by Matt Greene
I try to walk, but it hurts too much, like stepping into a bath that’s so hot it feels cold. Even if I did know where I was, I realize, I couldn’t make it back without accepting a lift from someone. And besides, there’s something about this particular stranger, something distantly familiar, that makes me feel safer than I have any right to feel. Still, for reassurance I trace the shape of the Swiss Army Knife in my pocket and repeat over to myself the instructions for use: “Plunge and Twist, Plunge and Twist, Plunge and Twist.”
The passenger-side door swings open like a question.
I answer in the affirmative by taking a hop toward the van. Which is when I notice the slogan stenciled across its side:
AN OF ICE WITHOUT PL NTS IS LIKE THE MAZON WIT OUT A RAINF REST. LOVE PLAN S WE DO.
The smell inside the cabin is of singed eyebrows and misused Bunsen burners, and the dashboard is flecked with the same dull, gray dandruff of scratch-card refuse that sometimes patterns David’s school clothes. In the seat next to me, Mr. Driscoll steers with his knees. With his free hands he clamps a cigarette between cracked lips and sparks a match at the fourth attempt.
“So, like,” he says, sucking in hard so his cheeks hollow and I can see the bones in his face. “What’s the story?”
The question stumps me absolutely. In light of where I’ve just come from and what I’ve just seen (and only one day away from my Composition exam), I can’t honestly say I know anymore. I think back over everything that’s happened these past ten weeks and try to connect the dots, or, failing that, at least plot a line of best fit, because, as Miss Farthingdale always says, there’s nothing worse than a narrator who doesn’t know what kind of story he’s in. However, right now I’m lost. I can’t make sense of anything. Looking around, as if for some clue, I catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror. Behind us, in the back of the van, is a portable woodland. At a glance the foliage is thick and alive, and for a moment I’m transfixed by the secret skyline. It’s only when I trace down the stems that I notice the plants are in captivity.
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Driscoll’s laugh is grit and a phlegmy rattle. “Jayzus,” he says. “What do you know?” And with this he snakes a jab toward my chin. I jerk left, but he stops short and follows through in a slo-mo replay, as though reliving some faraway glory. “You a cruiser or a heavyweight like?” he asks, which is when I remember I’m still wearing my boxing helmet.
“Neither,” I say, thankful for a question I know the answer to. I peel off the helmet and rake back my hair to show off my scar. But before I can explain further, Mr. Driscoll’s eyes light up.
“Ah,” he says, wagging the cigarette between courgette fingers, and asks if I know his Davy.
In the rearview mirror our gazes triangulate. (I think back four years to a Saturday afternoon and then forward again a week or so to a Monday morning, the jaundiced skin of David’s cheek, his eyebrow a swollen potato tuber, and the burst blood vessels that made ordnance survey maps of his left eyeball.) I can tell Mr. Driscoll is trying to place me by the way his forehead rolls down and pinches a ridge at the top of his nose. (My a-hole dilates because I am the boy who ruined his carpet, the one he found with his son dancing naked in the rain. (The one who never did catch chickenpox but got pneumonia instead.))
“Who?” I ask, steadily, glancing down at the row of knuckles that now prong the steering wheel like battlements, and in my pocket slip a fingernail into the furrow of the biggest blade.
However, before he can identify me, Mr. Driscoll looks away. “Never mind, lad,” he says, leaking smoke from the corners of his mouth. “Davy’s me young one. His best friend like.” He takes a hand off the wheel again, reaches over and tussles the hair around my scar. “He’s got a matching one of dem.”
I get Mr. Driscoll to drop me off a street over from ours because I don’t want Mum to know I’ve been gone. Before I get out I say thank you and then take another look at the private forest in the back of the van. I don’t know why, but something about the sight of these plants, their feet encased solitarily in clay penitentiaries with limbs stretching skyward and their leaves touching, is like listening to classical music: I can’t tell if it’s happy or sad. When Mr. Driscoll asks what I’m crying for, which I didn’t know I was, I blubber something about the high pollen count. However, the real reason is the sudden pang of what feels an awful lot like gratitude for everyone I know and all the hands I’ve ever held.
Shimmying up the drainpipe one-legged is not an option, even with all the synonyms in the world, so instead I go in the front door. I am halfway up the stairs when I realize that I can’t get into my bedroom without setting off my alarm, which will arouse suspicion unless I pretend I’m leaving as opposed to entering, so I decide to empty my pockets and dump my helmet and then go to the kitchen for a glass of milk to help me think, which with Mum in the utility room will be like hiding in plain sight. However, Mum isn’t in the utility room. She is asleep at the kitchen table, her cheek on her forearm, which is next to an empty glass and a bottle of wine that could split optimists from pessimists at fifty meters. Depending on which one you are, either Mum or the bottle is half drunk. Which is weird because, except for water and fruit juice, Mum is tea total.
I pour myself a glass of milk (in case she wakes up (which seems unlikely)) and sit down opposite her. Then I tilt my head until she’s the right way up and really look at her. For some reason this reminds me of a riddle I heard once, that I haven’t thought about in years: A grandmother, a mother, and two daughters go fishing. Between them, they catch three fish. Each of them goes home with one whole fish. How is this possible?
