Skipping School

by Jessie Haas

  The kittens were hibernating, too. He could barely see them when he peered into the dark box, and he had to explore with his hand to make sure there were two. When he touched them, they didn’t stir, and their light breathing hardly lifted his hand. They were surprisingly warm, though, and he could smell, rising from them faintly, the sweet fresh-laundry smell of cats that have recently bathed. They were a luxurious presence in the barren room, amid the dead leaves and raccoon dung. Phillip crouched for a while beside them, his hand lifting and dropping with their breaths like a small boat riding the breath of the ocean. Only when his legs cramped did he rise, go outside, and sit on the cold front step.

  He saw the black branches of the locust trees snaggling across the sky with bright stars caught in them. He listened to the brook and the night noises. He felt like a person who doesn’t know people and doesn’t miss them, a person, perhaps, who doesn’t even know how to read.

  Eventually the branches became clear, and the stars dimmer. The air grew gray, and a cold fog rose. Phillip went inside and filled the kittens’ food dish. They were still sleeping. He slipped out the door, shut it softly, and went up the path through the tall weeds, shrugging on his vest as he went.

  He’d forgotten the ax and hatchet, but his father was still asleep, so it didn’t matter. Phillip crushed the note in one hand and dropped it in the wastebasket, then took his frozen body into the shower. He had filled the room with steam and turned himself beet red all over before he was warmed through. Then, blameless in flannel pajamas and a bathrobe, he started making breakfast. In a few minutes he heard his father stir.

  He came out in his pajamas and poured a mug of coffee, stood looking out the window at the bleak backyard. He didn’t speak. That wasn’t as burdensome as usual to Phillip, without his mother’s concern for contrast. Nor was it perfectly easy. But he kept himself quiet, and poured the batter into the waffle iron.

  “Your mother called yesterday,” his father said eventually.

  “When?”

  His father shrugged. He had never been one to dwell on unnecessary details, never one to pause in the midst of a story to decide if it had happened on a Tuesday or a Wednesday. Now he had even less breath to waste.

  “Said you were out.”

  Phillip watched the steam curl up from the edges of the waffle iron, waiting.

  “Carrie’s okay,” his father said, after a while. “They went to Vivian’s. Viv’ll look after her for us—get her on weekends, as long as she needs it.”

  “Good,” said Phillip. Of course, Derek wasn’t the only thing troubling Carrie or even the main thing. She would need help for a long time to come, and the peace of Vivian’s place, with the goats and the lady companion who might be a lover, though they never wondered that aloud, would be good for her.

  But what had his parents said about him?

  His father had nothing more to offer. They ate their breakfast in almost total silence. His father ate four waffles; like his mother, Phillip found himself counting. He himself ate many more than four. Then he washed the dishes, carefully cleaned off the counter, and swept the kitchen floor. What was he supposed to do today?

  He passed the living room and glanced in. His father sat in the chair. His big hands rested quietly on the arms, and he looked out the window. His eyes were clear and thoughtful; his expression was firm. Phillip felt that it didn’t matter what he did. He could go out or he could stay. His father would not notice.

  He took himself quietly outdoors.

  His father saw him through the picture window and waved as he pushed off. Phillip waved back and accelerated, as if he were rushing off to meet someone. Out of sight of his own house he slowed down, weaving back and forth across the empty streets.

  He knew what he looked like: the kids in town, teenage boys who rode bikes too small for them down the sidewalks and around and around the parking lots. They had outgrown the last bikes their parents could afford to buy them or felt like buying them, and they were a year or so too young for jobs and used cars to roar around in. Between ages, with nothing on their minds, they cruised the streets, like Phillip now.…

  A VW passed him. Two stern female faces looked his way in surprise and disapproval. Abruptly the car pulled into the next driveway, turned around, and headed back up the street, passing him again. He received one curt nod apiece and sat up straight on his bike and gawked, almost running into a fire plug, as the VW turned into his own street.

