“I don’t want you to move out, you know.”
“I know. But I have to. Nothing’s going to change between him and me, and we’re making the rest of the family miserable. You know that.”
She nodded gravely.
“You know he likes you more than any of us, don’t you?” she said.
“What?”
“It’s true. That’s why he gets so angry with you. You’re so much alike.”
“Yeah, well …” I said, not wanting to believe her. “Let’s get going to this movie or we won’t make it.”
We had a great time at the movie. George decided he’d go, too, so all five of us were alone together, for the first time in a long while. We’d all seen Pinocchio before—including Steven, who’d seen it as part of a birthday party, the week before—but that just made it more fun. We anticipated the exciting moments and sang along with Jiminy Cricket on “When You Wish Upon a Star” and with Pinocchio on “Got No Strings to Tie Me Down.” We drove the people around us crazy, but we didn’t care. We were in our own little world.
Afterward, we all piled back into the big Pontiac station wagon. Then, I had an idea. I turned around in the driver’s seat and, with a sly look on my face, said “How about ice cream, gang—before supper!”
“Backwards Day!” cried Steven.
The others were all for it, too. We piled back out of the car and walked to the Baskin-Robbins, not far from the theatre in the new shopping center, where we sampled about half of the thirty-one flavors among us. By the time we got home, we were feeling a little sick, but we didn’t let on. Mom couldn’t figure out why we all ate so little, when she’d made us our favorite spaghetti and meatballs.
After supper, the spell seemed to break, and we all went our separate ways—Steven to bed, Ruth and Marion to the family room in the basement, George to his room to read, and I to mine for more studying. At nine o’clock, Ruth and Marion came in to say good night.
“That was fun today, John,” said Ruth. “I wish you could be home with us every weekend.”
George appeared in the door behind them in his summer pajamas. He had to be at work at seven o’clock the next morning.
“I wish you could, too, John,” he said. “It’s not the same around here without you. If you could just get along with Dad and Mom …” His voice trailed off. We both knew it was impossible.
“Thanks,” I said. “I miss all of you. I wish I could feel comfortable being around more.”
Marion picked at a sliver of wood on the doorframe, while George and Ruth gave me long looks. No one knew what else to say. Finally, George said goodnight. Marion and Ruth quickly followed suit. When they left, closing my door behind them, the little room suddenly seemed big and lonely.
5
IN A CHARACTERISTICALLY generous move, Tony went with me to my arraignment for the shoplifting charge, during the first week of fall classes. He’d been through it before, during a wild period in high school, and he knew how scary it was, especially the first time.
At the courthouse, downtown, we were directed to a large room with wooden benches full of people waiting. In front of the room was a wide, beat-up oak table and chair. The room was windowless. Tony explained that the court clerk would call me forward, read the charges against me out loud, and ask for my plea. Then he would give me my court date. The expression “court date” sent a shiver up my spine. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to face a judge—it just didn’t seem real.
Ten minutes later, the clerk finally appeared. He was a short, balding man with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loose, and wet cigar stub protruding from his mouth. Clearly, he didn’t feel the need to impress us with his appearance. Almost before he hit the chair, he barked out the first name on a list he’d brought in with him. When no one responded, he went on to the next. It wasn’t until he read the third name, Gladys Murray, that a thin black woman in a short, tight red dress muttered, “Das me.” She rose languidly and took her time getting up to the desk. Before she got there, the clerk started reading her indictment in a loud voice. She had been arrested for prostitution. His tone was essentially indifferent, with a tinge of self-righteousness, communicating that the accused was akin to the dirt under his fingernails. It was a tone that did not make me feel any more comfortable.
Gladys Murray pleaded guilty and was given a court date. As she ambled away, I heard the words “John Meyer.” It took a second for me to connect the words to myself. I raised my hand and said “Here,” as if it was a classroom roll call. The clerk eyed me, trying to figure out if I was being a wise guy. Apparently, the fear in my eyes convinced him I wasn’t.
“Step forward, Mr. Meyer,” he said in his monotone.
Tony whispered, “Good luck,” as I rose to go. I smiled nervously at him, then stepped out into the aisle and made the long walk to the big table. Up close, the clerk was not nearly as intimidating. He looked small and round behind the huge slab of oak and his nose had the bulbous, rosy quality of an alcoholic’s. He read the indictment swiftly, not looking up, then asked for my plea. I pleaded guilty.
“As a first offender pleading guilty, Mr. Meyer, you are eligible for Judge Duffy’s community service program. This program allows you to work off your debt to the community by doing social service work somewhere in Milwaukee County. Are you interested in this program?”
This was a complete surprise. I’d never heard of Duffy’s program, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than a big fine or time in jail. I told the man I was interested.
“Then you are to appear in Judge Duffy’s court on Thursday, September 24th, at 9:30 a.m. Failure to appear will render you ineligible for the program. Any questions?”
I said no. Without telling me I was done, the clerk barked out the next name on his list. I walked back to Tony, who was beaming. As soon as we were out of the room, he slapped me on the back.