At the time I remember I didn’t get the answer. It was the last day of term and there was a whole tray of Creme Eggs for the person who got it right first. (I don’t remember who asked it or who got the Creme Eggs.) Now, though, it seems obvious: The mother is a daughter, too.
Then I notice the key in her hand. It is easy enough to release without waking her, so I do. I don’t recognize it straightaway (because all keys look pretty much the same (which is ironic)), but when I unlatch the key box it’s obvious which one it is because there’s only one missing. I place the key quietly back on the hook, but then I change my mind because, I decide, I could really do with a new Photographic Memory.
First I turn off all the lights in the hallway and the kitchen, and then I navigate back to the darkroom door by the glow of my watch. Once I’m inside, I feel around the surfaces for a UV lamp, which, according to Google, is a must for every amateur photographer, and which I find on the cabinet above the washing machine. However, when I turn it on all the darkness leaks out of the room. This is because it isn’t a UV lamp at all, just a regular one. Straightaway I turn it back off, but I know already it’s too late. The damage is done. The negatives are destroyed.
Which means there’s no further harm in taking a look around.
When I turn the light back on I’m not in a darkroom anymore, but not in an Uncertainty Principle way—rather, in the way that there is no photography equipment in the utility room. Apart from Mum’s camera and a couple of used film canisters, the only difference I can spot is the logbook.
It is A4 and bound in black leather, with a red ribbon bookmark that splits at the end like a snake’s tongue, which could be what beckons me in. The first page I open to has the day’s date at the top (27 MAY 2004) written in black ink, which smudges under my touch, which means it’s still wet. Then there’s a subheading (DAY 7 W.T.) and a paragraph of writing:
Mum said once wished shed had stutter to ready for parenting. “If you cant start sentences with M cant put self first anyway.” Dont know if true. Who are you pretending for anyway? D at group. Ha. Today lets talk grief v good grief!! & while were doing validation dont forget your parking tickets!!! Week now without talking. D says “take it day at a time.” Exact same advice F gave. What everyone says. As though it means anything. Like theres alternative.
The entry ends there
with a red wine ring stain, like a massive hollowed-out full stop. I turn back a page and read another two:
25 MAY 2004
Day 5 W.T.
On train to work woman handing out leaflets: “C H_ _H. Whats missing?” Dont believe in God you told her “Thats okay He forgives you.” Could hear the capital. Wanted to scream at her: HE DOESN’T GET TO. Didnt. Ha. Isnt it funny? Guilt and Hope weigh the exact same. & isnt that just the kind of thing to make you believe in intelligent design.
24 MAY 2004
Day 4 Without Talking
I cant I cant do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. You must do this. Even if he never speaks to you again.
Then I flick to the start (6 MARCH 2004 Hope is not the thing with feathers. Hope is anchor. What keeps you from floating away. Despair is weightlessness. What now? “Take pictures.”), and then forward again:
19 MAY 2004
F said last year: “Name of game now is Containment.” Then game is fixed. Becos black absorbs light. Darkness spreads. Spot → Blotch. Room → House. You cant shut the door lock it away. Doesnt respect boundaries. I blame the parents. Ha. Only difference? There are no benign secrets. He was just there. Just other side of door. < foot away. “Lucky for you I dont believe in round numbers.” Wanted to laugh throw open door hug kiss hold. Instead? Caught the key. And then. What did you feel? What was that? Relief? Stop it stop fucking crossing out. Admit it. Relief. Anything that preserves your your fantasy.
There’s more.
But I stopped reading.
Part Four
And Then
TALLOW CHANDLERS’ SCHOOL FOR BOYS
Gosling Lane • Oxhey Wood • Northwood • HA7 4HP
June 28, 2004
Mr. and Mrs. Graham
14 Pegmire Close
Bushey
Hertfordshire
WD23 8PA
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Graham,
I hope this letter finds you well, but to save you from unnecessary anxiety I will dispense with further preamble. I am writing with mixed news. Following confirmation of your son’s Common Entrance exam results I am delighted to formally offer him a September commencement with us. However, at this time we are not in a position to award an Academic Scholarship.
Although it is our feeling that on the whole Alex performed impressively in his exams—especially in Science, Maths, and French (spoken)—his failure to achieve a passing grade in English (composition) has led us to this decision. Entrance and scholarship are, of course, matters of our discretion, and while we recognize in Alex the clear potential to transcend the implications of such an aberrant grade, I feel it would be improper to bestow a scholarship in this instance.
It is my sincere hope that this decision will not affect your own. I trust you will consider our offer regardless. On a personal note, young Alex made quite an impression on me when we met in May, and I would hate to think of us each missing out on the opportunity to learn more from the other!
Yours sincerely,
Mr. T. R. Sinclair
Headmaster
TALLOW CHANDLERS’ SCHOOL FOR BOYS
Gosling Lane • Oxhey Wood • Northwood • HA7 4HP
July 4, 2004
Mrs. L. Graham
14 Pegmire Close
Bushey
Hertfordshire
WD23 8PA
Dear Mrs. Graham,
Thank you for your letter. I am afraid in this instance I am inclined to agree with you. In fact, for such a grade to have been awarded there must presumably have been several mistakes.
