ticked my mom off, and which she left him for. And I never could find out what the big thing was—it had always stayed a mystery to me. And even though I spent plenty of time listening through the floor, I never learned what it was. All I know is that my mom would get, like, super emotional about it, and cry and scream and even throw things.
I was already about a third of the way down the hall, and I stopped for a second to rest my arms. Holding up the tablecloth hurt like hell after a while, especially my shoulders. So what I did was sort of very slowly move my elbows down to my waist, sort of bending them in, so I could just stand there and rest a few seconds. The window on the front door was bright with sunlight. I saw the square of it like it was practically burning through the tablecloth right in front of my face, but all around me everywhere else there was just the white shape of the walls and ceiling all blended together and sort of formless, and the whole house was so quiet and still I could hear cars outside a block away.
Of course, I guess my mom was always right—I mean about how I have problems fitting in.
Actually, I think I have just one problem, but it’s such a big one that it sort of includes just about every other problem you could ever possibly think of.
And even though it’s probably the most boring thing in the universe to think about, I really should probably tell you what it is.
So here’s my problem:
I don’t have a clue.
I started moving again very slowly. My shoulders felt sort of better. I swear, how quiet everything was had sort of started to bother me. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was get to one of the archways. I slowly raised my elbows without hitting the tablecloth, and then I went forward, one step at a time, headed for the closest arch.
I don’t fit in, and I can’t just act like I fit in, because I’m no good at doing all that stuff Carol does, all those lies and everything. And I’m not saying everybody lies just like Carol, but what I am saying is that a lot of people sort of put on an act anyway, without having to go to those drastic lengths that Carol does for his little “private satisfactions.”
In my neighborhood you get bombarded by your neighbors’ attitudes. I mean, it’s like everybody in my neighborhood acts like they know everything, and can do anything, and are, like, totally competent. And if you don’t feel that way about yourself and don’t know how to fake it, you’re in trouble.
You get judged if you don’t go to the best school or if everybody knows your parents don’t have much
money despite how hard they try to hide it or if you can’t, like, renovate your house every year and sort of really keep up.
After a while, all the people who can do that stuff—and believe me, most of them can—kind of catch on that you’re not fixed as well as them and they sort of start to judge you in a million sly little ways. So you have to learn to behave in a certain way just to be sort of tolerated. I mean, you have to learn how not to draw too much attention to yourself. You have to act like you’re hiding.
But you know what’s funny?
After spending my whole life growing up here, I’ve decided that the competent act all the neighbors have, it’s like hiding too.
I mean, the whole neighborhood is like a hiding place, where people get seen as something here—because everybody knows proof positive that they do all that stuff: send their kids to the right school and keep up appearances and everything. But they’re not the same in other places, because the few times I’ve seen parents from Ivy Hill at the beach—and that’s only, like, a couple hundred miles away—they always look lost and really pulled out of their shell and nothing like how they look in the neighborhood, where they look so totally together.
Maybe everybody in the world is hiding in a very important way that I can only sort of partly understand.
But I see it.
I even saw it in the hall as I crept along, very slowly now, because the archway was getting closer. I saw it in how Laura’s mom seemed to everybody like this perfect mom who had great habits and undoubtedly felt great about herself and never clueless, and Laura’s dad, too, in how he was seen as such a terrific businessman and everything. But after I’d heard how Laura’s mom talked, god knows how she actually felt about herself, because she was, like, the most clueless and nasty person on earth, in my opinion, and so was Laura’s dad, treating his daughter like the invisible girl. Maybe they both felt lost and completely clueless but were just super good at putting on an act that fooled everybody.
When it comes to my neighborhood, that’s the kind of hiding I mean.
I hope you don’t feel it’s weird that I think like this, but to tell the truth, living where I live sort of makes me think this way. You can learn a lot in my neighborhood, especially if, like me, you’re always watching and not participating the same as when you see everybody swimming in a pool whom you couldn’t see if you were actually in the water with them and splashing around trying to stay afloat.
And all that watching, that’s just another kind of hiding, maybe the most effective kind.
I paused a second and stood there thinking that one day I’d probably come out of hiding.
Maybe when I was twenty-five.
I’d always wanted to come out of hiding.
I figured I’d throw a party to celebrate coming out of hiding.
I just didn’t know if I’d really go to the party.
Chapter
Twelve
I got to the archway when I was halfway down the hall. I felt lucky because it opened into a room where not only the lights were out but the curtains were drawn. So super fast, thinking that the quicker I moved the less chance anybody watching would notice, I crossed over the bare floor and darted through the archway into the darkness.
Except I hadn’t noticed two steps leading down from the archway. As soon as I was through I lost my footing and fell with a wham right on my ass.
I hit the floor but managed not to yell, and as fast as I could I scrambled behind this big fanback chair, one of three arranged in front of a big sofa. I just crouched there a minute and held my breath. I felt very tingly, not just because I’d hit the floor, but because I really did expect a siren to go off any second and whirling lights to flash on.
After a few seconds I knew the coast was clear, so I got on my knees and peeked over the chair back, looking around very carefully.