“Good work, man! You sure picked the right time to get into trouble. I’d heard about Duffy’s program, but I forgot all about it. If all goes well, you won’t even have a police record.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. You lucked out, man!”
On the way back to Tony’s house, we bought two bottles of Boone’s Farm apple wine to celebrate. Claire was more than happy to celebrate with us. We sat in the living room, Jonah lying on the floor between us, pretty much entertaining himself. Occasionally, one of us shook a rattle for him or moved him back onto his blanket, but otherwise he was happy.
We were soon happy, too. The alcohol loosened our tongues, and we spent hours sharing stories about our past. I found out that Claire’s father was a recovering alcoholic who had caused her a lot of grief as she was growing up—mostly mental grief, but with an occasional slap in the face when she opposed him too vociferously. She was the second oldest of five children. She had an older sister, then three younger boys who were still at home, with a much better life since their father had taken the pledge. It was a psychiatrist at the rehab center where her father went to dry out who turned Claire on to medical school.
I heard more about Tony’s wild period, too. He’d “borrowed” cars for joy rides a couple of times, painted graffiti on his high school building, and participated in a few serious brawls with kids from other high schools. All of this had happened during six months when his father was out on strike with the rest of the county laborers. Tony laughed it off, but it was apparent there was a lot of pain behind the laughter he wasn’t about to go into.
My big revelation was about having been a fat kid for most of my life. Claire was absolutely shocked when I showed her a picture of myself in eighth grade. (I carried it around in my wallet as a constant reminder I had to be careful about overindulging.) I was surprised by Claire’s response, since, at the time, I still thought of myself as still being a bit too “stocky,” as my mother always put it. But Claire, bless her heart, said she would never have guessed I’d been fat.
The more I drank, the more clearly I realized how in
love with Claire I was. I was intoxicated by her. Feeling terribly disloyal, I fantasized about what might have happened between us if Tony hadn’t gotten to her first. She seemed so open and gentle and caring. I wanted to tell her everything about myself, good and bad, because I felt she would take it in without judging me.
Throughout the day, I stayed as close to her as I could. I sat next to her on the floor as we all chatted, accompanied her to the grocery store when suppertime rolled around, stood at her elbow as we fried chicken, tossed salad, and mashed potatoes, sat across from her at the table, so I could stare into her deep green eyes while we ate. Tony hardly existed for me that day, but he didn’t seem to notice my lack of attention to him or my excessive attention to Claire. He seemed happy to be off in his own little world. After our initial conversation in the living room, he went into a corner with a joint and a Dashiell Hammet mystery and didn’t come out until supper was on the table.
What was it about Claire that drew me in so swiftly and inexorably? What made me love her, the moment I saw her? I’ve thought about that often, since then. Besides her beauty, which certainly provided the initial impetus, it was the sense of mystery that surrounded her. She seemed unfinished, a ghostlike figure awaiting something, or someone, to give her greater definition. I was convinced I could be the one to complete her, to make her whole, and that, in turn, she would make me whole, for I, too, felt ill-defined. She was one of those people who seem utterly receptive, simply because they listen so well and speak so little. It would never have crossed my mind not to trust Claire. She was an open vessel, into which I poured my feelings, knowing they would be safe.
With Tony, on the other hand, I knew from the start I could only go so far, only reveal so much. He didn’t want to know too much. He believed in the traditional male friendship model, only slightly moderated by the more open psychology of the day. We’d hug and talk about relationships in a general way, but we never made ourselves truly vulnerable to one another. I never knew his real hopes and fears, and he never knew mine. Perhaps he sensed my feelings for Claire early on and never fully trusted me.
Despite our differing ways of relating, Tony and Claire and I got on well on the surface. We talked and laughed easily, worked together with instinctual smoothness, loved to eat and drink and be merry. We became a family almost instantaneously, incestuous longings and all. For a while, I provided a buffer between them while they sorted out their own confused feelings about being married to one another. But I was never content being in the middle.
That evening, Tony went to bed early again. Claire was sleepy, too, from the alcohol and the heavy supper. She lay on her back on the floor and, during a lull in our conversation, drifted off to sleep. I looked down on her from the sofa, her breasts rising and falling beneath her turquoise tank top. Raw Sienna was weaving its erotic spell again and a warm breeze blew in the window. She turned onto her side, her back to me, still sleeping. I almost convinced myself it would be okay to lie down behind her, put my arms around her, press my body against hers, and let nature take its course. I came very close to doing it, and scared myself so badly I left without waking her.
I stood at the bus stop down the street, shaking my head, hating myself for even considering such a thing with a friend’s wife. But I also found myself looking back toward the apartment and fantasizing about what might have happened if I’d just had the courage to go through with it.
THE SESSION IN JUDGE DUFFY’S court, at the end of September, was relatively painless. He lectured me for a few minutes, then sentenced me to twenty hours of community service. If I did the service and wasn’t arrested for a year afterward, my police record would be wiped clean. The only other thing I had to do was meet with the court chaplain immediately—and for as many sessions afterward as the chaplain deemed necessary.
