A Theory of Expanded Love

by Hicks, Caitlin;

  Jeannie told me that Bitty ran across from the other side of the street and a motorcycle hit her, but she kept running through a slat in the Hamilton’s fence. Then she fell over and died. I went to see her, lying on her side, and it began to sink in. Her mouth was open. I could see that she was stiff. I looked at her for the last time. “Bye, Bitty!” I said, petting her fur, which was still warm. I left her out there all night, but maybe I should have covered her up. Bartholomew saw her in the morning and put a cloth over her. We both stood there, staring at the cloth. Bart put his arm around my shoulder.

  This is the next day. I am crying very hard. I loved Bitty, but I know I will never see her again, even in the after life where I will meet you. I AM SO SORRY IF YOU DID THIS BECAUSE OF THAT PRANK I PLAYED ON JEANNIE. I AM TRULY SORRY, SO SORRY FOR EVERYTHING. PLEASE LET BITTY COME UP TO HEAVEN WITH ME! PROMISE ME!

  After Clara left and Bitty died, I learned the word morose and realized it was me to a T. So I became more determined than ever about ballet to get my mind off my dead cat. I got to class on time and just put myself at the mercy of the stick, trying to twist myself in whatever way I was hit. I did math homework first, since it was my weakness, and looked after Bitty’s Seven Sacraments, feeding them with the baby bottle and changing the newspaper in their box. They were getting bigger, but their mother wasn’t around to show them how to lick themselves clean. Their fur was a mess, all matted and stuck with bits of poop and pee and the soft food that I now put out for them. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to take them home. But right after Bitty died, I did have the common sense to put a marmalade kitty—Matrimony—into a litter of another cat who was nursing kittens and she accepted it as her own. I made a plan to pick her up in four weeks, when she would be old enough. (I figured she’d learn to clean herself because her adopted mother would show her how). She looked like a miniature Bitty.

  Then one day I got a letter in the mail from Clara. I couldn’t believe she was writing to me.

  Dear Annie, Why don’t you come up and visit me? I really miss everyone, especially the twins and Jude. I heard about Bitty and I am sorry for you. Please ask Mother and Daddy if you can come up the next time Daddy comes to visit. I left a little gold pin next to the lamp by my bed, could you bring it? Mother must be getting big with her new baby. Love, Clara.

  I found out from Wanda, who lately had been hanging out with Teresa Feeney, that Mrs. Feeney was pregnant again. Apparently Teresa Feeney said, “The Shea Family has not caught up with the Feeneys yet because we have a little sister named Philomena who is in heaven.” When Wanda said that, my heart was broken into hundreds of pieces. First of all, Wanda was my best friend, and now she was hanging out with Teresa Feeney! Secondly, once Mrs. Feeney gave birth to their next child, the Feeneys would reign forever as the largest family in the parish. They’d have sixteen kids, including the one in heaven. At some point you have to acknowledge that you’re beat. You have to retire. I mean, Mother would have to have two more babies just to catch up! And then she’d have to get pregnant for nine months and have another one, just so we could rank. Her varicose veins would pop.

  Mother was maybe three months pregnant then (this one would be #14) and her stomach was beginning to stick out. When she climbed up the step to get into the VW bus to take us to school in the morning, she grabbed the steering wheel and hoisted herself up to the driver’s seat. I handed her Clara’s letter through the window.

  “Do you ever worry about Clara, Mom?”

  “She’ll be fine in Ventura. The Sisters of Saint Isabella are lovely. What’s that pin?” I had attached Clara’s pin to the collar of my white uniform shirt, just for safekeeping.

  “Clara asked me to bring it to her if I go up on the weekend. May I go with Daddy? Please!?”

  “We’ll see, Annie. You go to class now.” She put the letter from Clara onto the seat next to her bulky brown purse and shifted the gears, pulling out of the parking space.

  The next morning when Daddy shook my feet to go to Mass with him, I turned over to go back to sleep. Whenever I do that, I feel guilty for about five seconds before I fall into heavy dreaming again.

