For What It's Worth

by Janet Tashjian

  “Hold on,” my father says. “He couldn’t have stayed here—we’d have been aiding and abetting a felon. He might be a friend of Soosie’s, but he’s not worth going to prison for.”

  “We wouldn’t have stood by while one of our daughter’s friends needed help.”

  “He’s his parents’ problem, not ours.” My father grasps the arms of the chair to steady his anger.

  “THIS is why I didn’t tell you!” I say. “Even after the fact, you can’t decide what to do.”

  I’m hoping this bit of logic will restore my parents’ sanity, thus returning my albums to their rightful place in my bedroom. I look up with the begging eyes of a street urchin, but neither of them comes close to giving in, so I try a different tack. “You realize I’m going to lose my girlfriend, right? That being grounded for this long almost ensures she’s going to break up with me and find someone else.”

  “She’s welcome to come here and visit,” my mother says.

  “To do homework or help you with your chores,” my father adds.

  “An invitation no girl can refuse.”

  “Don’t push it, Quinn.” Mom checks her watch and heads inside for her three-o’clock call with Dr. Fredericks.

  My father looks at me and shakes his head. “I’ll be glad when she’s out of this psychobabble phase,” he says. “This is worse than the months of crystals and wheatgrass.”

  “What’s so bad about wheatgrass?”

  My father and I both whip around at the sound of Soosie’s voice. When she hugs me, I notice she’s put on probably fifteen pounds since we last saw her—not that I’d ever say anything. I want to live to see tomorrow, thank you very much.

  “You’ve grown three inches.” Soosie doesn’t waste any time mangling my hair, giving me grief for how long it is.

  Her hair is darker than usual, which I chalk off to spending less time in the sun. After I unload her stuff and watch her scarf down a turkey sandwich, she asks me about Brett. “Do you know where he’s staying?” she asks. “Let’s try to find him today.”

  I tell her I haven’t seen him since the log cabin fiasco.

  “I hope he hasn’t turned himself in.” She’s pushed herself away from the counter and is pacing around the kitchen.

  Mom screams when she finally emerges from the bedroom and finds Soosie standing in the kitchen. They cry, jump up and down—act so much like GIRLS that it actually makes me laugh. I’m relieved when Soosie pulls back her hair with a rubber band from the junk drawer and tells my mom all she wants to do is cook. Mom opens the door of the fridge, showing off the kale, tomatoes, scallions, ginger, and chicken she stocked up on anticipating Soosie’s arrival. Dad goes to put on Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue, but I run to the small stack of LPs Soosie brought with her and grab Creedence’s Cosmo’s Factory instead. My father puts the Miles Davis back with a laugh and I take my place at the sink to wash the vegetables. Besides my recent troubles, it’s been a good year, but it doesn’t really feel like home till just this moment when all four of us are together.

  Mom sits on one of the stools watching Soosie prepare the chicken with lemon zest, salt, and pepper. “I have no idea where you got these skills. It’s genetically impossible.”

  “My sister Ellie’s a great cook,” Dad says. “Maybe she got them from her.”

  I don’t care where or why Soosie got her culinary talent, as long as she keeps cranking out the meals while she’s home.

  When we sit outside to eat, I realize I should’ve invited Caroline to join us. I decide to run over after dinner and see if she wants to join us for dessert. (Homemade butterscotch pudding—count me in.)

  Soosie’s experiences in Boston, as well as the election in November, dominate much of the dinner conversation. Soosie also tells us about stopping in Joshua Tree on the drive back and the commune Melanie wanted to live in for a while. Every half hour or so, I jump up and turn over one of the records Soosie brought home. (It’s not just the music I miss but the vinyl itself, the artwork on the covers, the liner notes—EVERYTHING.)

  My mother gives one of her secret looks to my father, the same one she uses for early birthday presents or a surprise night at the drive-in. My father nods slightly, and suddenly what I’ve been dreaming about for weeks—getting my records back—seems like a reality.

  I have never been so wrong.

  “We wanted to wait till Soosie got home so we could tell you both together,” Mom begins. “But your father and I have decided we need some space. We’re going to separate for a while.”