  “Shit!” He accelerated, shot a little wide turning into his street, and grazed someone’s leafless hedge, pedaled madly. Halfway down the street he heard the unmistakable sound of a storm door shutting. Too late.

  More slowly now he looped into his own yard and parked his bike in the breezeway. He heard the storm door again. Kris stood on the top step.

  “You’re shivering,” she said, looking him over with a critical expression.

  “Oh.” So he was, some inside and some out. “What’s going on?”

  “Officially we’re looking for you. Your father said you weren’t home, and Aunt Mil said, ‘Do you know where he is?’”

  “Oh, come on!” said Phillip angrily. “She doesn’t have a right to give him shit like that!”

  “She doesn’t believe in rights, either. She believes in duties, and she said she wouldn’t stand by and watch you turned into a street urchin just because you seem older than you are. She’s here to remind your parents—in her subtle way—that they’re the adults.”

  “Well, Mom isn’t here, and Dad—look, he needed the time, and I gave it to him, and I’m glad!”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Kris politely. “You’d look even nobler if your nose weren’t blue.”

  “You two think you know everything!” Annoyed beyond endurance, Phillip pushed past her into the house.

  He could see what had happened. Both were still on their feet, his father running a hand through his hair, confused and helpless. The hall closet stood open, and a large armful of pillows had been dumped back on the couch. His father must have heard the car in the driveway and panicked. Aunt Mil was soothing him, pouring on the charm. Already she was being offered a cup of something and was accepting graciously and taking off her coat.

  “I’ll get it,” Phillip said, filling the kettle.

  “Oh, hello, Phillip,” Aunt Mil said, on an entirely false note of surprise.

  He scowled at her.

  Turning away, opening the cupboard to get tea bags, he was astonished to intercept a powerful beam of authority from his father’s eye. You be-have, his father told him silently. He also expressed surprise at Phillip’s rudeness and called clearly for help. Phillip’s hands fumbled, and he dropped several boxes of different kinds of tea on the counter. Kris moved silently to his side to help sort them out.

  “This is what we have,” Phillip said. He made every effort to lighten and politen his voice, with the result that he sounded like a car salesman.

  Regally Aunt Mil made her choice. Nothing in her demeanor suggested that they had ever spoken together as equals. They were firmly old lady, boy. Phillip felt confused and hurt.

  Yet this made it natural, when the tea was ready, for her and his father to retire to the living room together, Phillip and Kris to remain at the table.

  Polite conversation. Aunt Mil admired a duck pillow, at the same time covertly straightening the jumble.

  “My wife’s work.”

  “Beautiful.” Her eyes traveled around the room. Phillip saw them check as they crossed the oxygen cord, drawing its line across the green carpet, check, and return.

  “Are you permanently tied to that thing?”

  “Yes,” said Phillip’s father. He didn’t seem to be shocked, as Phillip was. They tried never to mention the cord among themselves, but of course, his father must be always thinking of it.

  “Are you restricted to the house then?”

  “No. I have portable tanks. They tell me I can—do whatever I feel like. Don’t feel like much, though
.”

  “Well, of course not!” snapped Aunt Mil. “There’s nothing to do. Whatever possessed you to move to a place like this?”

  Phillip’s father leaned back in his chair and looked her over, with an expression that Phillip hadn’t seen on his face in a long time. A politician stumping for votes, a pesticide salesman, the lady president of the local bird-watchers’ society used to provoke it: a compound of amusement and wariness.

  “We mainly wanted to … get out of range of our relatives,” he said. “And … someplace that wouldn’t be much … trouble to run.”

  “So you could spend all your time thinking about your condition!”

  “That has been the result.”

  Amusement was winning. He still held himself back, protected, but a smile was struggling to control the corner of his mouth.

  “You probably think I’m a terrible old woman,” said Aunt Mil. “But the odds are you won’t die a day sooner than I will, so we may as well discuss it openly!”

