“No. You were perfect.” He sounded authentic. “Jesse needed to be set straight, and it had to come from you. You told him you cared, and that’s what he needed to hear. He’d gotten involved with some bad dudes.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m to blame?”
Michael swerved to the side of the road and parked. Supporting his arm over the steering wheel, he veered toward me. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You are not to blame. Not at all. The Bambi I first met was totally green. I’ve seen you growing out of your freckle phase rather quickly. I know it was inevitable, but—”
“Now’s not the time for this lecture, is it Michael?”
A gurgle grumbled in his chest as he deviated back to the steering wheel. “There’s something else. I planned on telling you after senior skip day, but...” His thumbs tapped the wheel, looking pensive. “It will hurt more than it helps, but you should be told.”
This cat and mouse game isn’t working for me. “Michael, just tell me.”
“It was Jesse.” He fastened his darkening eyes on me.
“Jesse?”
“At Putnam’s. It was Jesse.”
Foreboding coiled my throat like a slithering serpent, strangulating me. Michael’s admission was and wasn’t a shocker. I wrapped my hand around my neck and swallowed the coagulated sludge.
“I suspected him all along but couldn’t prove it,” he said. “When he finally fessed up, I didn’t handle it well.” Michael snuffled as he obsessively rubbed the bridge of his nose. “After our bike ride, I said you’d been slipped a little something into your drink? Well, that was Jesse, too.”
I remember. After downing that moonshine he’d given me, the world had tilted into a psychedelic daze. My addled brain had malfunctioned, along with my eyes and mouth.
“Jesse’s screwed up scheme. You’d be persuadable or whatever.” He pressed the heel of his palms into eyes. “His parents asked me to convince him to see a psychiatrist. That appointment is next week.”
“So now you’re taking the blame off me and blaming yourself for what Jesse did?”
“I’m taking the brunt of the blame.” He grasped a hand over his chest as if it pained him. “That night at Putnam’s, I glimpsed a silhouette of the guy running out the door. Since I was the new guy here, I had an idea of friending him to see if he’d admit it.
“Asking you to talk to Jesse was my way of observing, so I could judge what was happening between the two of you. I went to his house weeks ago, trying to jar him into confessing. He was so fucked in the head. He didn’t know what reality was anymore. After senior skip day we talked about slipping you the mickey. Then he admitted what he did to you at Putnam’s and said heroin helped him to forget. I blew up and punched his lights out—in his parent’s basement no less. I said a lot of awful things and I feel as if I triggered his overdoes.”
“Why…? Why didn’t you tell me? Even after I thought you…”
“I’m fucked in the head, too.” He looked me squarely in the eye.
“I should hate Jesse. But…but now that he’s gone, I don’t feel…anything. It hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m not condoning what he tried, but we were all messed up.”
I promised myself never to be in that smashed and drugged state again.
Accurately singing on the radio was “96 Tears” when Michael pulled into my driveway. The song’s lyric’s about crying too many teardrops hit me hard. It’s purportedly about breaking up, making up, and breaking up. But the crying part held true today, for Jesse.
I didn’t want Michael to leave. A peculiar feeling tugged at my heart as if I was never going to see him again. Deterring him, I asked, “Were the college scouts at the game?”
Michael switched off the ignition. “Yup.” He stared out the windshield, not clarifying and not making it easy on me.
“Is your mom still in town?”
“She left today.”
By his remarks, it was easy to see that the subject was unmentionable. I started opening the door, but halted when he spoke.
“Aunt Loretta asked my mom to move in with them until she can get her head together.”
“Is she taking them up on their offer?”
“She has a drinking problem.” Ashamed or embittered, he kept flicking his thumb with his finger. “You already figured out about Ray. Uncle Leo kicked his ass out of the house before I got home that night. Believe it or not, it was the first time I ever felt compelled to fight back.”
“For you, Mary,” he said, his eyes glimmering.
Immersed in his sober gaze, words escaped me.
“He had no right to treat you that way. I’m sorry you had to witness that. You come from such an “Ozzie and Harriet” kind of family. You wouldn’t know what it’s like.”
The Monroe’s: the ideal model of the American Family. I snorted. “You’d be surprised,” I said. I’d come to learn that most, if not all, families conceal secrets behind the structures of their homes. “Once my dad starts, he never knows when to stop drinking. He’s all happy and smiley until one shot of liquor too many and his face changes. He gets this slack-eyed, droopy mouth expression. Steve provokes him when he should keep quiet, and our house becomes a fight club. I never saw that on “Ozzie and Harriet.””
“Really? It’s hard to believe,” he said. “I knew Steve was a hell raiser when I first met him. But you. You have sweet, innocent, and beautiful written all over. Usually, when a family has those types of problems, you can tell.”
“It wasn’t always like that. Not until I turned twelve, Steve started using, and my parents started to live at the local bar. My father never hurt me, but he damaged my brother quite a bit. He broke Steve’s nose.”
“I guess I shouldn’t mess with your dad.”
“Only when he’s drinking, and he hates foul language. It always sets him off, and my brother knows it.”
