Fault Line

by Janet Tashjian

  “Pete? Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “When we were going out … did I used to make you … I don’t know … angry?”

  He seemed surprised. “ngry? I don’t remember ever being angry at you. You’re too easygoing to get mad at.”

  “Be honest. Did you ever think I was … incompetent? Stupid?”

  He looked at me like I was flailing across the restaurant in a straitjacket. “Put it this way—I never thought you were stupid till you asked me that.”

  I made an attempt at a laugh. “Never mind. I’m working on this new routine. A whole self-deprecation thing.”

  “Self-defecating might be funnier. Depends on the crowd.”

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  “But you’re the expert,” Peter said. “I never could keep up with you.”

  This was certainly news to me.

  As I finished my coffee, I felt relieved at how comfortable it had been talking to him. (Although I nervously checked my watch every two seconds, in case some unexplained phenomenon at the frame shop—a broken sprinkler system, a gas explosion—led to a surprise visit from Kip.) I was actually sorry when Peter said good-bye.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon almost optimistic. If what Peter said was true, maybe I wasn’t part of Kip’s problem at all. I could almost feel the muscles inside me relax.

  The thrift shop often received phone calls from people who were moving or cleaning out their basements and wanted us to come over and pick up their stuff. The store policy was that we only accepted drop-offs, but in the case of the elderly housing down the street, Harold usually made an exception. So when Mr. Bowen called, saying he was moving to Albuquerque to live with his daughter, I told Harold I’d stop by on my way home to pick up his donations.

  From the second I stepped into Mr. Bowen’s unit, I was enveloped with Eau de Old Person, that curious combination of dandruff and mothballs that causes most people to hold their breath until they get back outside. But despite the aroma, Mr. Bowen’s eyes sparkled.

  “It would’ve taken me two taxi rides to get all this over there,” he said. “Wouldn’t have been worth it.”

  I told him it was no trouble, I was glad to help.

  “My brother was supposed to take my collection, but his gout is so bad, he couldn’t make it.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I hope you find a good home for these fellas.”

  As I followed him to the back of the almost-empty apartment, I wondered what kind of items Mr. Bowen was bestowing upon us. The store had had good luck selling album or postcard collections, but we’d had boxes of old bottles taking up space for months.

  We entered a small room off the kitchen, and I jumped when Mr. Bowen turned on the overhead light.

  Rows of little glass eyes stared up at me with fixed expressions. I was surprised but moved farther into the room to get a closer look.

  “You know anything about taxidermy?” he asked.

  “Besides the fact that it’s not on my list of career choices?”

  “You say that now, but that’s because you don’t know enough about it.” He handed me a stack of books: How to Tan a Hide, How to Preserve Fur, How to Re-Create Natural Environments. I took the books from his hand without looking at them because I couldn’t stop staring at the animals.

  “Been practicing this for forty years,” he said. “Shame my brother couldn’t take’m.”

  Badgers, raccoons, minks, weasels—we might as well have been in Muir Woods instead of in the middle of the city. I picked up a squirrel mounted on a small piece of driftwood; it was holding an acorn between its tiny hands. It looked exactly like the squirrels that raided our bird feeder at home. Except that it was dead.

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  I told him how real it looked, that if I had seen it from across the room I would have sworn it was alive.

  “It’s all in the technique,” he said. “These little fellas going to be safe with you?”

  I said I would try my best to find them a new home, maybe even make a window display to show off his fabulous work.

  “Well, I’m leaving for my daughter’s tomorrow. They’re all yours.”

  He helped me load the many boxes into my back seat and trunk. He also threw in a box of clothes and several ashtrays. I wished him luck in Albuquerque.

  Even though it was in the other direction, I stopped by Golden Gate Park on the way home. More than once, the menagerie in the back seat made me jump when I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  I pulled over near the Arboretum and got out of the car, still amazed by the lifeless mammals packed into my beat-up Toyota. I took out one of the boxes and sat on the grass under a willow tree.

  I examined the opossum up close. How many years ago had he been roaming the city, raiding trash cans, wandering through neighborhoods? He used to be alive, used to feel things; now nothing penetrated his glassy stare. No more playing possum for you, little guy. Play dead often and long enough and people begin to think you are.

  And right there I made the decision to keep Mr. Bowen’s collection for myself. I’d turn the box of clothes over to the store, but this lifeless crew was coming home with me.

  Back at my house, I hid the boxes in the root cellar—a small room in the basement where no one in the family had any reason to go. I covered them up with an old blanket and topped that with stacks of newspapers. I took off my sweater, threw it over the squirrel, and took him to my room. There was something about him that appealed to me—inanimate and numb. Maybe I’d bring all of them upstairs one by one. Who knows, I could possibly work them into my act or hide them all over the house for Christopher to find.

  That night I slept like a log—like the one perched under the fox downstairs.

  3/30

  NOTES TO SELF:

  You have now entered the Twilight Zone.

  Forget about showing kip or Abby my new posse—they would not understand.

  Why does Tor want to set up a meeting with Abby and me? Is he happy or unhappy with us? I can’t even tell.