  “In that case, ma’am, I’ll just point out, I’m a little younger than you are.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched as she nearly smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve had more time.”

  “And,” said Phillip’s father, “I’ve been … sitting here, thinking of the … time I had, and the time I … won’t have. And missing this time.”

  Neither of them glanced toward the kitchen, but Phillip knew that he had been referred to.

  “You ought to have a little farm,” said Aunt Mil.

  Phillip’s father shook his head. “No. What I … have coming to me is … bad. She won’t need … extra work.”

  “How soon?” asked Aunt Mil.

  Phillip wanted to look away from his father’s face but couldn’t, and he was surprised that his father’s expression did not change. Answering the question seemed easy for him. He seemed glad to.

  “A couple years, they say. Maybe more. Maybe less. They really don’t know.”

  Phillip hadn’t known either. Two years. Part of him relaxed. Part of him froze in dread.

  “But then,” said Aunt Mil, “you’re in exactly the same position as all the rest of us!”

  “Except I know what’s coming.”

  “Not necessarily! You might be killed in a car crash, for all you know!”

  Phillip’s father burst out laughing. “I might,” he said.

  “Then, for God’s sake, get something to do! Something for all of you to do. Get a little place where you can raise some pigs, someplace that needs a lot of fixing. You can’t be yourself as long as you’re just sitting around thinking about yourself.”

  “Well, yes and no,” said Phillip’s father. “Tell me, do you always … do this?”

  “Not often enough,” said Aunt Mil. To Phillip’s astonishment, she seemed embarrassed. “If I’ve been rude—”

  “Oh, no!” said Phillip’s father politely. Her steely eyes sharpened on him for a second, in grim appreciation.

  “I’d be glad to show you around,” she said. “I’m something of a matchmaker between people and houses.”

  Phillip’s father nodded cautiously. Already his mind seemed to be moving away from the conversation. His imagination had been captured, Phillip thought, and he was miles ahead.

  “Well,” said Aunt Mil, “a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Johnson. I’ve enjoyed getting to know your son.” She turned toward the kitchen. Phillip and Kris hastily gave their attention to their tea. Aunt Mil’s glittering eyes skimmed across them impersonally. “You’ll come visit sometime when your wife is back?”

  “Yes, we’d enjoy that.” Phillip’s father had risen to see his guest to the door. The oxygen cord slid off the carpet onto the kitchen linoleum, with a slight sound. Aunt Mil glanced at it and up at his face. He looked, as he had all morning, clear and vigorous and changed. Phillip could see that she liked him, and he was glad the two of them hadn’t met till now.

  When the door was opened, Thea stood on the step, her tail as erect as Aunt Mil’s back. “Miaow,” she said, clearly and courteously, looking straight into the eyes of the departing guests.

  “Hello, Thea,” said Aunt Mil. They passed each other, Kris followed, and the door closed.

  “Phew!” said Phillip’s father, pushing a hand through his hair. His eyes met Phillip’s. “She goes for the throat!”

  “They both do,” said Phillip. His father’s eyes sharpened on him curiously and then glanced away.

  “You’re braver than I was, at your age,” he said, and moved to the table and sat down. Immediately Thea jumped into his lap and rubbed her face hard on his unshaven chin. “Hi, puss,” he said. “Hi, puss.”

  Phillip glanced at the clock. It was one-thirty.

  “Straighten up those … pillows, will you?” his father asked. Phillip did, retrieved the rest from the closet, and closed the door.

  “You want some lunch?”

  His father looked up, away from the beaming cat in his lap and away from his own thoughts. “What is there?” he asked.

  Phillip opened the refrigerator door. He took out a plate of fried chicken, golden and dusted with pepper; a knuckle of leftover ham; plastic containers that held potato salad, studded with bits of home-cured bacon, macaroni salad, applesauce; most of a quiche, with crimped rings of onion on top; a bowl of fruit salad spiced with ginger, and yogurt to put on it; and a half gallon of milk. Consulting one of the lists, he said, “There’s also cheese and bread for toasted cheese sandwiches and soup in the freezer.”