However, be assured that I share your consternation. As I alluded to in my first letter, Alex’s English result does seem to represent something of an anomaly. It is, to say the least, unusual for a candidate to perform so ably in other essay-based subjects without recourse to the high literacy skills that the Composition module is designed to test. It is for this reason that I chose to overlook the result when offering Alex his place—an offer that I very much hope you are still considering.
In my experience, everyone has their off days. You should not let this result detract in any way from the pride you must surely be experiencing in light of the high bar that your son has already cleared. I am sure I need not remind you of the extremely competitive nature of our admissions process. To consider his acceptance anything other than an achievement in its own right would be to do a grave disservice to all involved.
Yours in anticipation,
T. R. Sinclair
Headmaster
TALLOW CHANDLERS’ SCHOOL FOR BOYS
Gosling Lane • Oxhey Wood • Northwood • HA7 4HP
July 10, 2004
Mrs. L. Graham
14 Pegmire Close
Bushey
Hertfordshire
WD23 8PA
Dear Mrs. Graham,
Thank you for your swift reply. To address your points in order:
1) Yes, I was “trying to be funny.” I recognize now that my attempts at levity were, in this instance, misjudged. I apologize deeply for any offense caused. Be assured that in no way did I intend to satirize the certainty of your claim.
2) If you remain adamant of the “impossib[ility]” of Alex’s grade, then I suggest taking the matter up with the exam board. I am enclosing the appropriate forms. It is my understanding that any appeal must be lodged formally through the appropriate center—in this case, Alex’s past school—and received within three weeks of the board’s original decision.
And to make some points of my own:
3) While we encourage you to exercise your own discretion in this matter and by all means pursue an appeal through the official channels, I must make clear that any subsequent change of result would be purely for your own personal satisfaction. At the time of writing we have awarded our full quota of scholarships for the upcoming academic year. Although we have so far been happy to hold a place for Alex—pending your decision—we would regrettably be unable to alter the terms of our offer, irrespective to the results of an appeal.
4) Without wishing to presume, we do recognize the occasionally prohibitive nature of our fees—which we believe are both appropriate to and essential for the standards of excellence on which we pride ourselves, as remarked on in this year’s The Good Schools Guide and evidenced by our standings in the latest league tables (both enclosed)—which is why, in exceptional circumstances, we do offer a small number of means-tested bursaries. If you would like to be considered for one of these bursaries, then please contact the admissions office directly.
I hope this matter can soon be resolved to your satisfaction. I should be glad to receive written acceptance of Alex’s place as soon as possible or not later than Friday, July 18, 2004.
Yours in expectation,
Mr. T. R. Sinclair
Headmaster
Grove End Middle School
Whippendale Road
Watford
Herts
WD17 1BB
July 14, 2004
Ms. L. Graham
14 Pegmire Close
Bushey
Hertfordshire
WD23 8PA
Dear Louise,
RE: Common Entrance Results Enquiry (OCEB)
A quick note post our phone chat to let you know we got your appeal forms okay and have now made an official Results Enquiry on Alex’s behalf. I have discussed everything with Alex’s English teacher, Miss Farthingdale, and we’re both behind you 100% of the way on this one. Personally, my best guess is they got the papers mixed up. Between you and me these bastards couldn’t organize a punch-up at a wedding.
We’ll be in touch soon. And tell Alex not to let it get in the way of his summer holiday!
Best wishes,
Mr. Clifford
TALLOW CHANDLERS’ SCHOOL FOR BOYS
Gosling Lane • Oxhey Wood • Northwood • HA7 4HP
&nb
sp; July 28, 2004
Ms. L. Graham
14 Pegmire Close
Bushey
Hertfordshire
WD23 8PA
Dear Ms. Graham,
I have taken the liberty of interpreting your latest missive as a formal rejection of our offer.
As for your far-fetched accusations of misogyny and “condesension [sic]” I only hope these imagined slights are as real to you as the opportunity you have passed up on your son’s behalf.
I trust you have his best interests at heart.
Yours,
Mr. T. R. Sinclair, BA, FRSA, FIMgt, MInstD
Headmaster
P.S. If that’s the kind of language you use around the house, then it’s hardly surprising that your son failed his English exam.
Grove End Middle School
Whippendale Road
Watford
Herts
WD17 1BB
August 22, 2004
Ms. L. Graham
14 Pegmire Close
Bushey
Hertfordshire
WD23 8PA
Dear Louise,
RE: Common Entrance Results Enquiry (OCEB)
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but after the Results Enquiry OCEB has decided to uphold Alex’s original English grade. Not to worry, though. All this means is they didn’t physically lose the paper or give Alex someone else’s grade by mistake—you’d be amazed how often that happens. Honestly, I just thank my lucky stars they chose marking over midwifery.
What this absolutely doesn’t mean is that they weren’t wrong to award the grade. Our next step is a Stage I Appeal. We have gone ahead and submitted this and a copy is attached for your records.