Fault Line

by Janet Tashjian

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” I finally said.

  “You’re sorry? I blame myself, not you.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  Since the abuse had come out in the open, it seemed like all of us were eager to grab as much blame as possible.

  “It was all him,” Dad corrected.

  I wondered if it would ever be possible for my father to speak the word Kip again.

  “I should have been there to protect you.”

  “You say that about everything that happens. But you can’t.”

  “I know. I know.” He rubbed his hands together. “But if I ever see him again, Becky, I swear they’ll have to peel him off the curb.”

  “Those kind of feelings got Kip into this mess, don’t you think?”

  “That’s the scary part. I don’t know where to put all this anger either. That’s why I’m walking.”

  It was strange having this conversation with my father. For the past few years, most of our talks had revolved around school or curfews or movies; the violence of my relationship with Kip had catapulted all of us into uncharted emotional territory.

  The old woman stood peacefully in the center of the circle. My father looked at me and smiled.

  “Now, there’s a picture.”

  I agreed; the woman looked like the center of a fabulous flower.

  “We just need to give this some time,” he said.

  I nodded but kept staring at the woman oblivious to the forces around her.

  My father turned to me with a serious expression. “But I do have one question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Delilah,” he said. “Shaved head? Buzz cut? What?”

  I smiled. “Shaved. Really handsome. But much shorter than usual.”

  He shook his head. “It’s those heels.” He smiled and pointed toward the labyrinth. “Last time we were here together, I think I carried you on my shoulders.”

  “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “No, Beck. This time you’re on your own.”

  I smiled and began to carve my own tentative path behind my father’s.

  When I got to my job at Goodwill a few days later, I noticed large chalk letters on the sidewalk outside the store—I AM SORRY. The letters were a foot tall and purple. I stepped over them without thinking twice.

  Outside the diner, I saw the phrase again. This time a bit larger, in yellow. I didn’t think the writing had anything to do with me until I saw them at the top of my street and outside the tour office when I picked up my last check. Nah, couldn’t be. I pictured other phrases in large, colorful block letters. BECKY—STOP BLAMING YOURSELF. IT WAS ME. I AM COMMITTED TO FIXING THIS. I WILL NOT BOTHER You AGAIN. I imagined the letters in their bright pastels written across every sidewalk in the city. But that many words, that many letters still couldn’t come close to making sense of what had happened.

  I couldn’t even console myself with the usual thought a comic has at life’s most miserable moments: Well, at least I can use it in my act. Being abused was a topic so unfunny and uncomfortable I knew I’d never try to work it into a set. The ambitious part of me resented the fact that I had to suffer without the twisted perk of new material.

  Although I knew it was silly to ask why, that was the question that ricocheted through my brain continually. Sure, there were plenty of theories in the books Mom brought home, but nothing that explained how a nice guy like Kip could have gotten so out of control. Or how someone as “smart” as me could have stayed in the relationship with her fingers crossed, hoping for the best in the face of contradictory evidence. It dawned on me that the Kip I was in love with was an imaginary Kip—a thoughtful, loving guy who didn’t abuse me. That Kip didn’t exist. The guy I loved had a problem—a big one—and no amount of wishful thinking could change it. I felt too young for such life lessons; I guess the universe felt differently.

  Little by little, week by week, I began to open up in the support group. By the tone of shame in the room, you’d think we were the batterers and not the victims. (God, I hate that word. Both words.) We talked about how other people blamed us for our situation, thinking we were weak or stupid. And how we felt that way ourselves half the time.

  Even my brother, Christopher, had asked why I’d let Kip hit me. My mother dragged him from the room with words like “complicated” and “wrong,” leaving the question hanging in the air.

  The facilitator spoke about looking toward the future, learning to trust other people again, building up antennae to spot trouble so nothing like this would reoccur.

  I wasn’t there yet.

  But I thought of our group differently now. At first, I looked at our sorry selves as a bunch of losers who constantly made bad decisions, but lately I’d been thinking of us as almost brave.

  “Well?” My mother closed her book and looked up at me expectantly.

  I took a sip of her coffee and sat down beside her. “I feel a little less dead.”

  She smiled, one of the few times since she’d burst through the door of the hospital back in Santa Barbara. “That’s as good a place as any to start.”

  Months after the incident, my mother still insisted on bringing home videos about dating violence and domestic abuse instead of normal movies. When I finally talked her into watching a regular movie again, Abby invited herself to sleep over and watch it with us. For the first time, Christopher came up with the idea for the night’s feature—E. T. cued to Dad’s throwback cd Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. I had to hand it to him; it was one of the best choices ever.

  I woke up in the middle of the night to Abby shaking me. “Get up,” she said.

  I rolled over and looked at my watch. “It’s four o’clock!”

  “Come on.” She stood by the edge of my bed and handed me my jeans.

  I told her I wanted to sleep, not meditate.

  “We’re not going to the Center. We’ll be back in an hour.”

  I grudgingly got dressed and followed her downstairs.

  “Where are the stuffed animals?”

  “The what?”

  “The dead things.”

