Sucking Up Yellow Jackets

by Jeanne Denault

  Ann lived in an area of Chicago south of the loop, a place where police were not considered friends. She was so horrified to see a policeman at the door she shrieked and dropped a large pitcher full of milk. She was still visibly upset. She said where she lived police didn’t show up unless someone had been shot dead. And they didn’t bring home underage kids driving on public streets without a license. They took the kids straight to jail. She said the Wilmette police brought the Triumph to the house when they realized there was no licensed driver available to pick it up. I wondered if they would have bothered if he had been driving the VW bus. I suspect that would have been towed to the pound.

  Years later, Seth told me Max had been rolling the Triumph down the alley before starting the motor and tooling around town ever since we had bought it. When I taught the children not to tattle on each other I should have added the caveat unless it’s Max. But how was I to know ethical behavior was a waste when dealing with a person who didn’t grasp the simple fact that other people had rights different from his? Fortunately, the car was unharmed. I traded it in for a new VW beetle two days later. A white one so it was highly visible.

  That was our last vacation as an unfettered couple. The next year we drove to Florida for spring break with all four kids in tow. It was a change of scene but our marriage had deteriorated to the point where we needed what psychologists call quality time and lots of it if we were going to survive as anything more than parents of these four children.

  We all enjoyed the sun after months of relentless cold and gray skies. But no one in their right mind would call the ten days a romantic vacation or even a simple respite.

  Chapter 40

  Halfway through Max’s first year in high school, he was identified as a high IQ-low achiever pupil and put with a group of other boys with similar problems. The counselor who ran the group was a worldly, smart, empathetic man impossible to con. I met with the other group parents once a month. Pete came to the meetings if he was in town and not involved with Boy Scout functions.

  The counselor took the boys on field trips and told me he could see why Max was often bored with school. “So far he’s already been to every place in Chicago where I’ve taken the boys. He knows the museums and the subway better than I do. He ordered for us when we went to Chinatown, knows how to make Japanese fried rice and why it’s different from the fried rice in Chinese restaurants. I don’t know how to make either kind of rice, so I took him at his word.”

  “He’s been eating both all his life,” I told him. “Pete’s art school room-mates taught us how to make the Japanese variety and close friends who grew up with Chinese parents taught us the other. I don’t suppose Max told you he always picks out every bit of meat in the left-over Japanese-style fried rice and eats it. The meat’s the best part so this drives the rest of us wild. We all end up yelling at him but nothing stops him.”

  “No, he skipped that part but I can picture it.”

  Only one parent at a time tended to show up at the meetings. I asked the counselor why. He looked amused. “You and your husband are the odd ones. The other parents are either separated or divorced. Not many marriages survive the constant wear of living with sons as difficult as Max. I’m surprised you’re still married.”

  I accepted this as a compliment even though I knew he had it backward. We were still married largely because of Max. Pete and I may not have been perfect parents or perfect mates for each other but we had one important attribute in common that glued us together. We knew we were the best parents Max was ever going to get.

  Chapter 41

  Linda was a sophomore when Max started high school. She was tall, model thin and gorgeous. Junior and senior boys had started hitting on her the first week of her freshman year. We had been warned by the parents of two pretty girls who had survived New Trier High School that these boys would woo Linda, do their best to con her into sex then drop her, smear her reputation and go after the next naive pretty girl. So we told her she was not going to date until she was 16 and had the confidence to handle herself no matter what came up. This sounds draconian in 2007 when casual sex is accepted but it made sense in 1966 when being labeled promiscuous in high school could ruin the next four years. By the time she graduated from junior high, she had already come to the conclusion that she didn’t want to hang out with what she called the cool girls. They were already dating, some were sexually active and their parents all belonged to the club with the most cachet in the area.

  Linda was great at understanding social mores. She knew we were offbeat for the wealthy suburb. Her father was a scout master. Her mother did artwork for money, repaired things around the house and mowed the lawn instead of playing bridge, and wouldn’t buy her an expensive authentic Scottish kilt regardless of how many girls had one. Her brother was weird. Only a hippie would drive the family cars. And most damning of all, her parents would not consider joining the exclusive club even if they were asked. She knew neither Pete nor I had any interest in spending time with people who wouldn’t welcome all of our varied friends.

  A pragmatic realist, Linda saw us as so out of tune with Wilmette norms she decided she might as well hang out with a group of girls who didn’t worry about boys and had fun. She became a Mariner Scout, a rare but quite viable section of senior Girl Scouts. This was a great choice in Wilmette. Mariner Scouts crewed on the boats in the Wilmette Yacht Basin and spent two summer vacations as crew on the topsail schooner Shenandoah sailing the waters off Cape Cod.

  We had a family game we often played at get-togethers with Wing and Pearl and their family. We called it Killer Solitaire. Each player had their own deck and the rules of play were the same as usual except that the aces were put in the center and played on by everyone. It was intense, extremely competitive, merciless and fun. There was a great deal of shrieking and laughing. Everyone was equal. Max rarely played. He said later, he couldn’t stop himself from stacking the cards the way he would have if he were playing by himself so he never won. Pete didn’t play either.