  “How’s my little nun?” he asked me, and the guilt beamed through my groggy dream. When we slipped out of the house in the dawn light and closed the back door behind us, I could hear Mother’s slippers shuffling down the hall. Daddy backed the Rambler out of the driveway and I stared at his familiar neck, recently shaved and smelling of Old Spice.

  “Dad, can I go with you to visit Clara this weekend?”

  “Are you still thinking you’ve been called to serve the Lord in the contemplative life?” he asked me. When Daddy has something on his mind he doesn’t usually hear anyone else. (And he uses words like contemplative to make it sound official and enticing, but I know it just means the life of a regular nun in a convent, and being disciplinarian to a bunch of farty kids at an inner-city Catholic school.) I was tempted to say what I know he really wanted to hear, but I was really trying to be truthful and obedient, now that Bitty died. It was clear to me how much power God really did have, and how much he could hurt me if I didn’t mend my ways.

  “Hmmm,” I said. Daddy continued the conversation with himself.

  “I’ve always thought that it would be nice to have at least one vocation in the family. Out of so many, surely the Lord has called one into service.”

  “What about John-the-Blimp?”

  “How many times have I told you to call him by his Christian name?”

  Ha! Now we were actually having a conversation.

  “Okay, John, then. What about John? He’s going into service for the Lord.”

  “John the Baptist was a contemporary of Jesus. He was a very devout man.”

  Yeah, I thought, and he got it right where it counts, in the neck. “I know, Dad,” I said. “His head was given to this lady named Salome, who danced for Herod. It came on a plate. I got an “A” in catechism from first grade up. Now I’m in sixth grade.”

  There was a silence as the light changed to green.

  Daddy cleared his throat. “John’s vocation may come later, Annie. He may be too young right now to commit his life to the Lord.” The devil must have been in the car with us because I felt like being sassy.

  “John’s vacation was showing off with that cassock. He wore it everywhere—right up until Father Stefanucci got defeated.”

  “It’s vocation, Annie. John’s vocation is something he has to work out with God himself.”

  Ha, ha, I thought. I got him on “vacation.” He was listening. But I could feel the disappointment in his voice. I knew how I, too, was letting him down. I tried to imagine his proud gaze upon me in the short veil and knee-length black skirt of a postulant habit, standing in a line of future Brides of Christ before God and all eternity. But when I blinked and saw the image of his hands clapping vigorously, there I was, center stage on Graduation Day, at Officer Candidate School—standing at attention on a football field in a white uniform with brass buttons, saluting in the sunshine, a band playing upbeat marching music. Tuba and trumpets glistening. Or! How about this: standing in formation on an aircraft carrier with ocean and sky behind us on the horizon under a steeple of raised swords. Drums, bugles, and wind blowing dramatically as I receive a medal of honor from the President! Maybe someone else in the family will step forward and fulfill Daddy’s Catholic destiny.

  “You’d like the Sisters of Saint Isabella in Ventura,” Daddy said, just as the President’s hands were on my lapel.

  “May I go?” I let him think I was excited about the Sisters. “I could ride up with you!”

  “Clara is praying for her own soul,” Daddy said solemnly. “She doesn’t need visitors right now.” What was going on here? Should I press him for details? But the thought of asking about the contents of Clara’s soul was too embarrassing.

  •••

  That Saturday morning Madcap rolled back my covers.

  “Get up, Annie.”

&nb
sp; I could smell the bacon. I opened my eyes and looked around at the two other rumpled beds. Everybody else was already at breakfast.

  “We’re going to visit Clara,” Madcap whispered, even though there was no one within hearing range.

  “Great! Daddy gave permission?”

  “Shhhhh!” She dug into my drawers, holding up pedal pushers and shirts. “Get dressed. We’re going to Cal Tech together. At least that’s what we’re going to say. We’re really taking the bus up to see Clara. You have something to eat; I’ll pack a lunch. Do you have any money left from babysitting?” I went into my top drawer and grabbed up the bills and coins: $5.65.