  When I finally understood what she meant, I pointed to the cellar stairs. We tiptoed down to the basement, and I showed her my little zoo.

  “You are so Norman Bates. When we watch Psycho, we won’t need a cd—you can just sing.”

  “It’s too early for jokes. Where are we going?”

  She didn’t answer me. We put the animals into two large boxes and carried them upstairs.

  “I don’t want to throw them away,” I said.

  “Oh, we’re not throwing them away. You have to trust me on this.”

  We left the house quietly and packed everything into the car. I told her I wasn’t going anywhere without coffee, so we stopped at the diner for a couple of cups to go.

  She told me to park the car a few blocks from the supermarket where she worked.

  “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”

  “We’re finishing up our community service project, putting a little aha into people’s day.”

  She handed me one of the boxes, then took a rabbit’s foot keychain from her pocket. (How appropriate.) She unlocked the door to the supermarket.

  “I didn’t know they let you have a key.”

  “One of the perks of being an assistant manager.”

  “Uhm … isn’t this breaking and entering?”

  “I told you, they gave me the key!”

  The door slid open, and Abby immediately went to the security alarm. She punched in a code, and the lights stopped blinking. She took two flashlights out of her pocket.

  “We have to do this in the dark,” she said. “I figure we’ve got ten minutes max.”

  “It might help if you tell me what we’re doing … .”

  She shone the flashlight on the boxes of critters. “We’re going with our instincts.”

  It didn’t take me long to get the hang of Abby’s plan.

&n
bsp; Several minutes later, Abby locked the door behind us, and we headed to the car.

  On the drive back, I began to panic that my mother had gotten up early and discovered we were gone. After all she’d been through these past few months, I didn’t want to worry her further.

  “I told your mother last night we might go to the Center for morning meditation.” She patted my arm. “Don’t worry. I thought of everything.”

  “Now what do we do, O Mastermind?”

  “The store opens at nine. You should come in, do some shopping, wait for the fireworks to start.”

  “This whole thing doesn’t sound very Zen to me.”

  Abby shrugged. “We like to find the humor in the universe. But sometimes you’ve got to prod it along.”

  I dropped her off at the Center and told her I’d meet her at the store later.

  I tiptoed back into the house; everyone was still asleep. I got into bed and stared at the collage on my desk. Comedy superstars laughing uproariously at my act. With all the fallout from my relationship with Kip, never feeling funny again was one of the results I feared most. I knew I had to get back on the horse, so to speak, but I couldn’t imagine standing onstage for a very long while.

  At breakfast, I promised Christopher I would take him to the library later. He had discovered the architecture section and was now obsessed. My father even suggested the two of them design a workshop in the basement. It looked like I had moved my menagerie just in time.

  At ten past nine, I wheeled my carriage into the grocery store.

  I was feeling the tomatoes for ripeness when the first scream came. It was the next aisle over; a twenty-something woman in jogging gear stood in the center of the soda aisle holding a two-liter bottle and pointing to the rows of Coke.

  “There’s some kind of animal in there!”

  A store employee put down his stamp gun and ran to help her. He moved the bottles aside and screamed too. Soon other customers crowded the aisle, including Mr. Sullivan, the manager. Abby made her way to the front and handed him a broom.

  “Mr. Sullivan, will this help?”

  He took the broom and poked at the small fox. When it didn’t move, he stopped prodding it and looked closer.

  “I think it’s dead.”

  “A dead animal is worse!” the woman behind me cried.

  “Not dead, dead. You know, stuffed.”

  As the customers gathered closer, another scream came, this time from the baby aisle. A woman was holding a package of Pampers in one hand, a crow in the other. She didn’t seem scared, just confused. I hadn’t put anything in that part of the store; that one was all Abby

  Next, the party aisle. Two kids were jumping up and down shrieking at the squirrel tucked into the cellophane bags of snacks. Mr. Sullivan raced from aisle to aisle calming down the customers. I sidled up behind Abby while he talked the boys out of playing with the squirrel.

  “Do you think anyone gets that the squirrel is with the nuts?” I whispered.

  She burst out laughing, then stopped before anyone saw her. I cruised the aisles waiting for the next discoveries. A man with Birkenstocks and a beard curiously examined the ferret tucked among the jars of tomato sauce. A large crowd gathered around the badger lying contentedly behind the bags of dog food. Two little girls stood in their carriages yelling, “Eek! A mouse!”

  Mr. Sullivan locked the doors so no one else could come in. Abby ran down the aisles with the other employees, pretending to root out the animals before the customers found them.

  I stood at the front of the store and watched the freak show unfold before me. Over the years I’d been with Abby through several pranks, but this was clearly our masterpiece. No one hurt, no one injured, but everyone AWAKE, you could count on that. When I saw a young boy take the stamp gun and start pricing the raccoon, I laughed until the tears ran down my face. I realized how long it had been since I’d laughed at anything. After a while, I couldn’t tell if I was laughing or crying, but it didn’t really matter.

