Sucking Up Yellow Jackets

by Jeanne Denault

  His advisor suggested a meeting. It took us a while to set up a meeting time because Pete was away more than at home. The Seattle job for the Philadelphia agency was followed by others. The first day Pete was in town we met with the advisor.

  Nova High School was a well-thought-of alternative school. I assumed this meant they would tolerate students with non-rote learning styles as long as the student learned the needed material. I had met Max’s advisor before and had the impression he liked Max. He began by telling us Max was surly and uncooperative in his classes. He discounted the impact of the visible injury to his face and the resulting loss to his self-esteem. For reasons that never made sense to me, the advisor had decided all Max’s problems stemmed from a total lack of discipline at home.

  “You should tell him ‘No’ and mean it. He needs to be disciplined when he behaves in an inappropriate manner.”

  He knew Pete was away a lot so he addressed most of his remarks to me. I was unconsciously shaking my head. My mouth was slack with surprise. I hadn’t expected this total lack of understanding. He stopped speaking, frowned and said, “You don’t agree with me?”

  The challenge in his voice infuriated me. I felt like screaming but made an effort to answer quietly. My voice shook with pentup frustration.

  “I agree in principle. But saying ‘No’ only works if the person you’re saying ‘No’ to agrees with your assumption you have the right to make all the rules. Max doesn’t just disagree with most rules; he doesn’t even acknowledge they exist.”

  He looked at me with a dismissive expression. I could see I had presented him with a concept beyond his experience. “What you have to do is make it clear to Max you will withhold something he really cares about if he doesn’t follow your rules.”

  Pete answered in a hard, bitter voice. “Short of taking his life, I can’t think of anything we could take from him he would care about enough not to do exactly what he wanted. And there are days even that threat wouldn’t stop him.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  Max’s school had a three-day weekend for President’s Day. He asked if he could go camping in the Everglades. Two boys in his German class were going and wanted him to go with them because he knew how to camp. One of the boys had an old Fiat. They would use that if they could fit all their camping gear in it. It didn’t need much gas.

  Pete and I talked it over. He was in Seattle this time. Max was an experienced camper. We agreed it would be a nice change for him to be the expert in something for a change. The boy’s Fiat had some problem that couldn’t be fixed in time to take advantage of the President’s Day holiday.

  Max asked if he could borrow the Ford van we had bought when my car developed too many problems to feel safe commuting in and out of Miami. Pete thought this was okay. He told Max he had to do all the driving because our insurance wouldn’t cover any driver under 25 except for family members. I reiterated this and Max assured me it wouldn’t be a problem. The campsite was only a couple of hours’ drive away.

  He showed me a map of the Everglades and indicated the camping ground where the boys would be. He collected camping and fishing gear and went to pick up the other boys. I had made dozens of cookies and sent these with him.

  The peace was wonderful. He showed up exactly when he had said he would and unloaded the camping gear.

  And the motorcycle he had to abandon in Illinois last spring.

  ***

  I couldn’t process what I was seeing. Then I looked at Max and recognized the expression of guilty defiance. “You went to Illinois?”

  He put his hands on his hips and assumed his head back, hooded eyes, hard-mouthed teen, screw-you posture. “Yeah. What did you expect me to do? I have no way to get around. You wouldn’t help me get my motorcycle when you could have. You don’t think I was going to leave it in Illinois forever, do you?”

  I felt so sick it was hard to think. I heard myself nibbling the edges of what felt like a major betrayal. Minutia came out of my mouth. “The other boys drove?”

  “Of course. You didn’t think I could drive that long without any relief, did you?”

  “Why did the boys go to Illinois with you?”

  “They had business in Chicago.”

  “Do they actually go to school with you?”

  He was showing the beginnings of anxiety at this question. “They know a girl in my German class. They needed a ride to and from Chicago.”

  “Why? Were they from Chicago?”

  “No. They just had to make a delivery.”

  Max was still bad at keeping a blank face. He was clearly uneasy. Something was off about this whole scenario. I had a mental image of two 17-year-olds but I never saw his alleged classmates. They could have been grown men. Why wouldn’t they have cars of their own? Maybe they were transporting dope and didn’t want to be in a vehicle one of them owned that could be seized if they were pulled over.

  “Were they moving dope?”

  Max made a small movement of indifference but didn’t answer. I felt that awful sensation usually described as a sinking heart. Mine felt as though it was trying to get to my feet. I hunched forward and cradled my middle as though I really had to hold it in place.

  “Max, I know you think the marijuana laws are unfair but you drove through a lot of states to get to Chicago. Some of them still have draconian laws regarding possession of dope. You could end up in jail for getting caught with one joint. God knows what they would do if you were knowingly carrying a sizable quantity. You do know if someone stopped you and found dope, you’d not only end up in jail but they’d confiscate the car?”

  “No one stopped us. We were careful to stay within the speed limit.”

  At that point, I would have given Max to anyone who happened by but there wasn’t much of a market for out-of-control teenage boys.

  I was so overwhelmed by the enormity of what Max had done, I had to mentally step sideways to give my mind time to cope with it. I had a family to care for. So I washed clothes, shopped, cooked, made sure Seth did his homework, read Andrea stories, went to work and was as careful as usual to do a good job.