  As soon as one of the children displayed an interest, they were taught how to play Solitaire. When they were fast enough so they didn’t slow the game, they were asked to join in. It was an odd but important rite of passage. Linda loved the game. When she came home from school, she often got out a couple of decks and we played solitaire while she told me what had gone on at school. It was usually the best part of my day.

  Linda got her driver’s license shortly after she turned 16. As soon as Pete and I were comfortable with her behind the wheel, she was allowed to take the car to school on those occasions when she had a dentist or doctor’s appointment and she was eventually allowed to have friends in the car.

  The downside of this was Max. He shoved his way into the car regardless of where she was going then criticized her driving and insisted on tagging along when she was going to the mall or a movie with friends. Max obviously counted on her not tattling on him.

  Max got a learner’s permit to drive as soon as this was possible and passed his driver’s test the day after he turned 16. He was incensed when I wouldn’t just hand over the car keys and let him roll.

  “I told you before you got your permit either your dad or I would let you drive whenever possible but one of us was going to be in the car with you until we were comfortable with the way you drove.”

  “That’s not fair. The State of Illinois thinks I’m qualified. Who are you to decide I have to be baby-sat when I drive?”

  “The car’s owners.”

  After Max got his license, he drove Linda wild when she was given the car. He waited until she had unlocked the car, twisted her arm until she had to drop the keys, shoved her out of the way and slid into the driver’s seat. She found this particularly infuriating if she was going somewhere with friends because Max wouldn’t let anyone else talk without butting in. Max didn’t realize Linda could only be pushed so far. He snatched the keys one time too many. Linda stood in the middle of the street and screamed with fr
ustration. Her scream was still glass-shattering. A neighbor ran across the street expecting bloodshed. Linda told him what Max had done. Embarrassed, Max gave her the keys and got out of the car. This was far more effective than anything I could have done.

  The neighbor had six somewhat eccentric kids so he wasn’t fazed. He just laughed and said, “That’s some scream.”

  Chapter 42

  Max got a job pumping gas at a downtown station. The first few times I gave him the car to drive to and from work, he showed up back home exactly when he was expected. Then he was a few minutes later than normal. In most towns, this wouldn’t have been an issue as long as he wasn’t too late getting home, but in Wilmette it was looking for trouble.

  Wilmette had a curfew. This gave any kid under 18 a great way to harass parents. They had to be with a parent or have a job with a permission slip signed by the parents and their employer to stay out after 10 o’clock on school nights and 11 o’clock on weekends. Max was picked up regularly. I told him he was going to have to walk home on the nights I couldn’t fetch him. He could no longer take the car. I decided he was less likely to get into serious trouble if he was walking. He had a job that theoretically ended at 9 o’clock so the permission slip wouldn’t work.

  I knew Max could get the ten blocks from the gas station to the house unseen if that was what he wanted to do. But he practically walked down the middle of the street so no patrolling police officer could miss him.

  Wilmette was a bad town to live in with an angry passive/aggressive child. And Max seemed to become angrier every day. He had fought with Seth, pounding him mercilessly ever since Seth started school. I don’t think a week went by without me having to yank them apart. When they were young, Seth resorted to biting to try to even the bitter contest. Fearful Seth would bite off a finger, part of an ear, or gouge out an eye; I ended up disciplining both boys. This was clearly unfair. Seth never started the fights. He ended up even more convinced Max got preferential treatment. Unfortunately, children quantify parental love by the relative time spent with other siblings. Eventually, Seth got big enough to pummel Max with enough force to make fist fights too painful. So Max directed his anger at me. I was always there, a constant in his increasingly chaotic life. I was the disciplinarian, the obvious bad guy.

  It isn’t easy being 16 years old. It was doubly frustrating for Max because he didn’t understand why people wouldn’t let him run his own life exactly the way he wanted. I told him he was putting himself in positions where he dared authority figures to get in his face. Linda was occasionally out after curfew. No one ever bothered her because she made an effort to fade into the woodwork. Even his friend Joe, who completely ignored the curfew, was never challenged for much the same reason.

  I finally told Max he had to quit the job. I’d had it with lectures from police officers each time I picked him up at the police station. I felt like my life was being squashed between Max’s incomprehensible, flagrant misbehavior and the disapproval of police and teachers. They couldn’t reach him, so they attacked me.

  Max was seeing a very good psychologist once a week. He enjoyed their sessions. The man was intelligent, had a good sense of the ridiculous, had seen this self-destructive behavior before, but like the counselor who ran the high IQ-low achiever group, he had no idea how to change Max’s behavior or even what prompted it.

  He confirmed my sense that Max’s antics were significantly more serious than normal teenage angst. Clearly brilliant, Max was utterly unable to comprehend what was going on in other people’s minds. He could relate cause and effect after it happened but not why he kept being hassled when he wasn’t doing anything he considered wrong. He had an incredible memory, he could relate in painful detail every incident where he had gotten into trouble but he couldn’t grasp why he had to follow what seemed to him to be arbitrary rules. He got a ticket for driving another boy’s car at midnight. It was too long after curfew for a reprimand. A parent had to accompany him to court. Pete and I both went. Pete didn’t want to be there. I didn’t either so I was grateful for his presence. When Max was called in front of the judge, Pete and I walked with him to the front of the courtroom. Pete planted himself in front of the judge with his arms across his chest. He was tall. I was short and not intimidating to anyone except three or four-year-olds. Max was still small for his age. Next to his father he looked even smaller. I could see he was trying to mimic his father’s challenging stance. It was oddly touching.