It was a huge room, and wide open, with sofas arranged in this semicircular pattern, little metal-and-glass tables everywhere, and big art books on wall shelves.
Up in the far corner of the ceiling on my left was another little doohickey with a red blinking light.
I knew I had to be cautious. But I figured the room was so dark that I might be able to get away with just walking around, especially if I did it ninja style and sort of mimicked the shapes of things I moved past, like these black sculpture things in the corners and this huge painting on the wall that was all black and white and looked like Chinese writing, which I could pose myself in front of like some of the writing as I passed it and probably not get noticed.
But then again maybe not, and I certainly wasn’t up for such calisthenic antics, especially after falling down the stairs.
About twenty-five feet away I saw another room behind a wide entryway. It was almost completely darkened, except for some blue glow from what I thought must be computers.
I began to push the fanback chair very gently, using it like a shield between me and the blinking red light. It slid nicely over the floor, very smoothly, actually. And as I pushed it I looked out over the room, seeing all this incredibly expensive black ebony furniture—I supposed it was ebony just because it was black—and all these artworks arranged on these black shelves that just seemed to float in front of the walls.
I must admit that creeping around in there I felt really nervous, almost like I was scared somebody might just appear from nowhere and jump out at me any second.
But then again, I was sure the house was empty.
Dobey was downstairs, and there was no possible chance anybody would jump out, because even if I did get spotted by surveillance cameras, whoever came to get me would come in through the front door or the back door, and it would not really be a surprise, because I’d hear them and still have time to get away.
So I was pretty sure that I really wasn’t afraid anybody would sort of jump out at me.
It had to be something else making me nervous, and I just sort of paused awhile and looked around, looking over the furniture and the paintings on the walls, trying to figure it out so I could relax and get going again.
Then I kind of guessed what it was.
This will sound crazy, but I mean it was almost like the house itself was making me nervous, which I couldn’t understand, because I really thought it was fantastic and, like, the best house I’d ever seen.
But I have to be honest with you even if it sounds nuts.
The house was great—but something was missing.
Now, I don’t want to sound too full of, like, judgments, but I felt something was sort of absent from the house, and it really did make me feel so nervous I almost felt sick.
I just kept looking at all this stuff around me, stuff that cost thousands of dollars and didn’t even look like anybody ever really used it—I mean like they hardly ever even sat in the chairs or on the sofas, and the paintings just sort of hung there all perfect and untouched, and I doubted anybody really cared about them at all.
In a way, it seemed like a house that nobody lived in, or maybe anybody lived in, because there just wasn’t anything about the actual people who lived there.
I mean, for how great it was, the whole house really felt sort of dead.
There was just something so weird and impersonal about it, and I guess I just wasn’t used to that, because my house was such a mess, and nothing but personal—too personal.
Of course, it’s not like I can’t sort of see behind what I was feeling.
I mean, maybe I just sort of resented them having a huge house full of such great stuff that I’ll never have in a million years, unless I win the lottery or, you know, accomplish something important.
Maybe I was a little, like, sick with resentment.
In my neighborhood that’s not too hard to feel, believe me, because if you’ve heard anything I’ve said you’ll kind of understand that a lot of my neighbors sort of resent what other people have and they don’t. And when you’ve lived around people like that your whole life, it’s pretty hard not to act just like
them.
But to be perfectly honest, I really wasn’t feeling resentment or anything—but just this weird feeling that the house was somehow off-kilter in some odd way I couldn’t yet understand.
To tell you the truth, all summer I’d been feeling pretty weird.
I’m not saying it was Laura leaving me that did it, but everything had begun to feel so difficult. I noticed sometimes I had to sort of control myself; I worried sometimes that if I just let myself go I might do anything, that life might just sort of slip away from me.
I don’t mean I was dangerous or about ready to sort of lose it, but I felt something had changed in me, because growing up watching everything like I said, I certainly noticed other people having more than me and it had never really bothered me—but maybe now it did.
I’d sort of adjusted to being the kid who didn’t have anything. I mean, you can really sort of adjust to that, being just a watcher like I said, like a player without a piece. I guess that was my way of fitting in.
But maybe it was wrong to adjust like that.
Maybe I was angry.
Maybe I was sort of angry about that, because I didn’t know how to change it, and I didn’t want to just go on being that year after year.
That wasn’t fair.
I don’t mean I was going crazy.
And I don’t mean I wanted to get angry or hurt anybody—please don’t think that. I mean, I’d hate for you to think that I’d sneaked into Laura’s house with some, you know, buried impulse to do something crazy.
But I didn’t know.
All this nervousness I felt, maybe I was just sort of worried or scared of what I was seeing. I mean, maybe I’d come into Laura’s house just to find out all this stuff about her—to sort of discover for myself that her life wasn’t nearly as great as she’d claimed—so I could maybe get over her and not have to love her anymore.
It’s almost like I didn’t even know who I was anymore.
I mean, it was weird, not just the usual at-the-brink sort of feeling you get when you meet somebody new, or are going to a new school and it’s the first day, or start at some new job and feel awkward around everybody or something, like it was for me when I first got this job I’d had making deliveries for a pharmacy and had to sort of wait and see if everybody liked me and if I could get along enough to go on working there.