Listening to stories has always been the source of my ability to tune into events and recognize what’s important through their impact on people. I tend to connect with strong emotions in a situation more than I do with distant analysis of geopolitical debates. I wonder how the people featured in that documentary are doing now.
I can’t turn off the thoughts and my on-guard emotions, maybe because I’ve been stuffing down my own feelings since the blowup with “former” last week. My existence consists of swallowing over and over the fear for my future and Mom’s flat expressions, numbness, and exhaustion. We haven’t really been able to talk about it. I’m afraid to bring it up. Her deep sadness seems my fault. She keeps saying it isn’t, but I can’t absorb her words.
I can’t lie here any longer. I resort to my obsession of straightening my room, even though it doesn’t need it. I pace and ritually review everything in its place. Memories associated with pictures of me and Mom flood my mind. I take down the one lone picture of me with my father and carry it around as I roam my room. No pictures of “former” in sight. My space feels safer.
One picture seems out of synch: me as Mr. Mayor, looking ever so likeable at the park after school. Where did that persona go? An act, true enough, but it was one that made me feel secure and on the road to success.
Finally, I lie in bed—covers pulled up, iPod ear buds in, eyes closed—and let myself escape into the music.
This evening is a repeat of last night: I feel overwhelmed, anxious. I try to sort out the day’s events and what might have pushed my buttons. Nothing was off about school today. Godfather was back at work with me this afternoon, and he complimented me on the job I did yesterday when he wasn’t there. He was back to his usual position behind the large rocks while I handled transactions, there to support me if I needed it, but otherwise out of sight.
Still, I worry I’ve missed something important. I know the anxiety I’m feeling is about the frat guy who got a little agitated today when we didn’t have as much weed as he wanted, apparently enough for the whole fraternity. After the guy was gone Godfather described the way I handled the situation as “smooth.” He even laughed about the guy’s uptight manner. I didn’t laugh with him.
“Man, you look all stressed out,” he said. “Why don’t you knock off early.”
I’d only been there about forty-five minutes, but it’s true, I was really agitated.
Once an anxiety cycle is geared up in me for a few days, I can’t stop it through imposition of will. I get more and more desperate. Weed works—I bought some from Godfather this afternoon—but I can’t risk disappointing my Mom, so I stashed it when I got home without smoking any. If she finds out I like to get high, it will devastate her.
Not thinking or deciding anything, I find myself drifting downstairs to her study. She is reading. She stops and smiles when I come in.
“Will you tell me a story, to help me go to sleep?” Like I’m three years old! But at this point I don’t care. I have to stop my racing heart and twitching eyes, and the fear pushing on the linings of my gut.
Mom doesn’t make me explain. Actually, she seems relieved to be needed. “Sit here next to me on the loveseat,” she says, reaching out her arms for me to lean on her shoulder. “I was thinking about your father, how handsome he looked in his uniform when he left for war and how beaten down when he returned. Have I ever told you the story of how we met?”
She has, but I don’t mind hearing it again. It’s not the content of a story I care about now. I need to hear the love in her voice when she talks about my father. And the love I feel wrapped in her arms. To stop her desperate searching in my eyes to see if I am okay, I close them, pretending to listen to the story of their meeting, but really I focus only on the softness and caring in her voice. It fills my brain and carries me away from panic.
Thursday morning, 9/11, I am mentally prepared but an emotional wreck. To really focus on the firefighter, I need to relax my demons. I leave the house early, with my personal supply of weed. At the cliff, I focus on the water sounds while smoking a joint. I store my leftover weed in the empty hidden box, along with a note to Godfather in case he gets here before me this afternoon. By the time I arrive at school, I am ready for a stellar day.
In English/history block, the firefighter is accompanied by a woman who is introduced as Superintendent of Schools. She says the firefighter is a member of the School Board. We have all kinds of visitors come to our classes, but this seems unusual. Even that can not rock me from my pot-induced sense of calm, however, and the interview is amazing—this guy is so easy to talk with. Many students ask questions. The firefighter is so into it he stays the whole two hours.
I ask the concluding question: “What do you think is the most important thing we should remember about 9/11?”
He thinks for a minute and then says, “War is always about ‘us’ versus ‘them.’ Nobody can ever win in that fight. Spend your energy reaching out to ‘others’ to break down barriers.”
The room is absolutely still. Then our history teacher stands, walks over to the firefighter, gives him a hug, and says, “Thank you for all you do.”
The superintendent comes up to me afterward and says, “Daniel, you are a keen observer and have a knack for drawing people out. Well done!”
Who knew I could pull this off after my time in the pits last night, before Mom brought me back? I think I’m turning my Mr. Mayor skills into something useful.
“Great interview yesterday,” my English teacher says when I walk into class today. “You really know how to put people at ease, and you did a wonderful job of hearing the emotions at work in the stories he told.”
“Thanks,” I say, grinning. “I hope you see similar positive things in my History Tale paper today.”