“Since we’re confessing here.” Michael wiped down his face. “My dad died in Nam over two years ago. See this star?” He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and indicated the large starred tattoo. “That’s for him. After he died, I went a little wild, and when Ray moved in… He drank all day while mom worked her hump off supporting that piece of shit. He thought I was his live-in servant, and I can honestly say, I lipped off like your brother.”
Never once had I let on that I already knew a few of the things he was telling me.
“The first time he gave me a black eye, mom said it was my fault. And Ray felt I deserved a lot of black eyes, and he liked to hit below the belt where she couldn’t see the bruises.” He tsked as the words stumbled out of his mouth. “I had a few mishaps with the cops, which didn’t help my case. Then you heard what my mom said at Aunt Loretta’s about some girl getting pregnant. I thought Ray was going to kill me that time.”
“Is that how you got the scars on your back?” I asked.
He exhaled, adding a nod. “I ended up in the hospital. Mom told them a gang beat me up. I didn’t squeal. When Aunt Loretta found out, she threatened to tell the police and have Ray arrested. That’s when I was sent up here to live.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m not sorry to have met you.”
We lingered, gazing into each other’s eyes. The scintillating attraction enveloped us, and I stifled the urge to straddle him right there in my driveway.
Steve’s voice spliced my brain. “He wants to go to California with us.”
“Are you going to California,” I uttered, “with Phoenix on Tuesday?”
He smiled, exaggerating the dimples on his non-whiskered face. “Why, would you miss me?”
Could he hear my heart chiming like an overactive tambourine? Melting on the inside, I craved his heated embrace.
His hand inched forward as if he wanted to touch me but wavered. “It would be great to hop in the van with Steve and Phoenix and leave ev
erything behind,” he divulged in a stiff tone. “I’m not willing to do that and get drafted just yet. Maybe after I graduate.”
I swiftly calculated. Eight months from now.
CHAPTER 30
I stayed home from school to say goodbye to Steve. Phoenix and Raven were there, chucking his duffle bags into the van.
“Don’t look so glum,” Steve announced to the family. “I’ll call every night.” He hugged Mom, and even a teary-eyed Dad. After he’d broken Steve’s nose, Dad had seemed to change overnight. Whether it was because Mom had threatened him with a divorce or just plain being penitent, he’d been home more often and hadn’t been drinking as much.
Steve then pecked a kiss on Lucy’s cheek and stroked her baby head. Lucy appeared melancholy, though I doubted she understood her big brother was leaving home.
When it came to bidding him goodbye, I restrained myself from bawling.
My brother speared both of his hands into my hair and ruffled it into a wicked nest. A wry grin touched his face. “Be good, Mary.” He clamped me to his chest, lifting me off my feet.
I shattered and nestled my head into the crook of his neck.
Phoenix and Raven went from person to person, giving hugs and kisses.
“Stay cool,” Phoenix commented, “we’ll be back before you know it.”
Raven joggled from leg to leg, and said, “We’re running late. Monty probably thinks we forgot to pick him up.”
Standing in a staggered line on the sidewalk, the Monroe family waved as the van coughed and sputtered along Lake Avenue.
On December 1, 1969, the first draft lottery was held for the Vietnam War. Steve’s number was picked for active duty.
I tried everything, omitting booze and drugs to keep my mind off my brother. Good to his word, he called home every third day to report in, and Dad always ran for the phone.
While held hostage during English class, I mindfully checked off my to-do list as the teacher narrated from A Tale of Two Cities. I was motivated and anxious with the onslaught of upcoming events. Like what was I going to wear for Friday’s dance, then I had to spend the weekend reviewing for a science and history exam scheduled for Monday. Every Tuesday and Thursday was obligatory badminton practice, and I finally got the nerve to sign up for ski club. It was sketchy whether my parents would dole out money for boots and skis, but they seemed thrilled that I’d taken the initiative. So, I’m hopeful.
I dispersed the cobwebs from my ears when I heard Mr. Carlson’s philosophical voice.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.”
Mr. Carlson paused. His gaze browsed over the quiet classroom to see students suspended forward, outwardly enthralled with the reading. “I truly believe Charles Dickens had written this passage for the ages,” he said, “because it is so applicable during the French Revolution, for the present, and for the future.”
The insightful passage by Dickens corded through my brain as I passed the trophy case. The prizewinning football season was officially over. Lancaster had been awarded a mammoth-sized trophy that was on display. The wintry months provided perpetual activities if a person were so inclined. Which I was.
Snug and toasty in my coat, I burst out of school into Dee’s parent’s station wagon. Driving straight to Como Park and singing in unison with the radio, we located our shelter, which we’d named Jesse’s Place. Since he’d passed, I’d never divulged his crude attack.
In the lotus position on top of a picnic table, the same table Jesse had passed-out on, we waited for people to show. Surveying the park, an early snow had dusted the grass, and the trees were stark, lacking their leafy finery. Days grew shorter and colder, and the nights became long and bitter. After Jesse’s funeral, I felt jilted by Michael, and I brushed off the despondent attitude that jeopardized me each day.