  “Oh,” his father said, looking at the array.

  “She, uh, she’s coming back today, right?”

  His father nodded. “This afternoon. That’s what she said.” He withdrew his gaze from the food, with some difficulty, and met Phillip’s eyes.

  “You want a toasted cheese sandwich?” Phillip asked, straight-faced.

  “No, I … don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  Slowly, through half the afternoon, they ate: a spoonful of salad, a sliver of ham; cold chicken torn off with their fingers a shred at a time and studded with far more salt than was probably good for them, sharing wit Thea. After a while, in the middle of pouring a glass of milk, his father sighed suddenly and said, “Wish I had a beer!”

  Phillip got up and looked in the refrigerator. On the bottom shelf were two beers, the brand his father used to like. He probably hadn’t had one since last corn planting, the last season he’d been able to work. Without a word he twisted off the cap and put the bottle in front of his father.

  “Well, I’ll be!” his father said, holding it up and looking at the label. He sighed again and raised the bottle to his lips, and hesitated, looking at Phillip. “You like beer?”

  The question, out of nowhere, left Phillip blank and groping. Did he like beer? He was not of the legal age to drink it, but of course, it wasn’t legal for him to skip school, either.

  “Get a glass,” his father said. “I can’t drink the whole thing.”

  Phillip got one, and his father carefully measured out a third of the bottle and then tipped his head back for a long, thirsty swallow.

  By shred and by spoonful they whittled at the edges of the food. They spoke only to ask for something or to Thea. Phillip’s father looked around him, as if seeing the house he lived in for the first time. Occasionally he looked at Phillip, who then kept his eyes on the food.

  Slowly the kitchen darkened. Phillip got up to turn on a light and make a cup of tea.

  “I haven’t been much of a father to you lately,” his father said, looking not at Phillip but into the mists of his own mind.

  Phillip took a tea bag out of the box and carefully, neatly folded the waxed paper shut and closed the lid. “It’s okay.”

  “No. It’s hard. You figure … your kids’ll be grown, before you have to face this. You’ll be … wise, and strong. You’ll … have it all figured out.” Now his father looked at him, measuring. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

&nb
sp; “I thought I knew everything, at fifteen. You feel that way?” Phillip shook his head.

  “Good. I can’t—I can’t put things back. I wish to Christ I could! I can’t … give you what I want to. But … you want to move? Like she said, some little farm—” His father paused and coughed hard.

  No, thought Phillip. That surprised him a little. He still felt like a stranger in this house. It obliged him to be neater and politer than was natural. But he didn’t want to lose Kris, or soccer next fall, or the gray house.…

  “Stay in this school district?”

  “Yeah,” said his father. After a pause: “Get your mother some … goddamned ducks.”

  She got home later than they were expecting. The food was still out when she let herself in the door, and guiltily Phillip started packing it away. Her eyes passed over the laden table indifferently. She might have counted each elbow of macaroni and weighed the ham before she left, in her anxiety, but now she had forgotten that.

  “Leave the chicken out,” she said. “I’ll eat a piece—and the fruit salad.” She slipped out of her coat with a tired sigh and kicked off her shoes.

  “Drive okay?”

  “Yes, Carl.” She rubbed one hand over her face and stretched her shoulders, where driving always got to her, and then went over and hugged her husband. Phillip looked away. A hug was unusual at any time, and in recent months his father was most often in the armchair, inaccessible.

  This hug went on, reminding him that it was their life screwed up here, as much as his. They were his parents. He came from them and was meant to outlive them. But they had chosen each other, for love and comfort, and now their plans were ruined.

  He should melt away, he thought, into his own room. But the hug ended, and his mother looked at him.

  “Hi,” he said. “How’s Carrie?”

  “Just let me get rid of this coat and use the bathroom, and I’ll tell you.”