Father Nussbaum was one of those rumpled, alcoholic-looking, middle-aged, Catholic priests who seem to have seen it all—as someone attached to the courts, he probably had. But, instead of making him hard, his experiences had made him gentle and compassionate. We sat in his tiny office, which looked out on a dimly lit airshaft, and chatted easily, while he chain-smoked Lucky Strikes. Occasionally, he would drop a gray ash on his black pants without noticing it.
He asked me about my family and about what had led me to shoplift and about what I felt, now that I’d had a chance to think it over. I told him I felt good about my family, but that things were rough between my parents and me. I explained what was happening the morning I lifted the book and told him I thought I’d learned my lesson and wouldn’t do it again. He seemed to accept that, but he wasn’t going to let me off the hook quite so easily.
“One thing I must insist on is that you tell your family about this.”
My stomach did a flip.
“I don’t suppose you’ve done that already?”
“Hell no!”
“I thought not. I think it’s important you do. I can tell by the way you talk about your family they mean a great deal to you. If you don’t confess to them and get their forgiveness, you’ll always feel tainted around them. It’ll hurt your intimacy.”
I didn’t answer him right away. Instead, I asked him for one of his Lucky Strikes. He shook one part way out of the pack and held it toward me. I took it, and he lit it for me with a dented stainless steel Zippo, exactly like the lighter my father used to have, before he quit smoking. I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, and stared at the floor. I took several drags from the cigarette before I spoke. “How about if I just tell my brothers and sisters?”
“I think you need to tell your parents, too.”
“But they’ll use it against me. They already think I’m a fuck-up—excuse my language.”
“Do you really think they’ll do that?”
“Maybe not. I don’t know. Are you really going to make me do this?”
Father Nussbaum brushed the ashes from his lap as he spoke. “I’m not going to ask you for a note from your parents to prove you’ve done it, but I will ask you about it the next time we meet.” He stopped brushing and looked up. “I think I’ll know if you’re telling me the truth.”
I knew damn well he would, too.
“I suggest you do it soon, sometime when the family is all together— perhaps even at supper, tonight.”
“My father will kill me.”
“He doesn’t sound like a violent man to me. I think you mean that it will kill you to admit this to him. But that’s exactly why you must. You’ll feel cleansed, I guarantee.”
I hated to admit it, but I knew he was right. He opened a little black appointment book on his desk. “Let’s meet next week, at the same time, if that’s convenient for you. I think it’s important you tell your family by then.”
I’d already decided I’d take his advice and tell them that night. I’d feel like a condemned man until I got it over with.
“The same time next week is fine. But what about the community service bit? I’d like to tell them how I’m going to pay for my mistake. That might ease the shock a bit.”
“It’s pretty wide open. You just need my approval for where you do your service. Do you have any ideas about what you’d like to do?”
“I’ve been thinking about doing some volunteer work for the Social Action Center, over on the East Side.”
“I’ve heard of them. It’s a Quaker organization, isn’t it?”
“I guess so. I met the guy who runs it. He says they have a halfway house and a soup kitchen. He asked me if I’d like to do volunteer work for them, sometime. I guess I’ll take him up on it.”
“That sounds fine.”
He fished out a sheet of paper from a side drawer in his desk. “Take this form with you. Have whoever supervises your work fill in the number of hours for each day you work. When you’ve got twenty hours, bring it back to me.”
I thanked Father Nussbaum for his help. He shook my hand warmly and wished me good luck with my family.
I worked at Siegel’s fo
r a few hours that afternoon, then went home for supper. My stomach seemed to get tighter with every block the bus traveled in the direction of my house. The walk from the bus stop home felt like a death march. I mumbled hello to my parents as I walked through the kitchen and went up to my room. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, but I couldn’t relax. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. How the hell was I going to justify what I’d done? I rehearsed a dozen ways to explain it, but they all sounded artificial. Finally, I decided I’d just have to speak from the heart and see what came out.
Mom called me down for supper. As I came down the steps into the kitchen, I saw that everyone else was already at the table, Mom and Dad on the ends, Marion, Ruth, and Steven on one side, and George on the other. My chair was between George and Dad. I sat down quickly. Dad led grace. For once, I prayed, too. I didn’t have much faith, so I said to myself the only prayer I knew that made any sense to me, “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” It brought me the first peace I’d felt all afternoon, so I decided I’d speak up as soon as I had a chance.
The food started circulating the table. I cleared my throat. Marion looked across at me, sensing something.
“Ah, I have something to tell everybody.”
The dishes stopped passing. Everybody looked at me. I’d tried to sound casual, but clearly my discomfort had communicated itself. I felt my bowels churning.
“A few weeks ago, I needed to read a book for one of my classes, really fast. There were no copies in the library, and when I got to the bookstore to buy it, I realized I only had fifty cents in my pocket. I didn’t have time to scare up the money—I only had an hour to read the whole book—and it was only a ninety-five cent paperback, so, I … I took the book without paying for it.”
“You stole it?” said George bluntly.
“I … took it, yes. The security guard saw me and he … arrested me. I had to go to Judge Duffy’s court this morning. I’m sorry to ruin everybody’s supper, but I thought I should tell you.”
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