  I look over at Soosie to see if she had any inkling about this bombshell, but she looks as surprised as I am.

  “You said ‘for a while,’” Soosie finally says. “So this isn’t permanent.”

  “You’re just trying it, right? Then you’ll get back together?” My voice squeaks with a desperation that embarrasses me.

  “This has been coming for several months,” my father says. “We didn’t want to say anything until we were sure.”

  “It sounds like you’re not sure,” Soosie says. “It sounds like a trial to me.”

  My mother reaches for my father’s hand, more out of stability than romance. “We’ve talked about this a lot. We’re not doing anything rash.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds that way,” I say. “Oh, by the way, we’ve been married for more than twenty years and we just decided we don’t love each other anymore.”

  “Nobody said that.” My father seems almost angry at my comment. “Of course we love each other. We’re trying to do this with respect and consideration. It’s about two good people growing apart—nothing more than that.”

  “It IS more than that!” I continue. “What am I supposed to do?”

  My mother reaches for my hand, but I pull it away. “You can stay here, in your same room. I’m going to move into Ellen’s while she’s on tour—you’ll have a room there too. I’ll find my own place when she gets back.”

  “Or you might decide to move back here,” Soosie says. “Right? That’s a possibility too.”

  Neither of our parents answers.

  “Right?” Soosie sounds even more desperate than I do, which is a small relief.

  “Anything’s a possibility,” Dad finally answers.

  “But not a probability,” my mother adds.

  “This isn’t fair,” Soosie says. “I just got home!”

  “We wanted to tell you in person,” Dad says. “Not over the phone.”

  “It’s almost summer vacation!” I realize this has no bearing on the state of my parents’ marriage, but I feel it’s an important point anyway.

  “This won’t be easy for any of us,” Mom says. “We all have to do the best we can.”

  Soosie stacks the dishes with so much force, I’m afraid they might break. “Whose idea was it? Who wanted the separation?”

  My parents look at each other for the answer. It wasn’t a question they anticipated.

  “It was mine,” my mother says. “But your father and I agree things haven’t been right for a while.”

  The conversation has suddenly become more personal and intimate than I care to know about. Before my eyes, Soosie reverts to her ten-year-old self, her face crumpled with hurt and tears.

  “So glad I came home! This was definitely worth it—thanks, guys!”

  I follow her lead and head to my room down the hall, momentarily forgetting about Caroline and the butterscotch pudding. I’ve been so worried Caroline was going to break up with me this year, little did I know I’d need all those breakup songs I’d been compiling for a different reason. But even if I DID have my records, you can’t really crank up “She’s Leaving Home” when your mom’s the one who’s taking off. How do you prepare for something like this? Isn’t it bad enough we have to deal with wildfires, smog, mudslides, and earthquakes? Do we have to deal with emotional disasters too?

  I trip over the clean laundry my mother’s placed in my room and kick the basket several times until it skids ac
ross the floor, exploding the clean clothes across my bed. My Gibson in its stand seems too perfect and erect; I get an urge to pick it up and smash it into a million pieces like Pete Townshend. The thought leaves as quickly as it came—I’m not a rock star with unlimited funds. Far from it. I’m a kid with pretty much nothing and a family that’s splintering apart.

  Almost as a way to apologize to my guitar, I take it off its stand and lie on the rug holding it, as if its very presence can ward off the emptiness. Besides this whole thing with my parents, my band just broke up, I’m grounded, and I’ve been worried my girlfriend’s breaking up with me—I AM MENTALLY UNPREPARED FOR ALL THIS.

  I stare up at the ceiling until it hits me like a ton of bricks: YOU’RE LOSING HER, SHE CAN’T STAY, SHE IS UNHAPPY. Jim, Janis, and Jimi weren’t talking about Caroline; they were talking about my mom! Unlike Houdini, I did connect with souls from the other side, and they were RIGHT.

  I hurry to Soosie’s room, where my parents have stashed my albums and Ouija board. I grab the board and planchette, then race out to the yard. I look around for the trash can; it’s at the end of the driveway waiting for tomorrow’s pickup. I open the lid and jam the Ouija board and planchette deep inside.

