During these flus, Rasheed’s bedroom transformed into a muggy, dim box. The bitter air in there felt like a giant dog panting in Max’s face when he came in to bring his father’s meals. The ceiling fan stirred the soupiness. Below the fan lay Rasheed’s bed with souring sheets, a bedside table, and a lamp. His window, the size of a big photography book, hardly let in any sun during the day. Rasheed insisted on keeping it shut and the blinds drawn. He refused the ceiling light too. Max lit a candle in there, and shadows flowed over his father’s cheeks like black water.
Rasheed’s breathing sounded sandy. It rattled and stunk. Max had nightmares of finding him dead, a dusty green corpse, unrecognizable except for his black hair. It reminded him of the skeleton in his school’s science lab they’d dressed up in a mustache, wig, and goggles. But he never let on that he detected anything out of the ordinary about his father’s health. Showing concern made Rasheed feel like less of a father, like he’d failed his son. So Max charged into that murky room, inconsiderate of the grave quiet, and demonstrated how little concern he had for his father’s well-being, far too engrossed in the joys of his own childhood to notice that he lay in bed all day.
Max blabbed about what hilarious things he’d seen on TV or what an awesome seventh inning the Astros had against New York, imitating Tim’s enthusiasm for sports as best as he could. He tossed Rasheed’s meals on his nightstand carelessly. Rasheed only ate a couple of bites a day, and Max gave the rest to Rocket. She came in there with him, following the food. He tried to get her to stay, dragging her bed in so Rasheed had company, but she wouldn’t stick around that airless space for anything.
During another flu, Max had tried the strategy of lying liberally. He recopied paragraphs from various adventure novels, combining pieces from Swiss Family Robinson, The Beasts of Tarzan, Tom Sawyer Abroad, and The Hobbit, and presented them as stories he wrote, reading them with his best funny voices. Another time he invented a neighbor named Wesley, and said how Wesley and he wrestled in the park together for hours. Rasheed grumbled that he shouldn’t wrestle black boys. They’re too strong. Max didn’t know why his father assumed Wesley was black and told him that he was neither black nor strong, and after a while of nothing else passing between them, he excused himself, saying Wesley waited for him now. He tiptoed out the back, and sneaked up into his tree house.
Rasheed disappeared sometimes too. He’d be bedridden for a couple of days, and when Max went in there on a given evening, the bed would be empty, the car gone, and he’d see his father again a day or two later. Max would never get the story on where he’d been. Once, after having not seen him for three days, he placed a chair atop Rasheed’s bed, wobbled himself stable on top of it, reached up to the fan, and taped strips of legal-pad paper on each blade. Though they couldn’t be read in motion, on them was written, I Am Much Too Happy. He believed this could help prevent his father from leaving again. When it spun, the five imperfectly aligned pieces of paper formed a yellow oval that looked like half of an infinity symbol. When Rasheed returned home that night, looking awfully tan, and saw what Max had done, he admired it a long time before announcing, “It will never come down!”
“Where did you go?” Max said.
“I had to play catch-up, missing so much work, and so on and so on.”
Max did not demand a better explanation. He had long believed it preferable not to try solving all mysteries. When you only have one person in your life, you must live with their ambiguities.
But still, Max worried. He’d begun to feel uneasy about Rasheed’s income after learning of hourly and minimum wage jobs in a social studies class a month earlier. He thought about how many hours his father put in. Was this a sign that they were short on money? Why did he need to work so much? Max’s anxiety got bad enough for him to eventually open Rasheed’s bank mail. He discovered two statements. The first was for an account with a little under $4,000, with deposits from the two jobs Rasheed held at the time. The second account contained $620,000. It showed three previous deposits, each for $5,000 on the first of the month from something named Ziad Jabbir through the Banque du Liban. Max decided it didn’t matter who or what Ziad Jabbir was. He simply felt great relief that his father had some money. Rasheed must just love working those extra hours.