  Finish that paper for Kip by Wednesday

  Tell Mr. Perez to find someone else—I’m not doing the Presidio tour again. Too boring.

  Idea For new set-taxidermied heeklers?

  I felt horrible Pretending to be sick the night Abby’s Parents were supposed to take us to dinner. But kip made me feel guilty about abandoning him on a Saturday night; I didn’t know what else to do. And those fake roughs I kept doing in front of Abby the next day-so lame.

  As winter rolled into spring, our roller-coaster relationship continued. Kip and I would fight over something ridiculous—last time, let’s see, a waffle? His words were often bullying, my responses strained. I felt like a suspect in some bad cop movie—“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be misinterpreted, then used against you.”

  But all this fighting always resulted in passionate make-up sessions that would leave us buzzing for days. It was similar to the nervous excitement of waiting backstage, then the burst of energy when the audience responded. Sometimes I thought we were confusing stimulation and tension for love, the two of us addicted to the adrenaline of the fights as much as the adrenaline of performing. But no matter how painful the argument, we never broke up. Even with all the angst, a day without touching base several times seemed inconceivable.

  As much as our time together was a nerve-jangling high, I felt like there were so many parts of Kip’s life he kept hidden from me. He’d been working a second job for a month before I found out about it, and even then it was only by accident when I stopped over one afternoon and caught him in his coffee shop apron. It upset me to know that he’d been too embarrassed to tell me.

  I found myself going down to the basement often to visit my dead animal collection. I even went so far as getting a bigger book bag to hold a wider variety of my “friends.” Their presence somehow reassured me.

  Two giant pieces of good news arrived in the last
few days of March.

  First, I got into CalBerkeley and UCLA. (We’re not going to mention Northwestern.) So now I had to decide between staying in the Bay Area with Abby and Kip or going to L.A. alone. I made dozens of pro and con lists but still had no idea how I could possibly make that decision in a month’s time.

  The second piece of news was even bigger. Abby and I had been wondering why Tom wanted to see us, but even in our wildest dreams, we couldn’t have come up with this. He pulled out two videotapes from a huge pile on his filing cabinet. “I finally got around to watching your tapes. You two have been holding out on me.”

  I jumped in, recognizing the tapes we’d mailed out on my birthday. “They’re good, right?”

  “Better than the sets you did here.” He looked at Abby “The handicapped parking bit—very funny.” He turned to me. “And I loved the chocoholic thing.”

  I smiled. Not at the compliment, but at the fact that I had trusted my instincts on that routine and kept it in.

  “So here’s the plan,” Tom said. “Memorial Day weekend—Comics Take a Road Trip. Three days, five gigs, ten high-school kids, right down the coast. Grand finale at the Improv.”

  The Improv? Was he kidding?

  “I used to watch A&E’s An Evening at the Improv growing up,” Abby said. “It’s what made me want to go into comedy.”

  “Yeah, well, A&E’s got nothing to do with it this time.” Tom leaned back in his chair. “This time we’re running it on MTV”

  The Improv? MTV? Abby and I barely succeeded in remaining in our seats.

  “Here’s the list,” Tom said.

  As soon as I spotted my name, I prayed Kip’s was on there too. But the only name I recognized besides ours was Mike Leone from Burbank.

  I didn’t want to push my luck but felt I had to. “How about Kip Costello?” I asked. “You loved his political set.”

  “He’s a good guy,” Tom said. “But I wanted to mix it up a bit. I picked ten kids from all over the state—no substitutions.”

  He handed us our consent forms and sent us on our way.

  Outside Abby and I raced through ideas about outfits, sets, and how many people we knew with VCRs who could make us copies of the show.

  “Hey, did you recognize anyone on that list?”

  I told her Mike Leone was the guy I’d met in L.A.

  “You said he’s nice, right? That should be fun.”

  “As long as I don’t tell Kip. He’s going to feel bad enough about this as it is.”

  “Keeping secrets from your soulmate now?”

  I said Kip was just protective and I wanted to save him the aggravation.

  “You mean save yourself the aggravation, don’t you?”

  I was elated by the possibilities ahead of me, but Abby was right—a part of me did worry about how Kip would take all this good news. Would he be supportive or angry? Toss a coin.

  As ecstatic as I was, I dreaded telling him.

  That night, before I left for Kip’s, my mother cornered me in the laundry room. She’d been eyeing me all week, waiting for the perfect moment to have one of those mother-daughter interrogations she tried to pass off as a conversation. I’d been avoiding her like head lice.

  “I didn’t say anything before because I knew you had a lot on your plate,” she began, “but now I want to know what’s going on.”

  “What are you talking about? Everything’s fine.”

  “Look, I’m no psychiatrist, but let’s face it—you are going through something. I want to help, Beck, please.”

  I continued to fold my clothes, trying not to meet her gaze.

  “Is it school? Because if it is, you shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on yourself this late in the game.”

  I told her it wasn’t school.

  “Are you worried about the Improv? You remember our deal—when comedy starts taking away from the rest of your life, you’re done.”

  I explained that my career was finally beginning to take off.

  “Then it’s got to be Kip,” she said. “I don’t want to pry; you’re eighteen, in charge of your own body. But is he pressuring you?”