  My magic Ouija is gone, finished, history. Right along with my old definition of family.

  I feel like a sap for envying Ryan this year, as if tickets to the Lakers and new albums can make up for a giant wrecking ball swinging in and ruining your parents’ marriage. I’m amazed at my own immaturity and shortsightedness, the same kid who also wanted to pretend his country wasn’t at war.

  This growing up thing is NO FUN. No fun at all.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  5/72

  When influential rock critic Nik Cohn wasn’t thrilled with the rock opera Tommy the first time he heard it, Pete Townshend decided to make some changes to his main character. Since Cohn was a huge pinball aficionado, Townshend wrote “Pinball Wizard” and made Tommy a pinball whiz kid; Cohn subsequently gave the new album raves. If Townshend hadn’t been sucking up to a critic, we’d have missed out on one of rock’s greatest opening riffs.

  Townshend’s famous guitar smashing actually started as an accident, when he sent the head of his guitar through the ceiling at a performance at the Railway Tavern. Mad that people in the audience were laughing, he proceeded to smash the rest of the guitar onstage. The next week, a huge crowd showed up for the show and Townshend’s been smashing guitars ever since.

  As much as Mom swears our lives won’t be any different, they are. Because Soosie works in the store, she gets to see Mom almost every day, while I end up practicing guitar in my room after school and shuttling between having dinner here with Dad and meeting Mom at Cass’s house with a duffel bag full of clothes and my toothbrush. I keep hoping that when Cass returns, Mom will come back home, but after I see the ads for bungalows she circled in the classifieds, it begins to sink in that her move might be permanent.

  Dad doesn’t stay late at work anymore; he comes straight home and tries to be cheerful as he makes us spaghetti or grills some steaks. I know he’s trying to be strong on my account, because some nights when I can’t sleep, I sneak out to the garage and watch him from the window. He still rebuilds his amps, but he’s unfocused and often just stares at the tubes while listening to John Coltrane. I think about going in to comfort him but know it’ll just end with the two of us in tears. That might be a good thing, but I’m not able to handle that yet, maybe never.

  Mom tries to make Cass’s house seem like home by lighting the same candles and playing the same music she did at our house, but it feels like we’re guests here and we both know it. She takes me to see Jeremiah Johnson at the movies, which is something she never would’ve done before. (I don’t complain, however, because it wordlessly brings my being grounded to a wheezing halt.) I feel like I’m leading Ryan’s life, not mine, but try not to make things worse by griping. Mom sits on the edge of my bed like she used to do when I was little and doesn’t leave till I tell her I have to sleep. She says she’s happy, but to me it always seems like she’s just about to cry.

  When Caroline gets back from visiting San Diego with her parents, I tell her the news. She’s so surprised, she makes us late for class with all her questions. She passes me notes throughout art class until I finally write back that I’ll tell her everything after school.

  As we walk home, I tell her about my mother staying at Cass’s, how upset Soosie is, how quiet my father’s been. When I tell her I threw away the Ouija board, she seems almost relieved.

  “I’m glad you got rid of it. You were relying on it too much.”

  “We had access to Club 27—who wouldn’t use it every day? Besides, they were right about Mom leaving, when all along—” I realize where the end of the sentence is going and slam on the brakes. Unfortunately, my super-smart girlfriend is way ahead of me.

  “Club 27 told you she was leaving, but what?”

  I can’t dig up anything that makes a shred of sense, so don’t say a word.

  “You thought I was the one leaving, right?” She spins around to face me as she walks. “Is that why you haven’t trusted me—because you thought Club 27 told you not to?”

  When you put it under a microscope like that, it sounds a bit ridiculous, but at the time it made perfect sense to me.

  Caroline looks as if she’s formulating her thoughts before she speaks—a nice trick I might want to try sometime. “I know what Lynne said to you after she and Tom came over the first time.”

  “You do?”

  “She told me afterward because she felt bad.”

  “Then why did she say it?”