Ordinarily, Rasheed recovered from his flus in time to keep his job, but when he didn’t, he got hired elsewhere with amazing ease thanks to his affability. He’d worked as a bus driver, a custodian, a gas station attendant a half-dozen times, a baker, a car washer, a Sports Authority clerk, a barista, a bank clerk, and a used moped/scooter and ATV dealer, and he’d had a number of different jobs involving painting, landscaping, shelf stocking, construction, delivery, and moving.
After Rasheed had recovered from the Kelly episode, Max asked him, “What’s going on with Coach Tim?”
“I don’t know. What’s going on with Tim?”
“He seems mad or something.”
“He’s fine.”
“Oh. I thought there was something about a beard trimmer.”
He caterpillared his eyebrows. “If you have to know, he is jealous about Kelly coming over here.”
“He knows Kelly?”
“He knows she is a woman.”
“And he doesn’t like women?”
Rasheed actually shouted the word “Ha!” before walking away.
Max liked it when he accidentally said something funny.
Coach had always been a rock. Such a strong man feeling jealous about Rasheed empowered Max’s image of his father. But also, Tim’s sudden flakiness affirmed that Max and his father were special, inseparable. Their duo was unconditional. No woman or beard trimmer could ever pull them apart.
Max didn’t know much about friendships yet. That summer he mostly cooked and cleaned at home, did the laundry and the ironing, sipped on vodka cranberries, sat nervously in the tree house, walked or stood or lay with Rocket, and watched loads of TV with and without his father.
At school Max had mastered discretion. He’d created the ideal distance between other kids and himself so that he didn’t stand out as anything at all. Gracefully forgettable. A lot of kids wanting to be left alone committed the error of sitting slumped in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, trying to isolate themselves, a fatal mistake that made them prime choices for abuse.
At first glance, it seemed these kids got stigmatized because of the way they looked: Jimmy Williams, who was rumored to bathe with his little brother, did happen to be gaunt and bucktoothed, and he wore cheap plastic tennis shoes that were three sizes too big for him; Tina Marques, who supposedly sniffed her own shit, was indeed a lamentably awkward runner in gym class, smelled of onions, and had an irrational overdevotion to piano; and, sure, Jonathan Givard, with his weasely grimace and peanut butter perpetually smeared across his chin, was said to fuck yogurt.
But the origin of such reputations could not be blamed on careless presentation—after all, even among the popular boys and girls, few were blessed with physical elegance at that age. It was that these kids presumed they were screwed from the beginning and thus stood too far from the center of attention. They were the crows that hopped about the outskirts of the playing field. Their distance and quiet, born out of a lack of confidence, made the others forget their humanity. They became degenerates without feelings. And for the most part it was the years of being treated like this that prompted them to stop caring about fashion and hygiene and acceptable behavior. Their torment had started as far back as pre-K, when they chose wrongly by keeping from the core. And now they were the result of social exclusion.
The solution, too late to share with these young crows, was to maintain a middle distance. Physically standing or sitting close enough to someone like Danny Danesh to hear him clearly, laugh at his jokes, and learn to see his moods coming, taking that extra step back or forward when necessary. True invisibility.
Max dressed more or less like one of Danesh’s sidekicks, who dressed more or less like Danesh,
which came out to navy blue cross-trainers, baggy jeans, and earth-toned T-shirts with modest zigzags. No one would have ever guessed the depths of Max’s admiration for Danny Danesh, how he considered Danesh’s alteration of the bake sale sign posted in the halls—from BROWNIES AND BEVERAGE FOR A BUCK to BROWNIES AND BEVERAGE FOR A SUCK, with a red Sharpie marker—to be one of the bravest things he’d seen anyone ever do. Danesh did it in the middle of passing time, at the height of foot traffic. Max had no idea what it felt like to be without fear, to risk being singled out as the wrongdoer.
