The Broken Places

by Susan Perabo

  Paul spun around. “What?”

  “You look like a girl, jocko, shooting with your elbows. Snap your wrists on a shot like that. Cuts down on the air balls.”

  The ball had rolled back to his feet and now Paul picked it up. How hard could he throw it? he wondered. Could you kill someone with a basketball if you hit them square in the face with it, sent all those little bones in the nose rocketing into the brain? “What do you want?” he demanded. “I told you my dad isn’t home.”

  “Cool out,” Ian said. “I’m just standing here. No crime to stand here.”

  “You’re on my driveway,” Paul said. “That’s trespassing.”

  Ian lit another cigarette. “You gonna call the cops on me? You gonna tell them I’m harassing you, standing here giving you pointers on your shitty jump shot?”

  The screen door banged. Paul turned and saw his mother standing on the porch in her bathrobe, hugging herself against the chill. It was nearly eleven o’clock but her face was creased with sleep. He knew she’d spent last Saturday in her pajamas, and it looked as if she were headed for a repeat performance. Her eyes passed over Ian, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Paul? What’s going on?”

  He wished her back inside, wished it desperately. He thought about how, the winter before, she had interrupted an especially brutal iceball fight in their front yard and demanded that everyone involved go straight home. His friends had left laughing, hooting catcalls back at him as they made their way down the street. Paul had been humiliated. And now here she was again, protecting him when he needed no protection.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “I can’t hear you, honey.”

  “He’s just looking for Dad!” he shouted angrily. Honey! Christ, why didn’t she just put him in a stroller and give him a rattle? Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ian grinning.

  “Your father’s not home,” she said.

  “I know that. I told him that.”

  “Go home, Ian,” Laura said sleepily. “Go on now . . .” It was the tone — irritation laced with pity — one would use with a skinny, unfamiliar dog lurking hopefully at the edge of the yard. Go home, boy. Don’t you have a home? Now scat, scat . . .

  Ian shrugged, tossed his cigarette on the lawn. Then he started back down the street in the direction from which he had come. Paul hurled the basketball angrily against the garage and brushed past his mother and into the house.

  “What were you two talking about?”

  He kicked off his shoes. “Nothing.”

  “Paul?”

  “Nothing, okay? I was fine.”

  “Don’t leave your shoes in the middle of the living room. Go put them away and I’ll make you a cup of hot chocolate.”

  He wanted to turn it down, out of spite. But he looked at her and couldn’t say no. She was shivering there at the door, a hopeful smile on her lips. You had to be nice to someone who stayed in a bathrobe all day, the same way you had to be nice to someone who had cancer, or someone whose cat had just died. “Okay,” he said.

  He snatched up his shoes and went to his room. A plan was what he needed. A strategy. A way away from shithead Ian Finch, from the ugly old men at the diner. A way to get his mother out of her robe on Saturday mornings. A way to stop the snipping that had become habit whenever his parents were together for more than a half hour. Christmas was in a few weeks, which meant they could all escape Casey, if only for a little while. They’d go to his grandparents in Philadelphia, like always, at least for a couple days. He’d sleep in the paneled bedroom in the attic, and it was almost like having a whole house to himself. He and his father and grandfather would play Chinese checkers in front of the fireplace while his mother and grandmother sat in the kitchen drinking tea. And the night after Christmas — this was how it always worked — he and his grandparents would order in pizza and his mother and father would go out to dinner alone, go to a fancy restaurant and come home holding hands, happy and tipsy. Yes, he thought, that was just what they needed — a vacation, a tradition.

  He went into the kitchen where his mug of cocoa was waiting for him.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  She looked up sleepily. “Do you?”

  “Why don’t we go to Gramaw and Grandad’s for a whole week?”

  “I thought we’d just go for a few days,” she said, sipping her tea. “Like usual.”

  “But Dad’s not working,” he said. “There’s no reason we couldn’t stay longer this year. We could do all sorts of stuff. You and Dad could go out to dinner a whole bunch of times. You could go dancing.”