Introducing class today, she talks about “voice” in writing and we read some passages from short stories that use first- and third-person voice. She suggests we may choose to revise our “Tale” papers—to first-person narration, for example—after she gives them back. For those of us reading novels, switching voice from the original is required to ensure our tale is our own thinking. When we get our papers back tomorrow, we can revise them any way we want, but an additional assignment, due in a week, is to add back story for the main character in our tale. The finished product will take weeks, with our teacher adding new requirements as we go along.
If we follow her feedback, she says, the final papers should be quite good. I think so too—I’m actually really looking forward to seeing how mine turns out.
I arrive to work early today, out of a sense of heightened responsibility—Godfather will not be here today. In exchange, I’m getting the weekend off. He left today’s supply of weed in the box. Also in the box, I find a note from him saying, “You’re doing great!” The note is attached to my first week’s pay: $400, twice as much money, for half as much time, compared to my summer job at the country club!
I should feel happy, right? But instead I feel guilty. Ripping off the system the day after three thousand people died in 2001 doing the right thing, being good people. Am I lacking in morals? Weed is legal in many states, just not here, I remind myself. Why should I have to abide by stupid, arbitrary laws?
But if I believe that, why do I feel so bad? It’s no mystery, really; all I have to do is think how disappointed in me Mom would be.
Business for the day starts with a customer I’ve dealt with a few times already. She’s all business, no chitchat, and gone. The next two customers exchange a few pleasantries. It’s like being Mr. Mayor again. Then the climate changes radically. The frat guy from the other day appears—the one who was mad because he couldn’t get as much weed as he wanted. I explain again I can’t sell him that much. I try to be charming, but he’s not having it. I sell him the few bags I have in my pocket and he stomps off, angry.
Minutes later, I am jerked into awareness by hairs on the back of my neck standing up, literally. Godfather told me when he was first traini
ng me, “Pay attention. Your body will scream at you if there is danger.” I remember laughing and saying my body screams at me a lot. But this is no time for laughing. Think. The guy is mad. The box is in its hiding place, with a substantial amount of weed left for sales later today. I move to the far end of the clearing, in the direction of the downhill escape route. I hear a dried leaf crack, from the direction of the path coming up.
That’s it! I bolt down the secret route through sticker bushes until I reach the stand of evergreen trees below; luckily, they provide heavy cover, even for someone running in a panic.
Coming out at the law school, I force an amble so as not to arouse attention. My heart continues to hurry. I take a route from the law school that’s used very little this time of year, as it leads down to the baseball field. I circle through neighborhoods with little pedestrian or automobile traffic and eventually make it home, to safety.
“Hey, Mom,” I call when I walk through the front door, startled to be brought back to home base after the total immersion in fear I’ve just experienced.
Crossing the living room to me, concern in her face, Mom says, “You’re home early today.”
I will myself to get a grip on my anxiety, and I sound almost normal when I say, “Yeah. I’m kind of tired from a long week. Think I’ll take a nap.”
But I guess I don’t sound that normal, because Mom persists. “You okay, Daniel? You’re breathing so heavy.”
“I’m okay, really,” is all I can get out as I make tracks for the stairs heading up to my room.
In my bedroom, I add my pay for the week and payments from today to the envelope I keep in my desk. Then I collapse in my bed and make myself go over any possible loose ends. The personal bag of weed I bought two days ago is hidden well in my closet and there are no leftover bags from today on me. I have no way to get in touch with Godfather to warn him. I didn’t run into anyone along the way home that would raise suspicion, so I should be okay there. The angry guy could identify me. But it would be his word against mine. And he would be admitting to a crime.
My breathing’s coming so fast now, dizziness overtakes me—I can’t grab another thought. I’m so tired, but can’t sleep. I count each time the second hand on the Luke Skywalker clock my father gave me clicks. I try to ignore my rumbling stomach.
She needs me to be okay. I want to go back to the past, when we were all together—but I can’t. He’s not there. He would be, if I could control my life, win the carousel’s golden ring.
A bell rings. The clock’s second hand rhythm becomes “go away,” “go away,” “go away …”
A bell rings. This round of fighting is over. I’m beaten …
A bell rings. It’s dark. Can’t see the clock. Foreboding voices.
I drag my body out of bed, clothes and hair rumpled, and lumber down the stairs.
Mom, standing at the open front door, turns to me. Her eyes of terror are so far past the disappointment I feared.
The police support her, like the brave ones from 9/11, so she doesn’t crumple.
I hear a muffled, “Daniel, we’re detaining you and taking you to a Juvenile Detention Center.”
Then I hear nothing.
Chapter 7: Drive
Once upon a time, a student of life learned conflict is the path to truth.
CORA
Perfection defined by the sound, like no other, when the club hits the ball. Body motion aligns with the principles of physics. Knowing achieved by intense focus on how movement feels to my physiological sensors, success stored in the synapses of my brain.
Not a bad rationalization for a person who lives in her head a lot yet spends all afternoon enjoying hitting a little white ball down a field of precisely cut grass.
