My personal favorite, however, was the scene between Seth and a young lady called Kate. Seth was a senior and she was just a sophomore, so there was a good chance neither of them had really spoken to the other before. Still, I thought they might be a good match. There was a bit of a rebellious edge to Kate, the kind of countenance and carriage that said, “Your welcome only extends so far.” And Seth’s response to her defiance was an expression and body language that were at once awkward and curious. The pairing looked promising, and I gave them the signal to start. I should have known something noteworthy was in the offing when Seth took a moment to gather his thoughts before stepping onstage. The other actors hadn’t so much as marked a pause before launching into the scene. Kate, on the other hand, walked onto the stage with her usual purposeful stride and struck a stance that reminded me more of a wrestler than of fortysomething Joy.
They moved to sit on the make-believe bench we’d fashioned out of three chairs, and then, for seconds that stretched to the breaking point, neither of them said anything. Seth sat in hunched bewilderment, and the eyes he turned on Kate spoke of such reluctance and yearning that the air between them grew taut. She returned his gaze with a sort of competitive defiance and provocation that seemed to shrink him for a moment even as it grew her into an imposing presence.
Seth looked away, wiped sweaty palms on his pant legs, then gathered the courage to meet her gaze again. Only this time, there was something of a challenge in his eyes, and the bravado that had masked Kate’s frailty yielded to a femininity that instantly softened her lines and gentled her carriage. Their eyes held as a blush crept up Seth’s neck. He reached toward her, his hand visibly shaking, then withdrew it. When he turned to face away from her, there were protests from the students watching the scene unfold. Kate hardened a little again, though there were cracks in the armor this time, and just as she stood to leave the stage, Seth whispered, “Will you marry me?”
It was so quietly uttered that I wondered if I’d imagined it, but a Korean girl in the front row let out the kind of heartfelt “Aw” that confirmed how real and stirring the moment had been.
I didn’t know much about play directing, but I did know that the kind of improvised acting I’d just witnessed was rare—even more so at a high school level. If truth be told, I’d felt a little pang of envy at the scene, and I knew enough to jot down two names next to the parts of Lewis and Joy. It may not have been true love I’d seen on that stage, but it was something worth exploring further.
I was hurrying to Gus and Bev’s at the end of the session when a figure in shorts and a torn sweatshirt emerged from an alleyway at a dead run. Night was falling and the street was deserted, so I stepped off the curb to change sidewalks and avoid the oncoming runner. I knew this was Germany, where the odds of being stampeded by a herd of cows were probably higher than being attacked by a jogger, but survival instincts and a college self-defense class propelled me across the street nonetheless. I hadn’t gone two steps when the runner slowed his pace and, coming to a full stop, said my name. I was so surprised that I didn’t respond immediately, and the jogger walked up to me and peered more closely at my face. “It’s Shelby, right?”
“Uh . . . yes. Yes, it is.” I took a deep breath and covered my heart with my hand to muffle the beating I suspected Scott could hear.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to jump out at you like that.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I was just a little startled, that’s all.”
“Hey, it’s getting dark out here. Would you like me to walk you home?”
Fierce independence reared its ugly head. “Oh, no. Thanks, though. I’m just going as far as the Johnsons’ to pick Shayla up.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“Uh . . . You know, that’s really kind of you, but it’s only a little bit farther and it’s still kind of light out and I really enjoy the time to think before I pick Shayla up.”
“Hey, that’s fine. No problem.” He used his sweatshirt to wipe his face and stood there a moment longer. “I haven’t seen you around since you got here.”
“Well, you know, you live in the gym.” I attempted some humor to cover my awkwardness and send him on his way. I failed. All he did was scrunch up an eye in confusion. “I don’t do gyms,” I clarified. “They give me the heebie-jeebies. Too many jumping jacks when I was a kid.”
He grinned at that and wiped his forehead with his arm. “So you’re not into sports.”
