All Things Different

  “I’m serious, Jake.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “I want a little girl more than anything. I want her to have really long hair like mine that I can brush for her and teach her to do all sorts of cute things with. I wanna buy her the cutest little dresses when she’s small and then all the cutest outfits when she’s older, so that she always looks like the most precious thing ever. And she can have her own room that I can help her decorate. And I want her to go to one school and have good friends she can grow up with and never have to move away from. And I want her to have the best father ever, one that thinks she’s his little princess, even if he drives her crazy when she’s older because he loves her so much that he’s overprotective. He won’t ever let anyone near her that’s not good enough for her. I want her to know what that feels like. And I want her to love only two men all her life: her daddy and whoever’s lucky enough to marry her. And I never want her to know any of the things I know. That’s what I want. Sounds so simple, doesn’t it?”

  “Real simple,” I said thickly.

  “Don’t be sad.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m not sad.”

  “Good,” I whispered. “I’m not either.”

  No matter how good the nights were, there was still the daytime life to be dealt with. School was a nasty reality to me. I fell into the routine of it without ever buying into its relevance, doing only what I must, grudgingly pushing on, living in my mind where I’d rather be and seeing Sara between each class, holding her hand as we walked and parting sweetly in doorways, looking forward only to seeing her again, having lunch together, and finally going home together to where real life was.

  For Sara classes were going well. Her teachers were charmed with her, especially english and art. She made good grades and made a handful of friends with some of the local girls, settling and blending well, and in time lost much of her anxiety. Still she clung to me at times, but it was not so much motivated by fear anymore as much as a comfort. She would press a little closer when she felt eyes on her and that was fine with me; I believe I hated it more than she did. But after the first week back, no one asked about her anymore. No one asked me, anyway.

  The only hitch at school came unexpectedly one day when, suffering through math class, I heard Sara being paged to the office over the intercom.

  “Let me go check on her real quick,” I said, standing.

  Mrs. Marshel, who was very nice in spite of the terrible subject she taught, looked over her glasses and motioned for me to go. “Come straight back after.”

  I caught up with Sara in the hall and we walked in together, and she checked with the secretary. Evidently Sara was to speak with a guidance counselor. My presence had not been requested. We sat off to the side and waited.

  “I was afraid of this,” she whispered close.

  “What?”

  “They’ve had time to see my records by now, so they know stuff. I don’t want to talk to them, Jake.”

  “You don’t have to say a word.”

  “The one time I did tell what was happening, the counselor met with my father and he convinced them that I was a storyteller.”

  I sat close to her and we waited until the counselor called her in. I didn’t know the man. In the doorway he told me I could not come in with her.

  “I’m going back to class then,” Sara said.

  “Just a quick talk and a few questions,” he said. He seemed friendly enough.

  “I have nothing to say,” Sara told him.

  “Five minutes. That’s all.”

  I could see the tension spreading through her as she told him no again.

  “Just a friendly conversation,” Mr. What’s-his-name said.

  “No, thank you.” Sara shook her head and stared off.

  The man looked at us both. “It’s up to you. I can’t force you.”

  “I’ll pass,” she said.

  He seemed disappointed. “If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The secretary was staring at us from behind the big counter. The counselor stared from his office doorway. We went out of the office and walked to her class. So that was that.

  31

  October began gray and wet, the damp-weighted leaves drooping and beading raindrops from their dying colors, glowing in a fiery haze under low and dark skies, and we heard the tap-tapping of water dripping and the rustled dropping of pinecones all around the house. The pine boughs were deep green and heavy-looking, bordering the yard as dark as a wall without the sun, the driveway was damp and tacky to walk on with the dead pine needles, and the logs of the house were deep red-brown with moisture after the dry summer. Days when the sun broke through, the warmth dried everything with the rays streaming through the colors and the dark pine boughs, and the air was crisp and fall-smelling and the nights very cool and good for sleeping. Most nights my bedroom window was closed or barely cracked, and the first few nights of the colder air it felt like sleeping in a strange place without the summer night sounds through the wide-open window.

  The Red Sox made the playoffs that year. As October took over I took to staying up late watching the games, most nights dozing on the couch, Dad snoring in his chair, later to wake and find that, after the magic of the 2004 World Series, Boston was faltering. Sara tolerated the nightly routine of pre-game breakdown followed by long innings, but found little interest in the drama, instead passing the time with a book in hand or at the computer in the back corner of the living room. That is, until one night, when noticing the crowd in the background, she realized the existence of pink hats and pink shirts bearing the Boston logo. Then, baseball wasn’t quite so dull, although she could never understand why there was an old player called Babe. The history and the rivalry meant nothing; the name is what baffled her.