Max had gained total control of his face. He never allowed himself to look upset or lonely, jealous or bored, only problem-free and easy to please. He stayed hidden in this way because he didn’t believe he had interesting thoughts to contribute, convinced that the images and words scrolling in his head were private and valueless. Living the middle distance so effectively and for so long caused him to know himself as an indistinguishable person. As part of the blend. He didn’t dream of it being any other way, and considered himself lucky to have found such safety. It was no longer a strategy or role but who he perceived himself to be: nobody—a boy with none of his own opinions, and no real sense of humor. Laughing when others laugh just means you pick up on social cues.
Max didn’t realize Danny Danesh wasn’t necessarily funnier than him, it was just that his humoristic strong suit simply wasn’t the same as Danesh’s: deciding who was the most gay among his group of friends at any given moment. Max laughed sincerely at situational comedies on television, some books, and the adventures of Kip and his Man-Dog of a brother. But he didn’t know those different types of humor were transferable to real life. He couldn’t see that his classmates exploited such a thin slice of all the comedic styles available. The gay thing was the pinnacle of funniness at his school, and if you couldn’t wield this material competently, then you weren’t one of the funny ones. Humor, like everything else, was defined by the confident, who didn’t have to be any different from the delusional. If you were unflinchingly convinced of yourself, then you were equipped to be a leader.
THREE
Kelly returned on the evening of the longest day of the summer. She’d gotten laid off from the warehouse, and after they asked her to pack up her desk, Rasheed took her out for lunch. After finishing his shift, he picked her up at her place and brought her to the house. The two took multiple trips from the car to the house to bring in her suitcases and then a rucksack and then three other bags. Max worried it would be interpreted as resistance if he asked for more clarification on why she appeared to be moving in with them right now. For reasons no one explained to Max, going back to wherever she lived yesterday wasn’t an option.
She wore a military-green beret, and hesitated over where to put down her luggage. Rasheed showed her to his bedroom. Setting her baggage down in there, she kicked off her shoes and came out to officially greet Max. She had a bubbling warmth that gave her the appearance of a completely different person from the other night. She brought her face so close to Max’s that the heat of her nose touched the tip of his, and she spoke as if overwhelmed with gratitude, “I hope you know you’re a beautiful boy.”
He was confused but also proud. He had the feeling they were doing her a great service by taking her in, maybe keeping her safe from someone or something that caused her harm. There was no prearrival shock or excitement this time, no more bragging or interviewing; she was already in, and here to stay. Maybe their dinner the other night had gone much better than Max remembered. Maybe all of that clumsy conversation had just been shy courting. Rasheed looked thankful that it had all been determined for them. They didn’t have to think about whether she’d be a good addition to the house or not. Some unclear set of circumstances made it so she simply became the addition: the first woman Max would ever share a home with. Rasheed gave his son a silent isn’t-this-great! expression with two thumbs up in the air.
The phone rang while Kelly unpacked. Max picked up in the kitchen, where he had started making pasta, a moment after Rasheed had already gotten on the line and talked to Coach Tim from his bedroom. Max caught the second half of Tim’s sentence, “… shit, it’s because I care too much about you, Reed.”
Max liked the sound of that—his father deserved such appreciation—but as he was hanging up, he heard Rasheed whisper menacingly into the phone, “Just-leave-us-alone-goddammit-do-you-fucking-understand-shit-man!” Max couldn’t imagine why Tim’s jealousy should warrant such a reaction. Tim must have done something else, something indefensible.
At dinner, Kelly talked about what a blessing it was that she’d been fired. “A clean slate,” she proclaimed. She could finally focus on her real dream of starting a nonprofit organization. She hadn’t yet decided what kind of nonprofit but knew she was finished working crummy jobs just to pay the bills, and it was time to apply her skills toward something that aided those most under the oppressive control of Big Brother.
“Whose big brother?” Max asked.
“Oh, Maxie”—she turned to him—“I’m not surprised you don’t see the oppression all around. You’re so adorable, no one would ever do anything but admire you.” Max had never been looked at like this, like he was appetizing, and it sparked an unprecedented discomfort in him. His father radiated with joy, thrilled by Kelly’s new babying tone.