“I’m into fork lifting. I hold the world record. But only when cheesecake is on the fork and there’s a glass of milk nearby. Otherwise I stick to stepping on my scale once a day for exercise.” Being funny was exhausting. But his chuckle was gratifying, so I attempted one more zinger. “Besides, I have this rare medical affliction that makes me yodel if I sweat, so . . .” Yup. No reaction. One zinger too far. “I’ll see you later then,” I said into the lengthening silence. The streetlights came on and I saw a sparkle in his eyes. He was laughing on the inside—I was sure of it. “So, uh . . . enjoy the rest of your run!” It was a cheerful dismissal, which he was kind enough to obey.
“Thanks, Shelby,” he said with laughter in his voice, and he took off down the street yodeling like a maniac.
My father was singing. Which was a frightening thing. It was frightening for two basic reasons. One, he had the musical ear and sensitivity of a foghorn. Two, it meant he was happy—chipper, if such a word could apply to someone like him. And the higher the high, the harder the fall. So it was a walking-on-eggshells kind of day again.
My mom was so solicitous over breakfast that I knew she was bracing us all for the worst. It was an unspoken language between us, a sort of codependent shorthand Trey and I had PhDs in—when Mom made chocolate chip pancakes and beat up real whipped cream to go with the chocolate sauce, we knew there was something unpleasant on the way. And by unpleasant, we meant out of control, out of proportion, and completely out of his gourd. My dad, that is.
Dad joined us late for pancakes. He’d been singing while shaving, which always made the process take longer. But he liked the resonance in the bathroom and I think he imagined the whole neighborhood was listening in rapt attention. His face was never smoother than on a day when he’d been singing.
My dad was the only man I knew who wore a tie to mow the lawn, and he was wearing one today. It was that kind of professionalism that had propelled him so quickly to the top position in the first investment firm he’d worked for, then allowed him to start his own firm two towns over from where we lived. We weren’t poor, but you’d never know it. Dad believed in making money, not spending it, and he was perfectly content living in my grandmother’s old house with squeaky floorboards, water-stained ceilings, and decades-old wallpaper on every square inch in sight.
My dad took his place at the head of the table. To be honest, the table was pretty much square, so there was no geometric head. But it seemed to make him happy to think there was one, so we all played along and made him feel important. He stacked four pancakes on his plate, and Mom poured so much chocolate syrup over them that I half expected them to float off the edge of the plate and onto the floor. Which might have caused the outburst we all feared. So I sat in front of my own melted-cream-saturated pancakes and willed his to stay in place. Please, God, let them not make like a barge and flow downstream.
“Thermos, Shelby,” he said. Which was my dad’s way of saying, “May I please have the thermos of coffee, my beautiful daughter?” I liked his voice better in my head. I watched him spoon enough sugar into his coffee that it should have permanently sweetened his countenance, but life wasn’t fair that way. After all, this man who was devouring four pancakes and already eyeing the ones coming off the griddle, this man who could order two McDonald’s meals without blinking, this man to whom oversweetening was a culinary habit, not a character trait, this very same man was so thin that seeing him without a shirt on made me want to feed him butter. I, on the other hand, seemed to be wearing my butter—mostly around
my hips and chest. And at the ripe old age of thirteen, it felt not only ugly, but icky in a can’t-I-just-be-a-skinny-man kind of way.
“Got practice before the game?” he asked Trey. There was a game that afternoon, and Trey’s team was so riddled with incompetent newcomers to the sport that they often resorted to pregame scrimmages to try to get their act together.
Trey nodded yes. Then he went back to eating.
It had become something of a hobby trying to imagine the subtext of conversations that happened on my dad’s happy days. Under normal circumstances, there would have been no subtext needed. He would have hit us right between the eyes with his personal brand of overt insult and not-so-subtle disdain. But on his happy days?
“They’re lucky to have you,” he said. Translation: Anyone says anything bad about my son and I’ll have their head. Insulting you is my job.
“Thanks, Dad.” Translation: I hate it when you’re happy—makes me squeamish. Trey gulped some orange juice and caught my eye-rolling. His eyes crinkled. I liked making him smile.