  At the market one day, just before the White Sox finished Boston off for the year, I noticed a pink and white trucker’s cap on an island display. I picked it up and looked it over.

  “What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?” Dad asked.

  “It’s not for me. I was gonna get it for Sara.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  I paid for the pink hat with my old man looking on as I explained to the girl at the register—who she seemed to be laughing at me along with Dad—that it was not for me, it was a gift.

  “Do you want to hold onto the hat or should I bag it with the groceries?”

  “You can bag it,” I said.

  I was excited to see her reaction to the hat, but that evening the hours ticked by and by with no sign of Sara. I had left the hat on the kitchen table and made a bet with Dad as to how long it would take her to spot it there. When she finally came for the night, it was very late and by then I’d nodded off on the couch and woke to find her quietly upset when she roused me. She gave no explanation until we were settled comfortably in bed.

  “It’s Mom,” she began uneasily. “She’s having a bad night. I couldn’t leave her.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Probably nothing you wanna hear about.”

  “Okay,” I said, because I knew she’d tell me anyway.

  “She just gets confused sometimes and misses my dad. She hates him, but he’s been in her life since she was sixteen, Jake. She used to be so in love with him.”

  “Must be hard,” I forced myself to sympathize.

  “It really is.”

  I kept to myself that being chewed to death slowly by rats in a sewer was too good for him, let alone having Kate falling all over him.

  “She just told me something else tonight too. I’m not supposed to tell you about it, though.”

  “I don’t need details.”

  “It’s about your dad.”

  “What about him?”

  “Mom says he hasn’t cashed either of the rent checks she gave him.”

  “Oh. So?”

  “So, it makes her feel bad. She wants to pay our fair share
. It’s not free having us living over there, and I’m over here with you guys half the time as it is.”

  I laughed a little, even though, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have. “You could set the kitchen on fire, Sara, and Dad would find a reason why it wasn’t your fault. Can you not see that yet?”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. My father loves having you here. We both do. I thought we were beyond all this by now.”

  She said nothing and stared at me in the dark.

  “Maybe he just … hasn’t gotten to the bank yet.”

  “For two months?”

  “He must have a reason.”

  “My father used to try to control Mom with money. Sometimes, if we were in a pinch, she’d take a little from him. But she’s always been touchy about it, even though she’s never made him pay child support.”

  “You know that’s not what Dad’s doing.”

  “No. Never.”

  “So let’s not worry about it. Kate shouldn’t either.”

  “She works long shifts for that money, Jake. It’s important to her. She’s not helpless.”

  “I know.”

  “At least once a week she’s got some creeper grabbing her and making nasty comments while she’s trying to pour coffee. You know how that makes her feel? It’s one thing to look, but they don’t have to be like that. And if she says anything about it, she’s a snob or a bitch and gets no tips. It’s a no-win.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I hate causing her problems. I hate money.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated stupidly.

  “Things would be better between Mom and her family if not for money. They hate my father. Always have. They practically disowned Mom when she got pregnant. She was only sixteen. That’s not how they’d raised her and they were embarrassed because sweet little Kate went off and fell in love. I understand.”

  “So they won’t help?”

  “They want her to take him to court and have his rights taken away, and they don’t even know the worst parts.”

  “Is that what you want? The rights part?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Maybe it would be better.”

  “His family has money. He’ll make it terrible if we go to court. He’ll try to bury Mom. That’s how he is. It’s better to just go away. She’s not stupid.”

  “I don’t think that, Sara.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this anymore.”

  “They hate my dad the most. My grandparents, I mean. But sometimes they look at me like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to—”

  “No,” I interrupted.

  “It’s nothing but tension when we do see them. And Mom would never ask for money. So my dad has always had the upper hand on her. She hates it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. I had nothing to say.

  Sara shifted around, trying to get comfortable. “I shouldn’t worry, should I?”

  “No.”

  “We’re in a good place and we’re both really happy.”

  “Right.”

  “Mom will find a better job soon. I know she will. But she wants to pay our way here.”

  “Everything will be fine,” I told her. “This money thing is nothing.”

  She was quiet then for several minutes. I lay there and hoped the topic had exhausted itself.

  “I think I’d die if I ever had to leave here,” she said after a while.

  “Stop,” I said quietly.

  “I really think I would.”

  “Don’t play like that.”

  “I’m serious,” she sniffed.

  “So am I.”

  “Will you promise me something?”

  “Maybe, if you stop talking like that.”

  “Promise you’ll always be with me and love me like you do now. I want us to be like the couple in my books. Always together, no matter what, even in death.”

  “Let’s stop before you have bad dreams.”

  “Please,” her voice started to shake. “I don’t ever wanna go back to how it was before. Promise me you’ll always be with me and never send me away and never get tired of me and never stay mad at me.”

  “I promise.”