  I’d never hitch-hiked before, but Madcap stood with one hip tilted up and stuck her thumb out as the cars whizzed past us on Orange Grove Boulevard. If anyone stopped, we were to say, “Greyhound Bus Station on Walnut Boulevard.” It was windy and crystal clear blue but warm. An invigorating morning, on top of the fact that what we were doing was absolutely forbidden. The only downside was that we could get caught. I stood behind a telephone pole, hoping it wouldn’t be a murderer who decided to stop. We both wore pedal pushers and sleeveless shirts. I brought an extra long-sleeved shirt in case it cooled off. With the warm wind, I was hot. Madcap’s waist-length hair blew around like a flag, rippling in the wind. It didn’t take long. A blue Ford pickup with a surfboard sticking out of the back pulled over and Madcap hopped up into the cab like it was the most ordinary thing she could ever do. I emerged from behind the pole. We squeezed in next to an older guy at the steering wheel who was, I dunno, say twenty or so.

  “Where you going?” The guy was dark haired and had a fuzzy, unshaven face.

  “Greyhound bus station,” Madcap said. “Walnut Boulevard.”

  “I know it,” the guy said, “I drive past it every day.” Madcap’s arms were touching his arms, we were so close. I huddled next to the door and stared at him while he drove, memorizing his details in case he tried anything and we would later have to testify. His shirt and pants were caked with mud and white dust. His hands had paint stains on them, and he had two fingers on his right hand that were shorter than the others. When he looked over at Madcap, I could see that his eyes were blue. Wanda would say that he was kinda cute.

  You could always count on Madcap to chatter. She yammered about the surfboard bouncing around in the back of the pickup and the paint stains. He worked in construction, he was an only child, he used to go to South Pasadena High School, and his name was Aaron Solomon. She tried to impress him by telling him we were from a family of thirteen children. I’d been noticing lately that whenever we were out in public, the conversation inevitably turned to how many children there are in our family. The statistical nature of our existence has that circus act factor, fascinating—like a man covered in tattoos is fascinating. Or the fat lady.

  “Thirteen kids? Wow,” Aaron Solomon said, “your mother must be busy!” Everyone thinks they’re so clever when they find out how many kids are in our family, but they’re only clever to the extent of saying, “Your mother must be busy!” Sometimes the men say, if my Dad is there, “You must have been quite busy.” And then they all laugh like they’re congratulating themselves on their superior wit in telling some joke that only they understand, wink wink. Anyway, the next thing I knew, Madcap had her hand across my lap, reaching for the door handle.

  “So where are you going on that bus?” Aaron Solomon asked. He smiled at Madcap, with a little twinkle of energy. I felt like I was watching a movie. They never even knew I was there.

  “Ventura,” Madcap said.

  “What are the chances? Ventura! I’m going there! Why are you going?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me.” Her sweetest smile.

  “I’m meeting some guys at C Street Beach, and we’re going surfing,” he said, tapping his stubby fingers on the shiny steering wheel. Madcap paused.

  “We’re visiting our sister who lives there now.” I was glad she was in charge, as I hadn’t a clue about what to do. My real feeling underneath it was that I wanted to go with this guy. I wanted him not to be a low life on the wrong side of the law looking for victims. Here was my reasoning: number one, if we went with him, and he wasn’t a murderer, it would save us bus fare. Number two, there actually was a surfboard in the back, so his story about surfing might be the truth. But it was so hard to know. It could be a decoy.

  “I could take you both,” he suggested.

  He could take us both and drive off a cliff with us! All the bad kidnap thoughts rose up at that suggestion: Don’t talk to strangers, don’t ever go anywhere with anyone in a car. Never be alone with a man until you’re of a certain age (were we at that age yet?). Don’t hitchhike. If you make the mistake of getting in the car with someone you don’t know and they try something, just jump out of the car, even if it’s going full speed ahead. Madcap looked at him directly. She cocked her head and made a face at him.