“Cleats still feeling okay?” Translation: You should be kissing my feet for spending so much money on your cleats, young man. I’m a wonderful dad.
“Yup. Fine.” Translation: I’d rather kiss Sonya Roland than say thanks to you, and she’s got zits and braces.
“Well, try to score one for the old man.” Translation: I’ve got a belt and I’m not afraid to use it. You stink, you sting. That’s the rule.
“Sure, Dad.” Translation: Like I’m ever going to put any effort into making you happy, you pompous bag of bones.
I wanted to play too. “It’s too bad you hurt your ankle skateboarding,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be able to play anyway, though.” Translation: Let’s see if we can make Dad crazy by letting him think you might not get to play.
“What’s wrong with your ankle?” He put his fork down and narrowed his eyes. Translation: How stupid have you been, Son?
“It’s fine, Dad.” Translation: Please don’t get mad, please don’t get mad, please don’t get mad. Trey sent me an are-you-nuts? glare and swallowed a too-large bite of pancake.
“What’s with the ankle, Son?” The distant sound of thunder was in his voice.
“Nothing,” Trey answered, an almost imperceptible tremor weakening his words. I knew it meant fear, but to my dad, it sounded like guilt.
He leaned across the kitchen table, the napkin he’d stuck in his collar brushing the chocolate syrup on his plate. “What—did—you—do?” Strange that a minute before his face had looked clean-shaven. Now, with the blotchy red creeping up from his collar and the dirtiness of his scorn flaking out from his eyes, it looked like a kind of threatening stubble was growing out of his skin.
Trey saw it too. “I didn’t . . .”
My dad pushed away from the table with so much force that a couple of plates went flying and the milk container tipped over. Mom, who had been standing frozen at the counter, rushed in with a dish towel and mopped up the milk before it spilled onto the floor along with more of Dad’s wrath.
“Dad, I didn’t mean—”
His hand came down so hard on the top of my head that I bit my tongue and felt my jaw go weird. He pressed his fingers into my skull like it was a watermelon he was trying to crush. I felt his pancake breath wetting my ear when he hissed, right next to it, “Shut up, Shell.”
There were stars behind my eyes when he released me, so I didn’t actually see him shove Trey’s chair back so hard that it toppled over. My brother looked like one of those beetles that can’t figure out how to get up off their backs. So I guess my dad decided to help him by flipping him over onto his stomach with his shoe. He flipped him hard and Mom yelped and I jumped off my chair and went to grab Dad’s arm because I knew what he was thinking and Trey kinda crawled away as fast as he could, but his knees kept slipping in the mess of his pancakes.
I grabbed my dad’s arm harder and said, “I didn’t mean it, Dad! I was just being funny! Trey’s ankle is fine! Really, it’s fine! He hasn’t been on his skateboard in forever!” But he wasn’t hearing anything right then except Trey’s cowering. He flung me off his arm so hard that I hit the fridge. Then he leaned down to pick my brother up by the front of his shirt. My mom had retreated to the sink by then and I wished she would throw herself on her husband’s back and ride him and pummel him until he stopped, but she twisted the towel in her hands instead and kept saying, “Jim. Jim, stop. Please, Jim.” Which I thought was a very ineffective approach.
My dad had Trey shoved into the corner of the wall and cupboards, and Trey had gone from looking scared to looking mean. He hadn’t been able to do that until the last couple of years or so. But somehow he’d managed to figure out how to stop being frightened and start being mad. It hadn’t really changed the outcome of my dad’s happy days, but I think it left Trey feeling somehow less destroyed.
“I’m not injured, okay?” he croaked bravely, trying to pry my dad’s fingers from the front of his shirt. “Let go of me, Dad!”
I tried to squeeze between my mother and the sink, thinking maybe her towel would protect me from what I knew was coming.
“Let go of you?” My dad was going rigid. “Let go of you?” he repeated, as if Trey’s request were colossally insulting. And he did let go then. He released Trey’s shirt and used that hand to slap him across the mouth—hard.