  She laughed, surprised. “Dancing?”

  “Or whatever. Maybe we could all go to a Sixers game. And hey, you could drive us around that neighborhood where you used to live.”

  This was a major sacrifice, an event that took up the better part of a day and was only surpassed on the dull-meter by the filmstrip on barrel making they had to watch every year at school. His mother had a story about every house along the long, winding block where she had grown up; every yard, every driveway, every porch had an elaborate tale attached. It was easily the most dreaded outing on any trip to Philadelphia, on any trip anywhere.

  “You’d like that?” she asked, a glimmer of spirit in her eyes.

  “Sure,” he lied. “And then we could all go to that arcade and play Skee-Ball.”

  “We could,” she said. “But it would just be the two of us. Your father’s not coming.”

  Paul set down his mug. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s not coming. To Philadelphia. He’s staying here for Christmas.”

  “Why?”

  She cleared her throat. “He has things to do,” she said. “Things . . . things to take care of.”

  “What things?” Paul asked.

  She sighed, fingered the handle of her coffee cup. “I don’t know, honey. Just things.”

  What the hell was that about? Things. He was sick of being left out, lied to. But then, reconsidering, it occurred to Paul that maybe his mother really didn’t know what these things were, that this was something his father had simply announced — perhaps in one of those late-night whispered discussions — and that she had had little say in the matter.

  “We — we can’t go without him,” he stammered.

  “I don’t see why not,” she said. “Listen, honey, you’re right. We could have a lot of fun, a real adventure. Just you and me and the open road, Philly or bust.” She was bright now, upbeat for what seemed the first time in weeks. “We can stop at Roy Rogers and get hamburgers and onion rings. And then in the city we can do all sorts of things, just the two of us. We’ll drive around the old neighborhood and then go to that arcade, just like you said. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be much fun without Dad.”

  She gripped her mug tighter. “But we’ve done it before, honey. Remember? Remember that one time we went in the summer, just the two of us? Remember how much fun we had?” There was an edge of desperation to her voice that made Paul even less inclined to agree to this plan of hers. He knew how it would be. She would try so hard to make him have fun that he wouldn’t have any fun at all. She would run him around from one thing to the next, and after each place she would say “wasn’t that fun? wasn’t it?” and he’d have to say yes, yes, it was fun, the funnest thing ever. But his father would be here. Doing what? Sitting by himself in front of the television? Sitting with the old men at the St. Charles Diner? Sitting somewhere — at this very table, their kitchen table — with Ian Finch?

  “It’s Christmas,” he said. “I just think we should all be together.”

  “I’d like to go,” she said wearily. “I’d really like to get out of town.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Then you go and I’ll stay here with Dad.”

  She looked at him curiously. “Would you?”

  What was this? A choice? He had enough friends with divorced parents t
hat he’d thought about it. Who hadn’t? If you had to choose, who would you live with? He’d imagined himself in a courtroom, a sweet smiling old white-haired judge looking down on him from his enormous wooden throne, asking him where he wanted to live. There was little question. Maybe both his parents were a little too fussy for his liking, but with his father there was at least the possibility of fun.

  “We should all stay,” he said. “That’s best.”

  She thought about this for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I guess you’re right,” she said.

  He set off in search of his father. He wanted to tell him the news himself, wanted to tell him they’d all be together for Christmas. This time he didn’t even bother going by the fire station. Outside the St. Charles Diner he stopped to look in the window. There were no old men around today; the chill, Paul figured, had kept them in. There were only two patrons at the counter, his father and Ian. Cigarette smoke curled between them. Their backs were hunched; their shoulders moved slightly as they spoke.

  • • •

  Laura turned thirty-five the fourteenth of December. As was tradition, Sonny and Paul worked together through the afternoon and into the early evening to prepare her birthday dinner. Sonny was no slouch of a cook. Skill in the kitchen was a matter of pride at Casey Station #1, a constant and intense competition for superiority; there was more trash talk in regard to casseroles than Ping-Pong or hearts or even basketball. So during these birthday preparations Sonny usually did most of the cooking while Paul sat on the kitchen counter, passing his father spices from the cabinet the way other sons passed their fathers wrenches as they toiled under the hood of a troublesome car.