  But I felt as though a part of me was dying.

  No one noticed.

  Chapter 49

  Shortly after Max got what looked like half of an upper set of false teeth, Liz from the language school in Leningrad visited us. She was charming, funny in an offhand way and attractive. I could see why Max liked her. I asked her if she could stay for dinner. She said, “Sure. My grandmother isn’t expecting me. Max said you always feed anyone who happens to be in the house around dinner time.”

  I laughed. Every time Max came up with an accurate observation about someone else’s thinking, I was surprised. I started to cook and realized I needed butter and milk. When I left, Andrea was sitting in the family room watching TV with Max and Liz. Max was becoming more and more brazen in his defiance of other people’s rights. I would normally insist Andrea come with me if I went to the grocery store but I assumed Liz would intercede if Max was mean to Andrea. Seth was in the living room playing pool with a friend. Pete would be home for dinner soon. He was in Miami this week. I figured nothing could go wrong with so many people in the house and I would only be gone for 20 minutes at most.

  The grocery store was crowded; I was gone for almost an hour. I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped out of the car. Seth was yelling and I heard pounding. The noise sounded in sync with Seth’s shrieks — I assumed he was the one assaulting what sounded like a closed door. I found him outside the bedroom he shared with Max. He was whacking the door yelling, “Let me in. Open the damn door. You have no right to lock me out.”

  Seth’s face was red, his voice hoarse. Furious, he looked on the verge of tears.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you yelling?”

  “They’re in my room screwing.” He banged the door again. It bowed slightly each time he hit it. He’s strong. I was surprised it was still on its hinges. He whipped around and shrieked.
“Do something. Don’t I have any rights in this house?”

  Seth had his arm cocked ready to bang on the door when Max unlocked the door and opened it. Seth reared back as though confronting a monster.

  Max looked smug. He made a point of zipping his fly after he stepped out of the room.

  I turned on him. “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING? HOW CAN YOU BE SO THOUGHTLESS? THAT’S SETH’S ROOM TOO. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK IT’S ALL RIGHT TO HAVE SEX IN THE ROOM YOU SHARE WITH YOUR BROTHER?”

  I knew they could probably hear me at the other end of town but I felt so outraged I couldn’t stop screaming.

  “Where else can I do it? You took the van. You don’t expect me to go around with blue balls just because I don’t have a hotel room, do you?”

  Liz came out of the boys’ bedroom. She was fully dressed but her cardigan had been buttoned so rapidly one side dangled below the other side like a kindergarten kid’s. She looked detached and pleased with herself, clearly post-coital, not a bit upset or guilty.

  Pete walked in. “What’s all the yelling about? I could hear you at the other end of the block.

  Seth swung around, “They were screwing in my room.”

  Pete’s face turned red and seemed to swell. He stared at Liz. He started shrieking at her. “YOU FUCKING CUNT. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE.”

  Liz looked surprised. She rolled her eyes but had the sense to leave without comment. Pete glared at Max but didn’t say anything to him then stormed out to the family room, poured a generous belt of Dewars over ice, walked back to our bedroom and slammed the door.

  Andrea’s door was closed. I tapped on it and opened it when I heard a muffled reply. I couldn’t figure out what she said but I wanted to reassure her all the hassle was over. She was curled up on her bed with her hands clamped over her ears and the wornout bunny she always slept with clutched under her elbow. The seven-year-old girl had lived her whole life in Max’s dark shadow. I sat down next to her and scratched her back.

  “I’m sorry about that whole ugly scene, Andrea. I wish Max had more sense.”

  “Why did Dad yell at Liz? Why didn’t he yell at Max too?” She sniffed and looked up at me. Her eyes were red and the lids were swollen. She had been crying for some time.

  I felt sad. She shouldn’t have had to deal with this crazy, out-of-control behavior. I knew 17-year-olds were infamous for their capacity to be self-absorbed but this was too far beyond the end point of normal behavior. I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t fault Max for wanting sex with a willing girl. He had said Liz was already 18 and added she was emancipated. I had assumed at the time he meant she was no longer a virgin but with Max I was never sure what he was really telling me. Most kids had the smarts to find a place more private than the bedroom they shared with their brother. Seth was 14 and well aware of his own sexuality. I wondered how much of Max’s choice of a place to have sex had to do with lording his sexual maturity over his brother.

  Pete always told me I read too much into things that were really just what they seemed to be. He was a strong believer in Occam’s razor. I thought Occam’s philosophy was classic male avoidance thinking. Any woman knew that what you saw was often just the tip of a tentacle belonging to a large treacherous octopus waiting to suck you into its world.

  I normally defended Pete but I agreed with Andrea. Pete shouldn’t have attacked Liz so violently and obscenely and ignored Max’s culpability. The implications of what he said offended me too . I snuggled against her, scratched her back then stroked her head.

  She reached over and patted my arm. We sat nestled together offering each other comfort. I bent down and kissed her cheek. “Would you like to come into the kitchen with me and help me make supper? You can peel the carrots and I’ll cut you some carrot pennies to eat.”