  “It would kill me if something happened.”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen. Dad would throw me out of here before he he’d throw you out.”

  “You know I’d die if something happened. I’d curl up and die.”

  “Sara …”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No more.”

  “I mean it, though.”

  “Stop. Please?”

  “I’ll stop. But I won’t live a minute without you.”

  “What was your favorite Care Bear movie?”

  “Not now, Jake.”

  “It’s not actually me, you know. It only works because you believe it.”

  “So …”

  “So, let’s try to sleep and forget all this.”

  “I believe it because it’s real. I’m not crazy.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “It’s my life. I know what helps me and what doesn’t.”

  “I know. Let’s sleep.”

  “You can sleep. I’m fine.”

  “Please try.”

  “I will.”

  “Have sweet dreams.”

  “You have sweeter dreams.”

  We were quiet again. It was a strained silence. The rain was tapping softly on the metal roof. I closed my eyes, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

  “Don’t worry,” Sara whispered after some time. “I’ll be around to drive you crazy forever and ever.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “I don’t know how you can stand me sometimes.”

  “Easy.”

  “You’ll never get rid of me.”

  “I’m not trying to,” I said, and I lay there with my stomach feeling badly tight. It was like Dad’s annual New Year’s speech about finding certain papers in his desk if anything should happen to him. I lay there listening to the rain tapping overhead and Sara’s soft but still-awake breathing beside me. I knew that none of it was done or said on purpose. Sara hadn’t a malicious bone in her body. But she could really get deep into my head sometimes and make a mess of things.

  Hours later I was kicked awake. We went through the calming process after one of her nightmares and then, much later, we finally got back to sleep again.

  32

  The light rain was still falling come daylight. I listened to it on the roof while my head cleared out, then rolled over gently and looked at Sara in the dull gray. She was sleeping quietly. Listening carefully, I heard my old man in the kitchen. I slipped out of bed, got some clothes, dressed in the bathroom, and went easily down the stairs.

  We had coffee in the kitchen, talking quietly as the rain tapped outside. Through the windows it was another shadowy day outside, and I explained the situation, how Kate being upset had upset Sara and sparked a bad night. My poor old man felt like hell about it.

  “It never occurred to me,” he said. “I only wanted her to have a chance to get some savings. It costs next to nothing to have them over there. A little electricity, that’s all.”

  “They’re just touchy about it.”

  “I can see why, I guess.”

  “It’ll blow over, I think.”

  “I’ll cash the newest check.”

  “No one blames you for trying.”

  “No one can tell me what to do with the money, can they?”

  “I’d say not.”

  My old man smiled faintly. “Stubborn old bastard, I know, but those two working together won’t move me. What does Sara want?”

  “Everything.”

  “Something I can pick up without being too obvious.”

  “Books, clothes, art stuff. I know she’d love a new laptop.”

  “Art supplies aren’t too conspicuous.”

  �
��She’d flip for an iPod.”

  “Say what?”

  “Never mind, it’s expensive.”

  “Maybe at Christmas. For now we’ll keep it subtle.”

  “No one tells us what to do, hey?”

  “Except the weather,” he pointed out the window. “The cold is coming. We should head over to the lot and get some wood.”

  After a quick breakfast, I left a note on the table for Sara on my way out.

  Just up the road, at the woodlot, I unlocked the gate, swung it wide and got back in the truck. We drove slowly on the narrow road under the trees to the cleared area. The road was no more than shallow wheel ruts through the woods, occasional tree roots crossing over and wispy grass growing up the center between the ruts. Early in summer we’d cut the year-old cordwood down to fourteen inches and split it with the splitting machine we towed behind the truck. Then we’d stacked the split wood loosely, for circulation of air, and covered the top of the pile with tarps to dry during the summer heat. Now we piled the dried, still-sweet-smelling wood in the bed of the truck until the rear began to sag, and made the slow trip home.

  In the yard Dad backed the truck up near the porch. We propped the screen door open, moved the chairs, and carried armloads of wood to the far end of the porch. After checking for any signs of Sara, I got back in the truck and we went for the next load.

  On the second trip back to the house, Sara came out on the porch just as we were about to leave again. She was sleepy-looking with her hair all over the place, but smiling and brightening as she stood looking out in slippers, sweats and a hooded sweatshirt.

  “Morning,” I said near the porch door.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Everything good?”

  “Yeah. I saw the note. Thank you.”

  “No prob.”

  “Did you boys eat?”

  “Some eggs and toast real quick.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “You were really out cold.”

  “I had such good dreams early this morning.” She bounced slightly when she said it.

  “That’s good.”

  “Well, I have a plan for lunch I’d like to try.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Her smile grew and her eyes went lighter.

  “That’s low, teasing us while we’re working,” I said.