Familiar cars began to steer into the lot. Our roster had multiplied with the addition of Ellen, Debbie, Andrea, Pete, and even Jimmy had been hanging around, Of course, Candy, Dee, Gwen, and Tom were ever-present.
We’d recently received horrible news. A couple of boys that had graduated the previous year had died in Vietnam. Another reason to party hearty for the end of days might be drawing closer. Ceaseless music. Drugs. Booze. And rock ‘n’ roll. Chaotic dancing. Preferably not in that order.
However, I was true to myself. No drugs. No booze. Although, I loved to dance.
Pete and Tom built a fire to roast hot dogs, and they took pleasure in mocking me for my penchant of uncapping a thermos of hot chocolate, which I’d opted to share on more than one occasion. The bulk of the group was imbibing beer and their cigarette of choice. When a heady joint ended up in my fingers, I’d pass it off. I’d been respected for my conviction to become clean and sober. It was integral in my relationship with friends.
“Hey, anybody hear from Michael lately?” Tom said while teaching me poker.
I truly believe he was asking for me. I shifted my butt on the bench, holding a pair of aces in my hands. “He seems to have dropped off the face of Earth.”
“He’s in Alabama,” Jimmy said as he chowed on a hot dog.
My aces floated to the table.
CHAPTER 31
Subsequent to a week of hassling my parents to take me driving, Mom spared me an hour on Saturday. My road test was booked, and I’d been driving daily. That darn parallel parking had been my dilemma. As I attempted my fifth maneuver, Mom’s eyes rolled around in their sockets.
“Mary, I think that’s enough for today. Let’s go home.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence.”
“You’ll do fine next week.”
The Oldsmobile hugged the road as I maintained the speed limit along Lake Avenue. When I suddenly pressed the brakes, Mom’s body jerked frontward and her hands flew to the dashboard. By the look on her face you’d think I committed a crime. “What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”
“It’s Michael’s truck.” My heart performed a series of cartwheels.
“You’re in the middle of the road.” She sounded less than composed. “And Mrs. Krantz is beeping in the car behind us.”
I swiveled on the seat, waved an apologetic hand to our neighbor, and accelerated. Once I parked in the driveway, Mom fled while I dawdled to inspect myself in the rearview mirror.
Make-up free, freckle-faced, and I’d let my hair do its own thing. Splitting my fingers into the shiny strands, I tried taming the curls, but they weren’t cooperating. Then it hit me like a frying pan to the head. Be happy and content and accept what God had gifted me. Again, I viewed my reflection. Far from impeccable, the girl reflected in the mirror wasn’t half bad—no matter what Candy or Dee would insinuate.
Functioning on wobbly ankles, I crossed the threshold into the house.
His voice was music to my ears. Mom peppered him with questions about school and his southern accent. Michael had my vivacious sister on his lap, sitting at our kitchen table. He rose when I walked in, tucking Lucy in the crook of his arm. He appeared taller than I remembered.
His wide, unspoiled blue eyes locked on me, wilting my knees.
“Hey, Mary.” His drawl was more pronounced.
From the edges of my vision, I saw Mom’s twinkling eyes. She smiled and stretched her arms to Lucy, relieving him of the little minx.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” I said, noting four dead beer bottles. It appeared as if Dad and Michael had been chatting it up.
“Sit down, Michael,” Dad said with vigor. “He’s been in Alabama.”
As
ordered, Michael lowered to the chair, looking at ease with his long legs jutting out in front of him.
“Will,” Mom said, attaining Dad’s interest, “can you help me with something in the other room?” Being far from discreet, her head kept tweaking sideways shrewdly implying he should follow.
Michael appeared passive, except for his index finger beating the tabletop. His hair had been cut in his unique style of layers. Maybe it was an Alabama thing, but it looked swell. Miniscule black scruff shadowed his chin again, though it remained hairless where the scar had mended on his jaw.
“Would you like another beer?” I asked politely.
“Not really. But thanks.”
I didn’t know what to say, especially with Mom and Dad in the next room, doubtless listening to every word.
“Would you like to go for a ride?”
“That’s a good idea.” I called, “I’m going out with Michael.” I smelled the distinct odor of leather as he shrugged on his jacket, and I realized my coat was still on.
The clack of his boots and my whooshing of sneakers resounded as we traipsed to his truck. The frosty air stung my nose as I inhaled. Full-bellied clouds loitered in the sky, a sure sign that snow was on the horizon.
Michael’s hand confiscated one of my springy tendrils, ringing it around his fingers. “I like your curls.”
I smiled, peering into his dazzling eyes.
The tempo of the Four Tops mellowed the mood as we drove. I twiddled with the button of my coat, then pulled on my collar, and then crammed my hands into my coat pockets to keep from squirming. More than thrilled to see him, I was tense and edgy. My reflections centered on him telling me that he was there to say goodbye and that he was moving back to Alabama.
The blinker ticked, and I read a wooden sign: Reinstein Nature Preserve. He’d taken me five minutes up the road from my house.
“Let’s walk?” He didn’t wait for my answer as he opened his door. “Have you been here before?”
Incense and Peppermints Page 23