“Dad!” I yelled. “Dad, I was just joking. There’s nothing wrong with his—”
When my dad turned on me, I realized I’d crossed the kitchen and grabbed his arm again. I felt something wet on my face, but it couldn’t be tears. I wouldn’t let it be tears.
“His ankle is fine,” I said, trying to look like Trey, but I could feel my chin wobbling, so I clamped my jaw to stop it. “I was just being funny, Dad! I was just—”
The look he gave me dried up my words. He stood in front of me smelling like sweat and coffee and injustice. He was shaking—I could see it. And there was a vein popping out near his hairline. But it’s his eyes I remember most clearly. He looked at me like I was at once invisible and intolerable. He didn’t really see me. I was sure of it. He saw a weak, whiny, repulsive, and unwanted distraction. He made a kind of snorting sound that would have been funny under any other circumstances. Then he gave my mom the same kind of look he’d given to me, turned on his heel, and slammed the door on his way out of the house.
Mom rushed to Trey, who’d slid halfway down the wall and was bracing with his legs to keep from slipping farther. She helped him to a chair and got a wet rag to put on his lip. It was split a little. But he didn’t look mad anymore, which was good. It scared me when he looked that way. I picked up his plate and put it on the table in front of him, then I sat down on the chair next to his and kinda waited. We never knew quite how to bridge the gap between terrified and normal.
“I was just trying to be funny,” I finally said.
He turned his eyes to me and I could see he didn’t hate me. I couldn’t ever figure out how he did that.
He smiled a bit, but I could tell it hurt him, so he settled for smiling with his eyes instead, which always made me feel like warm bread.
“You gotta stop being funny, Shell,” he said. But I knew he didn’t mean it.
I nodded and put a pancake on his plate.
6
THERE WERE RITUALS in Kandern that seemed so well orchestrated that I wondered if I’d missed a memo somewhere along the way.
Every Sunday around 7 p.m., identical shiny black garbage cans appeared on the curbs, their contents devoid of plastic, glass, and paper. Consequently, every Saturday, before and after lunch, a parade of cars headed toward the recycling center behind the school and disgorged trunkfuls of reusable goods. Upon their return home, Kandern’s dutiful residents grabbed brooms and dustpans and headed out to the street to sweep the sidewalks and gutters. If sidewalks could shine, German sidewalks would be blinding.
On Sunday mornings, another smaller parade took off on foot and
headed to the bakery, which stayed open only long enough to provide fresh rolls and thick-crusted loaves to Kandern’s bread connoisseurs. And every Sunday afternoon around two, a procession of the young and elderly headed to the hills for their traditional, slow-gaited hike.
There were other less pleasant traditions, I discovered. It was apparently an unwritten law that Germans were required to tell their American neighbors how to park their cars, where to park their trash cans, and when to park their butts. I discovered the hard way that there was a window of time, between one and three every day, when silence and rest were not only a preference but an obligation. The same was true all day long on holidays. No work. No noise. Nothing. I was quite firmly informed of this fact when Shayla and I went out to the street to wash our car on a day off, and a neighbor I’d never seen before came stomping out of his house to tell me . . . something. My German hadn’t improved very much in our first four weeks in the country, what with spending all my time in an English-speaking school with my English-speaking colleagues or with my English-speaking pseudo-daughter. So though he wagged a finger at me and was sufficiently forceful to communicate that he was giving me an order, all I knew to do was freeze and instruct Shayla to freeze too—which actually managed to make the unhappy man smile a bit as she froze in midgiggle with suds on her nose.
The smile seemed to deflate his frustration. He said a couple more words to me, which could have been “Get a haircut” for all I knew, then grinned a little stiffly at Shayla and returned to his home. Shayla thought she saw him wink before he turned, but she had this wonderful habit of expecting people to love her. I, on the other hand, spent the rest of the day feeling stupid and nursing a humiliated ego.
In Broken Places Page 8