  “I get it if you don’t want to go with me,” he said. Then he shrugged, all the while smiling with those white teeth. Now I was noticing his tan. It seemed like a long minute we were waiting for Madcap to make up her mind. I kept looking down at my lap, hoping she would not ask me for advice.

  “So you’re just going up there by yourself, then?” she asked.

  Yes, Madcap! That’s what he said!

  “Once we get there,” he kept smiling, “I’m going to meet up with the guys at the beach. And like I said, we’re going surfing. Why don’t you and your little sister come along?” Little sister. I cringed, even though obviously I was Madcap’s little sister.

  “I don’t have a bathing suit,” Madcap offered. “And besides, we’re going to Ventura to meet with our sister.”

  “Bring your other sister!” I watched him mouth the words and felt myself caving in. Actually, his mouth looked pretty cute, too, and what he was saying sounded exciting. I imagined the sunset and surfers with muscular chests, the sand stretching for miles, but I was still knee-jerk thinking, body parts in the back.

  “Have you ever gone surfing?”

  “Once,” Madcap said. “I swallowed a lot of water, but it was fun anyway, getting smacked by the waves. It was my first time.” What? Madcap went surfing? When was this?

  “Your first time? Aww, I missed your first time?” he said, with mock disappointment in his voice, smiling at her like she knew the secret he was talking about. Madcap knew, alright; she looked at me and rolled her eyes.

  “Afterwards,” he said, “we sit around the fire and drink beer.” If he drinks beer, he’s even older than I thought, he’s at least 21. That’s old.

  “Is Clara old enough to drink beer?” I blurted. Madcap looked at me sideways. It was the first and only thing I said up until then. It hurts being stupid.

  “We usually make a bonfire on the beach,” he added, just to put me over the top.

  Oh my God, he’s talking about being on the beach when it’s dark!

  “Okay,” said Madcap. “We’ll drive up with you. Could you drop us off at the Mission before you go surfing?”

  “Sure!” he said a bit too enthusiastically. “I know right where it is.” Just as I imagined our violent end in the sand dunes at dusk, Madcap agreed to go with him! Then he said, “Isn’t there a home there? For unwed mothers?” Madcap ignored him, and at that moment he quickly turned the wheel away from the bus station. We were in it now, and there was no turning back.

  •••

  Aaron Solomon, it turned out, got cuter as the miles whipped past. I think that happens if you stare at somebody for too long. Madcap generously shared our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with him, and he stopped once to buy proper picnic things for us like cheese, salami, bread and Big Hunk, jujubes and Oreos, and then we ate them like we’d been friends for years. There was no need for me, really, as they seemed to be hitting it off just fine. (Whatever that really means—hitting what? Off to where?) Madcap handed him bits to eat and the both of them sang along with the radio. “You’v
e Really Got a Hold on Me.” “Up on the Roof.” I was tempted when “Ring of Fire” came on, but I pretty much kept silent, wondering how he lost the tips of his fingers. Where did those finger bits go? Did they fly off his hands, or just kind of hang there by a thread, as it were? Did he put them in the freezer? Why didn’t he sew them back on? Not that I really wanted to know. Up until we got on the Ventura Freeway I was worried he was taking us to Angeles Crest Highway where only the trees could hear our screams. I looked in the glove compartment for a gun, and everything fell out on the floor, pens and rubber bands and official car documents, a Swiss army knife, and little flat packets with round shaped rubbery circles. Candy?

  “Can I have one of these?” I asked. Madcap looked over at me with her eyes wide and her eyebrows arched.

  “Ooops, sorry!” I said, blushing, not sure what she meant by that. Aaron Solomon reached over with one hand still on the steering wheel, trying to stuff the things back in. All his fingers on that hand were the same length. Madcap put his hand back on the wheel.

  “I’ll put everything back, you drive!” She beamed at him.

  It was a glorious California day, sunshine all around and the radio on full blast. Fun, fun, fun now that Daddy took the T-bird away. The windows were down and Madcap’s hair rippled dramatically in the breeze. Aaron Solomon and Madcap had to yell at each other over the sound of the motor and the cars going past.