  The judge leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished walnut dais, his chin cupped in one hand. After the formality of establishing identity, he read the charge and asked Max why he was driving someone else’s car after curfew.

  Max pulled himself up to his full height and said, “I was the only one in the car not under the influence of tetrahydrocannabinol.”

  The judge’s eyebrows shifted upward, furrowing his brow. He nodded. “I see. That changes things. That wasn’t in the police report.”

  I knew what this was. It wasn’t easy keeping a saccharine, mealy-mouthed expression but I’d had a lot of practice dealing with Max’s fall-out. Pete looked blank. He had no clue what Max had just said. Math and science were his brother’s expertise. Family lore still had the brother labeled as the smart one. He had been dead for 20 years now but Pete still felt his brother’s shadow and worked hard to be his opposite so he never read science articles.

  The judge turned to Pete. “That didn’t mean anything to you, did it?”

  Pete shook his head and shrugged. “No. Should it?”

  “I assume you’re familiar with marijuana.

  Tetrahydrocannabinol is the active ingredient.”

  Pete’s shoulders tightened. He shook his head. He got the lecture this time. He didn’t like it. The judge ignored me. I was happy to be considered unimportant. When the case was dismissed, Pete turned and stalked out of the room, shaking his head.

  In the car, he kept muttering that he couldn’t believe Max got out of a traffic ticket by admitting to a felony. I couldn’t blame him for feeling frustrated.

  When his understandable irritation shifted to ridicule of Max, I had to stop him but didn’t know how without saying something. I never contradicted him in front of the kids. Max couldn’t see my hand. I reached over and touched Pete’s arm. He yanked his arm away as though I were jabbing him with a blowtorch and gave me a venomous glance but was quiet.

  Like any merger, marriage has what I think of as a point system. Each partner in a marriage has expectations. If these mesh with the spouse’s expectations, the points stay equally high. Pete and I were bilaterally close to rock bottom. We still meshed on curiosity and taste. We used to agree on wit. He had what was described as rapier wit. Like the description, it was fast and could cut but it was often very funny.

  When I was the butt of Pete’s wit I could protest but I usually ended up laughing. I stopped laughing when the kids were ridiculed. They cared too much. Every time I protested on their behalf, I lost points. But nothing I said stopped him doing it.

  Max described the kids’ reaction to Pete’s sharp tongue.

  “When Dad makes fun of me, I hurt as though he just stuck a knife in my chest. I’m mad at myself for laughing but I can’t stop because it’s so funny.”

  Chapter 43

  “GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME.” Max was shrieking. I heard Pete’s voice but couldn’t figure out what he had said. They were in the family room watching TV.

  I was in the living room reading to Andrea. I stood up but was knocked back in the chair as Max hurtled through the living room. His face was bright red. He looked furious and close to tears. Pete followed close behind. He looked stunned. Max yanked open the front door and ran out. It was mid-February, hovering around 20 degrees – that’s 12 degrees below freezing – and Max was barefoot.

  Pete reached for Max’s arm. “For God’s sake, put some shoes on.”

  Max yanked his arm away and came close to falling down the steps. “GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OF
F ME. I HATE YOU. YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO TOUCH ME AGAIN.”

  He leaped down the steps and ran down the street shrieking, “SHIT-FUCK, SHIT-FUCK, SHIT-FUCK,” at the top of his lungs. Still shrieking, “SHIT-FUCK,” his voice diminished and finally faded in the distance.

  I was shivering. “Should I go after him?”

  “No. Give him a chance to cool off. He’s barefoot. He won’t go far.” Pete watched him until he disappeared, then closed the door.

  Andrea came over and wrapped her arms around my legs and clung to me as though she wanted to merge with the relative safety of my body. I picked her up and hugged her. She pressed her head and shoulders against me, clutched me with her left arm and stuck her right thumb in her mouth. Five years old and ready to be independent by now, Max’s out of control behavior and animosity toward her kept thwarting her. He made the house feel like a dangerous place to all of us. I was often tense and uneasy when he was at home. I know I transmitted this to Andrea.

  I turned to Pete. “What happened?”

  “Damned if I know.” He shook his head and went back to the TV.

  I tried to clean the kitchen but kept picking up things and putting them down. The doors to the basement playroom were locked. I ran down, unlocked them and left the light on so Max could slip in. I grabbed my coat and ran back to the garage and made sure it was unlocked. I was chilled to the bone in a down coat. How far could Max go barefoot and without a coat without serious frostbite? We were a block from a large church. Their door would still be unlocked. The church was heated. I hoped he had the sense to go inside. But I doubted it. He might have to explain why he was running around in the bitter cold without shoes or a coat. Everyone jumped when the phone rang. I answered it. With no greeting or preamble, Max said, “Can I talk to Seth?”