The golf course sits on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains range, far from human crowds, home to many charming furry and feathered critters.
Stone Creek’s intramural golf class teachers drove vans of students up the mountain to participate in this voluntary Saturday outing. In addition to free transportation, we also receive a huge discount for course fees, unlike the local city country club, which bars us from taking up valuable weekend space on their course.
I like individual sports rather than team sports, with outcomes totally determined by me, within my control. Doing well as an individual makes me feel I can count on myself.
As I’m walking to the second hole with the rest of my foursome, my cell phone tone interrupts my concentration. It’s a text from Sean: “Cora, call me. Daniel being held in Juvenile Detention Center.”
I can’t believe it. Why did he have to go and do something stupid? It can’t be too serious, because Daniel’s not violent or dumb. Why now, interrupting “my” time, on a perfect outdoor fun day?
I know these are not the right questions. I should feel empathy, concern about Daniel, gratitude that Sean reached out to me. Nope. I just feel annoyed—a polite translation for angry.
Much as I might want to ignore the call to retain my golf state of mind, there is no way I can shut out that news. I think of a compromise. I text Sean back: “In the mountains. Reception not good. I’ll call when I get home this afternoon.”
True to the reality that compromises often meet nobody’s needs, my drive on the second tee is horrible. Clearly, it’s due to lack of focus. I can tell the rest of the day is going to be a bust; I’m just going through the motions without being really present. Such a waste.
Since golf immersion is not going to be successful today, I figure I might as well shift gears and get to know more about my new friend, Maria, part of today’s foursome. She is also in my math/science block. I’ve been surprised in these first few weeks of school how easily we talk and hang together. Her family just moved to our area a couple of years ago.
I catch up to her as we’re walking to the next hole. “Maria, how did you learn English so well, so quickly?”
“Teachers picked up fast that I was a good storyteller. That’s how people in my village in Mexico would spend evenings,” she says. “The teachers thought it would be an easy transition for me to develop a love of reading. They were right.”
“I like to read novels and I’m in a book club,” I say. “We could share books we like with each other.”
She nods. “That would be great. What is your background, Cora?”
A polite way of asking if I’m black. “My parents grew up in Alabama, down south. My dad is black and my mama is white. Interracial mixing is not welcome in the Deep South, so after they finished college, they moved here.”
Maria looks confused and says, “I see less difference between black and white Americans than Mexicans and Americans.”
“I guess when you grow up one way, you see the differences clearer,” I say. “We’ll have to point out to each other markers that highlight the divides as they come up.”
Maria looks confused again. “What do you mean?”
I think for a minute. “Okay, I’ll give a big example for me and my parents. I don’t have any brothers and sisters. When we moved here we went to the traditional Black Baptist church at first, but Mama was not well received by the women of the church. There are strong feelings, still, about white women who ‘steal’ black men. Between wars and prejudiced over-sentencing of black men to prison, men are in short supply in African American communities. After a while, my parents switched churches.”
“I bet your mama felt bad,” Maria says. “For my family—there’s seven of us—language is the big issue. My mother learned English quickly and became a teacher’s aide at a church preschool. My dad got work at a lumber mill and didn’t need to speak much English there, so he still hasn’t learned. Where do your parents work, Cora?”
“Mama is a pediatric nurse at the hospital and Daddy works for the US Forest Service.”
The rural country club where we’re playing today uncovers the bias of backgrounds we deal with, color and money. I have it easier than Maria, since my parents have more middle-class jobs, but they
also are still paying off college loans. More infuriating than color or money today are the patronizing comments I’m hearing, supposed to be funny, about women golfers. There’s lots of focus on dress and appearance rather than golf swing from the boys we play with. I’ve been aware of that kind of stuff all my life, and have tried to let go of caring about my large breasts, hips, and butt. When I was younger I used to wear extra-large clothing, but now I try to give myself permission to wear the right size, clothes that show it all. But I’m still very aware of what other people see, beyond the “beautiful face.”
My dress today is pretty conformist: stereotypical knit collared shirt and golf skort. But my shoes reflect the practical judgment of walking shoes rather than golf shoes with spikes. Walking, in general, is my thing, with club and ball secondary. People know me as the girl who wears walking shoes everywhere.
It’s late afternoon when I get home. I call Sean right away. “What’s going on?”
I’m not reassured by his grave tone. “Daniel was detained by the cops for dealing weed. His mom already has an attorney, and she’s telling them not to worry. I haven’t talked to Daniel yet, but his mom says I can go with her tomorrow morning when she visits him at the detention center.” This all comes out lightning speed, not typical of Sean. I gather I’m the only person he can talk to about this.
“Wait!” I say. “I’m still stuck on your first statement. Daniel smokes weed?? Did you know that?”
“No,” Sean says, slowing down. “But I don’t feel like I know him very well in general. We’ve only been talking to each other the last few weeks. And he’s been pretty preoccupied, going through a lot lately.”
School Tales Page 15