  “I won your mom over with my cooking,” Sonny said, spinning a long wooden spoon in his hand. “I ever tell you that? On our third date I made her a four-course meal in my dorm room with only a hot pot and a toaster. I think that clinched it.”

  “A toaster?” Paul asked skeptically. “You can’t cook in a toaster.”

  Sonny put his hands on his hips in mock disgust. “With patience, a little rewiring, and a good knife to scrape off the charred parts, you can cook anything in a toaster.”

  Paul smiled. “What about a turkey?”

  “Anything that fits,” Sonny said. “And with a little ingenuity, almost anything fits.”

  He was making veal parmigiana. He scooped a dollop of tomato sauce from the pot, extended the spoon to Paul.

  “Careful,” he said.

  Paul touched the sauce with the tip of his tongue. He knew his father didn’t really need him as a tester, but it was all part of the tradition, a tradition they had once gone along with for his sake that now he went along with for theirs. “It’s good.”

  “As good as last year?”

  “Better.”

  “I like having a yes-man,” Sonny said. He flicked a final shake of paprika into the sauce, then tossed the bottle to Paul. “Everybody needs a yes-man.”

  “Look at what my boys have done,” Laura said, when they emerged from the kitchen with dinner. This too was part of the custom, her fake surprise. She swooned over her plate, the steam from the sauce floating to her nostrils.

  “I made the bread,” Paul said. “I mean, cut and buttered it.”

  “It’s perfect,” Laura said, pulling a slice from the loaf.

  Sonny opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass for Laura and one for himself, then sat down at the head of the table and cut into his veal.

  “Tender . . .” he said, pleased with himself. “Tender as the night.”

  “It really is delicious,” Laura said. “Once again, shown up in the kitchen by my husband.”

  “Every woman should be so lucky,” Sonny said. He turned to Paul. “I’m telling you, you’ll win the gals this way. But keep it quiet . . . too many guys learn the secret, we lose the advantage.”

  “Where are we staying in California?” Paul asked abruptly. He’d been plotting this surprise attack all week. From experience, he knew it was best to raise topics of parental controversy during some sort of celebration; the chances of him getting in trouble were cut in half on occasions when everyone was required to be cheerful.

  “Beverly Hills Twin Crowns,” Sonny announced with a smile. “Nice ring to it, huh? The royal treatment. A suite, a view of the city, a Jacuzzi.”

  He raised his eyebrows across the table at Laura and Paul blushed.

  “What do you think, babe? Doesn’t a Jacuzzi sound pretty nice?”

  Laura sipped delicately from her wine glass. “Not if Ian Finch is in it.”

  “Well Ian Finch won’t be in it,” Sonny said happily. “We’ll reserve it, post a sign on the door. Jacuzzi for adults only.”

  “Sonny . . .” she said gently. She set down her glass. “You know what I —”

  “It’ll be great,” Paul said. “We’ll all —”

  “Honey, I’ve told your father about ten times, I can’t just leave,” she said. “I would if I could . . . but the ninth graders take state exams in February. How would it look for me to just disappear? What kind of example does that set for —”

  “So they’ll get over it,” Sonny said. “I wish you’d come. I really do.”

  She shook her head. “But why? You said yourself you wouldn’t be having any fun. You’re just going to be working. So Paul and I will stay at home.”

  “How come just ’cause you’re staying means I have to stay?” Paul asked. He was pretty certain the whole state exam thing was a ruse, a convenient out, one he could use against her. “Seventh graders don’t have state tests until March. What if I just went for a week? I could take my books and stuff.”

  Laura didn’t even look at him; she answered his question to Sonny. “Frankly I don’t relish the thought of him spending time with Ian Finch. I don’t think he’s a very good influence on —”

  “You don’t even know him,” Sonny interrupted. “Besides, yeah, just a week. How much influence can —”

  Laura bristled. “Okay, one” — she held up a finger — “I do know him. And because I know him I know that one week is plenty of influence.”