  I knew she was concerned, but I somehow felt this tack was all about finding out if I was sleeping with him or not. I told her it wasn’t Kip. I just wanted the conversation to end. Yet despite my better judgment I took the bait.

  “Like you have a lot of experience in the relationship department.” My voice had more fire than I’d intended. “You and Dad are so lovey-dovey, it’s ridiculous.”

  She tried to hide her smile. “We’ve had a lot to work out over the years. We just never did the difficult stuff in front of you.”

  “Well, maybe you should have. Maybe my expectations in a relationship would be a little more realistic.”

  “So it does have something to do with Kip.”

  I hated having a lawyer for a mother.

  “Can we just end this before I get a migraine? You know I hate it when you cross-examine me.”

  She leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her chest. “I consider you one of the smartest kids I know.”

  “Yeah, smart and funny, that’s me.”

  “Then act smart. Ask for help when you need it.”

  “The only help I need right now is folding these clothes.”

  Frustration still filled her face, but she smiled anyway—Mom, always a trouper. “If that’s what you need, you got it.” She took the pile of socks and began sorting them.

  I stood there fuming. Gee, Mom, so glad you asked about Kip! He’s a great guy 90 percent of the time, I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone, but sometimes he gets angry at me, and I don’t know what I did to set him off. I’m spending more and more time worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing. Is that normal? Plus, I have to decide on my future in the next thirty days. And by the way, I’m also sitting in the dark with a bunch of dead animals. Does that meet with your approval? Maybe you have some handy tips about life and love that I can laminate—wallet—size—to help me sort through all of these feelings? What did she want me to say?

  I told her I was late and headed to Kip’s.

  If it hadn’t been so pathetic, I’d have put it into a routine—life handed you something amazing like the Improv gig, then turned around and had your mother torture you just to keep you on your toes. It took me the entire walk over to Kip’s before I could shake off the conversation.

  I waved to Kip’s mom on my way up to his apartment; a tiny part of me was relieved that she was close by in case Kip overreacted to my news. (Which only made me feel guilty.)

  “You and Abby at the improv,” he said. “That’s beautiful. Affirmative action, even in the world of comedy.”

  “It’s not just girls,” I said. “Guys are going too.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of going on the road with these clowns, are you? They’re just going to rip you off. You’ll end up seeing your jokes in some SNL skit a week later.”

  “You’re so negative!” I said. “How about if I get a big break? That could happen too.”

  Not likely. Anyway I’m sure your mom will put the kibosh on the whole thing.”

  I told him my parents had approved, that Delilah had even volunteered to come along as chaperone.

  Silence.

  He finally spoke. “I can’t believe you’re thinking about going if I’m not.”

  I backpedaled like a monkey riding a bike at the circus. “Nothing is definite,” I lied.

  “Let’s hope not. I mean, I would never go if they left you out.”

  “It’s no big deal.” Another lie.

  “Just don’t sign anything,” he said.”Believe me, they see someone like you coming a mile away.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “You know—young, naive. You better run everything by me if you don’t want to get screwed.”

  I didn’t respond. At this point, keeping the peace was more important than being heard.

 
4/10

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Watch The Graduate for the CalBerkeley scenes. Compare to the UCLA campus in Scream 2. Decide on a school, already!

  Kip finally seems to be accepting the road trip— he hid an L.A. guide in my book bag yesterday—thank God, the chipmunk wasn’t in there.

  An Improv gig—am I up I’ve been feeling like Ms. Stupid, Fat, Low Self-esteem. I still can’t believe they Picked me.

  Maybe I should have said no to the road trip. Forget it—hat sentence did not just come out of my pen!

  From the Paper Towel Dialogue of kip Costello

  It took every bit of willpower I had not to call up Tom screaming. I mean, Abby and Becky are funny, but anyone at Rick’s would tell you that I’m a better candidate for the Improv. I don’t want to sound like sour grapes—Becky works her ass off—but is there any reason I catch a break sometime?

  I didn’t mention anything to Becky about that guy Mike. from L.A. I couldn’t help it; I checked her e-mails—I wish she had told me he was one of the guys on the trip. I guess it’s not that different than me not telling her about my job at that coffee shop; we’re just trying to show each other the good parts of ourselves, not the insecure, embarrassed sides. It’s like that first day she came over and I hid all my junk in the pantry. How do you know how much of your life to share? okay, Beck not telling me about that guy from L.A. being on the road with her is worse than me not telling her about my lousy job. I mean, a cappuccino machine is not going to steal me away from her, but this guy … why is he e-mailing her already, all excited—doesn’t he have a life?

  Speaking of getting a life … what’s with some of these guys in Thompson’s class? It’s such a big, stupid act—them pretending to be tough; me being tough in return—when we’re all just trying to get through the day without being humiliated.

  I ended up going to Mrs. Lawton’s again. Poor woman has no one to talk to. I guess I don’t either, ’cause I stayed there for two hours. I put those glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling of the room she’s fixing up for her granddaughter. Her face lit up more than the stars did when she saw them shine. Reminded me of Becky.