She struck Max as the near opposite of the little woman at the Yangs’. Where the little woman was a girl acting as a full-grown woman, Kelly was a woman speaking like a little girl. But having seen her behave so differently before, Max couldn’t be sure which version of her was the more natural one.
She continued, “You see, Maxie, some people are treated worse than others in this world. You’re one of the lucky ones, so you’re not forced to be aware of that ugliness.”
“Okay, yes, good.” Rasheed chuckled nervously. “Please, have more noodles.” He pushed the bowl of pesto and goat cheese pasta Kelly’s way.
“Oh, thank you.” But she didn’t take any. “What I’m saying, Maxie, is that the world is still an unfair place with a lot of unlucky people who didn’t do anything to deserve their unluckiness.”
“That’s right,” Rasheed said, “and we are very happy and lucky people—so.” After receiving a look of unyielding patience from Kelly, he added, “But in many ways Kelly is right. It’s very important to be nice to the unlucky ones.”
Kelly nodded. “Exactly. I guess that’s all I’m saying. And the way to help the unlucky ones can be complicated by the government because of how it is controlled by private interests that profit off of keeping the unlucky people down.”
Rasheed said, “Could be, okay, yes, could be. And we have a happy life here and will always be nice to other people.” He nodded at her emphatically. “Any people, lucky or not lucky.”
“Yes—,” said Kelly, “and, well, I’m excited to start helping the not-lucky ones. That’s the main idea I was driving at. I’m going to take full advantage of this wonderful new living situation”—she reached over and shook Max’s and Rasheed’s arms simultaneously—“to start really planning how to help more. Does that sound good to you, Maxie?”
“Yeah,” he said, assuming it was his fault that he still didn’t understand whose big brother was involved in this tangle of luck and help and new living situations.
She said, “It’s been my dream since I was a little girl to help the unfortunate.”
“That’s just—wow,” Rasheed said, enormously pleased now. “We support this very much.” He stuffed his cheeks with pasta. “Everything is starting to feel even more fortunate than before, huh, Maxie?”
Max gave a big, persuasive smile. “Yeah.”
For the following couple of days, Max mostly avoided Kelly, staying in his room with Rocket, or in the tree house, only coming out to the kitchen when he heard her going into her and his father’s bedroom. She spent most of her time doing research by borrowing documentaries from the library to hone in on what cause she wanted her nonprofit to center a
round.
When she and Max did cross paths, she hugged or patted him with the detachment of someone handling one of those life-size apes they have at toy stores. He finally braved up enough, partially out of boredom, to join her on the couch to watch the documentaries. She’d scoot closer, rest her head on his shoulder, throw a calf over his thigh, wrap her arms around him. He wanted to like it and couldn’t understand why she made him so rigid. Why couldn’t he relax and take pleasure in the human contact? His father supported it, trusted her—this was exactly what they’d wanted, right?—so why the blockage?
He also noticed she systematically put her hands on him the moment his father came back from work. Rasheed walked in, and she found and held Max, sometimes even going into his room and lying in bed with him. And he had the strong impression that only when he entered the room his father and Kelly shared did Rasheed suddenly pet her head or cuddle up to her. So Max too, in an effort to adapt to this new style of life, rushed to touch Kelly when Rasheed came in on them, commanding himself to sit close enough to her for their knees or shoulders to touch, eventually putting his arm around her. A bizarre competitiveness developed where Max simulated increasing affection for Kelly, trying to be as physical with her as his father was (or maybe even a little more), and Rasheed, in turn, seemed to grow incrementally more touchy-feely with her too.
Kelly gradually dropped her kindergarten-teacher affectations when alone with Max, addressing him in a casual way: “Hey, pass me the remote … Want a glass of OJ? … Hit those lights for me, thanks,” like a roommate, but as soon as his father showed up, she reverted to speaking to him like he was a puppy. It felt like a show to Max, but since the other two were so delighted by the dynamic, he adjusted to it. This was what having a woman in the house felt like.
She smoked exactly two cigarettes a day, talked to herself about the documentary she’d most recently watched, and cleaned.
Lifted by the Great Nothing: A Novel Page 4