  Sonny was quiet for a moment. He wiped his face carefully, took a few sips of wine. This was the point, Paul thought, where his father would let go, back down. This was the point when he’d remember who was in charge on Willow Lane. And so this was the point he could kiss any hope of California goodbye.

  “I don’t see why you have to bad-mouth him at every turn,” Sonny muttered into his wine glass.

  Paul turned to him, surprised.

  “Sonny,” Laura said. “Let’s not. Okay? Let’s not.”

  He put down his glass. “Just because he wasn’t one of your pets —”

  “One of my pets?” Laura interrupted. “Sonny, he beat up kids in the boys’ bathroom on a regular basis. He once threatened to dismember a student teacher.”

  Sonny burst into laughter. “For Christ’s sake, he was fourteen years old! Dismember? Give me a break. Does that really scare you? He’s all talk, can’t you see that? Maybe if you and everybody’d spent a little less time punishing him and a little more —”

  “Do not tell me how to do my job. I don’t tell you how to do your job, do I?”

  Paul closed his eyes.

  “How could you possibly tell me how to do my job?” Sonny shouted. “Jesus Christ, you don’t even acknowledge my —”

  “Stop,” Paul said.

  They looked at him, dumbfounded and guilty as children caught fighting over a toy they were supposed to be sharing. Laura cleared her throat. Sonny smiled weakly. Paul took a breath; this was his opportunity, but he had to act fast, before the moment was gone. They had argued in front of him, so now he got something in return. A stroke of luck, one he hadn’t anticipated: they owed him. Those were the rules, unwritten but known to all. When they argued they bought him an ice-cream cone or a new football or took him to a movie. But he didn’t want any of those things now.

  “I want to go to California,” he said. “
For a week, that’s all. I’ll probably never get to do anything like it again, never in my whole life, so I should get to do it now.” He turned to his mother, went in for the kill. “You’re always saying how everything here’s so small. So don’t you think I should get to go somewhere where things are big?”

  A look passed between his parents over the flickering flames of the candles. Paul stifled the urge to say something else, to further his case. If he said another word it might start to sound like whining, and then he was sunk for sure. Best to let them come to it themselves.

  “I can’t wait until you’re a parent,” Laura said, smiling through a scowl, or scowling though a smile. “Don’t you dare expect sympathy from me when your children use your own words against you.”

  “I think that’s a yes,” Sonny said, winking at Paul.

  Laura sighed. She didn’t look angry or sad. She just looked exhausted, spent, as if she’d been up for days on end. She picked up her fork with the effort of one picking up a brick.

  “One week,” she said.

  Being an only child had certain advantages, the most significant of which became obvious every Christmas morning when the majority of the gigantic pile of presents under the tree bore tags with Paul’s name. His parents might exchange a gift or two — a piece of jewelry for his mother, a sweater for his father — but the big haul was his and his alone. It was his father, he knew, who was primarily responsible for the volume of gifts. Years ago (in truth, it was only five) when he’d still believed in Santa Claus, his mother would shake her head every Christmas morning and look at his father and say “Santa’s going to spoil this boy . . .” and now he understood that, of course, she’d been directing this warning to Sonny, who’d always smile innocently from his spot under the tree. But what had his father known of Christmas, ever? Sonny had once told Paul that Christmas when he was a child meant a long, quiet day at the station; wives of the other firemen would bring in Corning Ware dishes stacked with sliced turkey, maybe a pumpkin or a mincemeat pie, but rarely were there any toys. What did a fireman need with toys?

  This year, most of Paul’s presents centered around a theme: his upcoming trip to California. He scored a huge duffel bag, a pair of expensive, trendy sandals, a Game Boy Color, and a Nittany Lions beach towel that was taller than he was. The only gift he knew for certain was chosen by his mother was a bulky winter coat.