  “To cause trouble, to have a laugh?” She looks me squarely in the eyes. “Knowing you, Quinn, some stupid comment might make you totally paranoid and send you running to the Ouija board for answers.”

  My girlfriend knows me better than I thought. “I wouldn’t do that,” I lie.

  “I can’t come up with any other reason why you don’t trust me.”

  As we reach my house, I try to change the subject but Caroline will have none of it.

  “Every time I invite a friend over or hang out with someone else, you make me feel like a criminal. It’s not cool.”

  I debate mentioning the fact that the someone in question is none other than my best friend, Ryan. But I don’t say anything because as Caroline’s talking, my brain is fixated on one question and one question only: IS SHE BREAKING UP WITH ME NOW? The ever-present turntable in my head cues up Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together.”

  “Quinn? Say something!”

  Telling her I’ve been in my own weird world for the last few moments while she’s trying to have a heart-to-heart talk is tantamount to signing my own death warrant, so I dig deep down and come up with some truths of my own.

  “I’m sorry. It was stupid. Just please don’t break up with me.”

  The gods must feel sorry for this poor kid trying to save his first relationship and decide to take pity, because suddenly Caroline smiles. “Of course I’m not breaking up with you! Did you not hear a word I just said?”

  This is the price for paying more attention to the thoughts running through your own cobwebbed head instead of listening to what somebody right in front of you is actually saying. I pull her toward me for a kiss and promise her I’ll stop being such an imbecile. I mean, she’s right—I HAVE spent as much time worried about losing her as I have just being her boyfriend. She’s my first girlfriend and no one offered me a training manual, so I’ve been winging it, too embarrassed to ask Ryan or even my parents for advice, instead running my half-baked questions by a group of rock star ghosts. If I’m going to stay in this relationship, I better get my act together.

  “Is this the Caroline I’ve heard so much about?” Soosie bounds into the room and gives Caroline a giant hug. She’s been staying on and off with friends to avoid being home, but I finally talked her into coming by tonight to meet Caroline. For once, Soosie�
��s timing is perfect, saving me from any more relationship talk. She’s going on a buying trip for Mom’s store tomorrow and solicits ideas from Caroline as to what kind of things she should be looking out for. While they yak about fabrics and scarves, I work on some transcriptions for Frank.

  “Come on,” Soosie orders. “Let’s look for Brett again.”

  I tell her that since the fire, I’ve looked everywhere, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  “I heard the cops combed the woods,” Soosie says. “But I’m not giving up till we find him or they do.”

  Caroline and I climb into the orange van and head down to Sunset with Soosie. We check out the Guitar Center, the Whisky, the Roxy. We go down Santa Monica Boulevard and drive by the Troubadour and Barney’s Beanery. We cruise the side streets, we drive up to Mulholland—nothing. When we get to the intersection where the cabin is, we spot a cop in his car outside the fence.

  “Like they don’t have anything better to do,” Soosie says.

  “Maybe they gave up on Brett and are here for another reason,” Caroline suggests.

  If I had said it, Soosie would’ve jumped down my throat, but because it was Caroline’s comment, she lets it slide. I can tell she’s upset by the time we pull into the driveway, so I suggest Caroline and I help her cook, knowing chopping vegetables and herbs is the number one way to make Soosie feel better. She takes me up on my offer and the three of us make a big bowl of gazpacho that we eat on the front porch.

  “Your sister is the best,” Caroline says later.

  “She’s actually more like a beast.”

  But Caroline can’t be persuaded otherwise and gushes on about Soosie until I grab my guitar and start playing.

  I ask Caroline if she has any requests, secretly hoping she’ll say Santana so I can show off some of my improved riffs. Instead she asks for Carly Simon. (PS—you know I play GUITAR, right? Not sit at a piano singing chick songs?)

  But I play “Anticipation” anyway, happy I’m not grounded anymore and can spend a Saturday night with my girlfriend. Staying on the same theme of expectation, I launch into “Waiting” by Santana for my own enjoyment. After Caroline leaves, I play for a few more hours, hoping Brett has finally found his way to somewhere safe.