  “Are you going to cook the carrots the way Dad likes with the brown sugar and onions?”

  “No. I’m doing them the way the kids like for a change.” She glanced at me. I hoped I didn’t sound as irritated as I felt.

  “Where’s Max?”

  “I think he’s with Seth and Pete watching TV. Don’t worry. I’ll be here. You can stay with me.”

  No one said much during dinner. I was simmering. Why did Pete attack Liz with such venom and let Max go unscathed? It was sending the wrong message to give all three kids. I waited until Andrea was tucked into bed, Seth was in his room doing homework and Max had gone out. My car was still in the driveway so someone had picked him up. I assumed it was Liz but didn’t ask. Pete was watching TV.

  I stood not more than six feet away from him with my arms crossed on my chest. I knew this was a defensive posture. Irritated with myself, I dropped my arms to my sides and tried to look more confident. Unease forced my arms back where they had been. I hated confronting Pete. He knew I was there but he wouldn’t acknowledge me.

  I finally forced myself to say, “Are you going to give Max a lecture about respecting other people’s rights or let him think this was all Liz’s fault?”

  I was so angry by now my voice was wobbly.

  He turned up the volume on the TV. When he realized his rudeness wasn’t going to drive me from the room, he looked at me with open disgust. “It was her fault. If that fucking whore hadn’t come on to him, he wouldn’t have been screwing her.”

  I clenched my teeth. “That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard…”

  Before I could finish my sentence, he bolted out of the chair, slammed the off switch on the TV, snatched the keys to his car from the key rack and lunged out the door. It slammed behind him. I heard the car shoot out of the driveway. He was already going too fast.

  He left for Philadelphia early the next morning. He drove himself to the airport. I doubt if he wanted to be trapped in a car with me.

  Chapter 50

  “Just a minute. Just a minute.” I assumed the person knocking on my door couldn’t hear me but I didn’t want to shout and wake the kids. The light on the clock read 2:32. Damn. I had only been asleep for a few hours. Pete was still asleep. I didn’t wake him. After the ugly incident with Liz, we were barely speaking. I avoided him as much as possible. It wasn’t hard. He was someplace else most of the time.

  If one of Max’s friends was banging on my door; he was dead meat. I was tired of being polite to people who didn’t return the courtesy. Max seemed to be drawn to boys who never slept during normal hours and didn’t care if other people wanted to.

  I grabbed a robe, stuffed my arms into it, trotted to the side door and flicked on the outside light. My heart took a nasty leap. For a few seconds it felt as though it was lodged against my windpipe in a thwarted effort to get out of my chest cavity. This was trouble again.

  A tired-looking car was parked at the end of my driveway. The red light on the roof was the only indication it was a police car. The light wasn’t turned on. Maybe it was just a cop warning us about a prowler. It flashed through my mind that it was a sad commentary on my life when a loose prowler was good news. When I opened the door, I saw that the man standing there wasn’t in uniform. He was wearing a rumpled and not too clean jacket with what looked like a piece of candy wrapper stuck to the fabric above the right pocket. A bulge under his left arm was obviously a holstered pistol. A large one. Sparse ginger hair was such a close color match for his florid face it was hard to see where it began and ended. He pulled open the screen door and stepped in, crowding me so I had to step back. He asked me who I was. His voice was flat, official, wary. He was tense. He eyed me as though expecting me to whip out a gun.

  I was duly intimidated but irritation over-rode any anxiety. I got very cranky when someone large bullied me. I fought down my impulse to snarl at him. I knew this wasn’t about me. I fell back on super-polite and told him my name in one of those simpering, super-polite voices better suited to a garden party than a confrontation with a policeman. I couldn’t quite manage the pasted-on smile that should have gone with the voice. It was just as well. He wasn’t in the mood to notice nuanc
es.

  He flashed a badge, said his name and identified himself as a detective. “Are you the owner of a white 1971 Ford van?” He rattled off the license number. He spoke with the nasal, southern twang I associated with Florida natives from the vast farms in the interior of the state. It took me a second to figure out what he had just said.

  I shrugged. “I own a van but don’t know the license number.”

  This clearly irritated him. “Do you know where your car is?”

  I automatically went to the side window so I could see beyond the boat. No car. “I have no idea.”

  “You weren’t driving it tonight?”

  “No. The last time I drove it was when I went to the baby sitter’s to pick up my daughter at four o’clock this afternoon.”

  A second police car drove up. This time the officer was in uniform and his red and white flashers were broadcasting their message of alarm across all the white stucco houses on our corner. He tapped on the door. I let him in. He nodded to me but didn’t identify himself. His eyes were cold.

  I turned back to the detective. “Why were you asking me about my car?”

  The two men exchanged glances. “Is there anyone who could have been driving your car without your knowledge?”

  “What is this about? Is someone hurt?” I was suddenly flooded with guilt. What if I was thinking dark thoughts about Max and his inconsiderate friends and he had been in an accident or hurt? “Please. Tell me what happened.”

  The detective narrowed his eyes as though trying to see me clearly. I must have looked like the suddenly frightened mother I was, because his voice sounded kinder.