  Mr. Sullivan finally booted everyone out of the store until he could be assured there were no more animals. (I hate to tell you, Mr. S., but you’re not going to find the weasel for weeks—trust me on this.)

  When I stopped laughing and made it to the sidewalk, I noticed a woman carrying a small opossum under each arm. She was trying to hail a cab. As Abby ushered the other customers to the curb, she spotted her too.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

  “She’s all yours.”

  I approached the woman and asked if I could help her. I held up my arm to call a cab.

  “Taxi!”

  Abby came up beside me. “Dermy!”

  “Taxi!”

  “Dermy!”

  The woman had no idea what we were talking about, which made the whole thing that much funnier. She took off down the street with her prized catch.

  When Abby headed back inside, I grabbed her by the arm.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do this for you.”

  “You’re lying, but thanks anyway.”

  She placed her hands in front of her heart and bowed. “Community service Zen project is now officially over.”

  I hung around on the sidewalk for a while; it was fun to hear the buzz surrounding our little performance art. I broke out laughing several times as the events replayed themselves in my mind.

  And when I headed back home, I felt better than I had in months.

  A key, ajar, lightning.

  Gotcha!

  8/3

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Try to get back to normal with Delilah—it still seems weird that I saw her out of costume. I’ve been thinking about this a lot–it’s almost like I was the female impersonator, not Delilah. The way I tried to be this perfect girlfriend for kip–more fictional than anyone Delilah’s ever tried to be.

  Poor Christopher’s been following me around like a puppy. I need to hang out with him move before I leave for school.

  Mr. Perez suggested working for his sister company in L.A. if I need extra money–chinatown, here we come.

  I’m not in love with him, almost don’t miss him anymore. But I do think about kip and wonder if he’s okay.

  I should’ve at least kept the squirrel.

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of Kip Costello

  Got my two-month pin today. Maybe I’ll have Mom pick up one of those Boy Scout sashes at a yard sale, fill it up with pins one month at a time. Maybe I’ll start wearing it on stage—my new trademark—BE PREPARED.

  I Wasn’t prepared for that girl to start chatting me up after my gig in Palo Alto last nigh. Boy, did I finish my drink and run. The last thing I need right now is to start dating. Even a slow learner like me realizes what a recipe for disaster that would be … .

  Becky. I miss making her laugh, miss holding her, miss pretty much everything about her. I saw her and Abby leaving the dinner last week—I almost jumped into the bushes so she wouldn’t think I was stalking her (which I wasn’t). I hope she got the chalk messages. I didn’t know what else to do, as if words—in chalk, no less—could ever come close to letting her know how sorry I am.

  Her hair’s starting to grow out; I actually like it now. I hope she enjoys UCLA and gets some gigs down there. I caught the Iwprov rerun on MTV—it slayed me to see her friends kicking ass and not her.

  I tried out my new set last night—the whole we’re-all-trying-to-be-tough-guys thing—and it went over well. I really connected, could see the wheels turning while the audience listened. At one point, I was laughing along with them, making myself laugh at the same time, and God knows that doesn’t happen often enough.

  Mrs. Lawton’s granddaughter loved the room; I’m glad. when she introduced me to Katie, Mrs. Lawton told her what a “nice boy” I was. I had to bite my lip to stop from blubbering all over the carpet. Maybe it’s the support group, maybe it’s time, but I think about the relationship so much di
fferently now. I used to blame Becky for most everything that was wrong, and didn’t really look at how my own actions contributed. I used to be able to justify every destructive action I took. I can See it now.

  I repeated the support group checklist like a mantra the whole way home from Mrs. Lawton’s. I am going to be a decent guy and will do whatever it takes to be one. I just never realized it was going to be so much work.

  I decided to get rid of all my paper towels last night. Sure, there was some good‘material there, but for every good joke there was a blurb about Becky that sounded so controlling, it made me want to throw all twenty rolls out the window. My mom brought up a big wicker basket From the shop, and we tossed the rolls in like kids playing Nerfball. When I picked up the basket to bring It downstairs, she made some quip about getting rid of dirty laundry. I turned around to give her grief about such a lame joke, but she looked so hopeful, all I could do was smile back at her. God, she’s been throught hell.’

  Thought of Becky again last week. There was some snippet in the paper about all these taxidermy animals let loose in a supermarket downtown. Beeky would have loved that.

  Next time someone offers me a drink, at the fountain of knowledge, I’m going to use more than a shot glass.

  When it finally came time to drive to L.A. with my family and a U-Haul, I was more than ready for the change. All the focus on me and healing and support—can I please get out of the spotlight so you can pay attention to Christopher for a while?

  Abby and I traded our favorite shirts, went to two movies, and each bought a pair of shoes on our last Saturday together. On Sunday, we decorated the room in her new apartment, which she shared with three other girls. She promised to come down within a month to visit.

  But Delilah was the one it was tough saying goodbye to. She gave me a box of Uncle Danny’s things to take with me, then pretended she had an appointment downtown so she wouldn’t be there for the big farewell in the driveway. For someone as theatrical as Delilah, good-bye was still one scene she hated to play.