My desire to actually be as happy as I acted led me to get even more separated from reality, I guess. It led me to think I was capable of building a happy family with you. You are a great dancer and a great cheerleader! You make me laugh! Why wouldn’t you be the perfect wife and mom?
Answer: Because, like me, you’re kind of a little kid, not a mom or a wife. You’ve been angry in your life, and I think that’s why you agreed to try to be a family. (Like maybe I could solve your anger.) It was a bad idea, Maggie. You actually know this better than me, I bet. You’re very smart.
The great thing is our baby will make another family really happy. Our baby is going to be awesome. Can you imagine a kid with your smarts and athletic ability matched with my winning personality? Our kid will make those adoptive parents, those people with adult-sized inner resources, the luckiest parents on the planet. I do believe that.
In Lord of the Flies, lots of the kids thought having no rules would be great fun. They ended up murdering one another. I want rules. I want someone to tell me what to do. I want to know where my next meal is coming from. But being around you makes me act like one of those crazy kids. You make me feel like a wild sexy monkey who wants to swing from the trees all day long. Clearly I’m not dad material at the moment. You’re a mom biologically but not in your brain. Oh, Mags. I’m signing all the legal documents. I agree with your parents. I want their laws. We can’t be parents, and we need to be apart. I will stay away. I do this because I love you and because I love me too.
Does all this make me sad? Yes. I already miss our perfect baby. I miss you so much, it hurts in my throat and my elbows and knees.
Does that mean this is a bad day? No. I only realized this very recently. My mom actually didn’t say every day is your happiest day. She said every day is your best day. Sad days can be good days. Today I pledge to take care of you, me, and our baby. To do so, I must say good-bye. It’s such a sad day, but it’s still the best day ever because we’re all alive and that means we can do good stuff and that’s amazing—whether it’s sad stuff or happy stuff. I think that’s what my mom meant by best day ever. We can do good stuff every day we’re alive no matter what.
I will love you forever, Maggie.
Sincerely,
William (Taco) Keller
It took me until lunch to type that on the computer because I’m a shit typer. And because I had to reread it a few times to make sure that my letter told Maggie what was in my heart. But I did it. Then I cut and pasted it into an email, and I sent it to her.
The rest of the afternoon, I pretended to study calc, but I just sort of cried. I thought about Maggie and my mom and Darius and my dad, and I hoped he and Miz had a good and adult relationship. And I wished everyone but Darius good-bye because I was letting them all go, except for Darius.
I am my brother’s keeper.
That night, I called Emily Cook and asked her to take my hospital shift. She told me she would, and she told me she was sorry she’d been mean to me because clearly I was dealing with troubles I had no capacity to be dealing with, and it wasn’t fair of her to pile on like that, even if I’d hurt her feelings by kissing Maggie Corrigan right in front of her.
I said, “You talk like a straight shooter, like my mom, which I appreciate.”
She paused for a second or two, took a deep breath, and asked me to go to a movie in Dubuque sometime.
I told her I was a broken shell of a human, but I’d like that. As long as she didn’t want to have sex.
She said, “You are weirder than anyone on earth.” However, she did agree to my condition.
The next day Bluffton got hit by the snowstorm of the decade—twenty-two fat inches. That badass snow kept me shoveling for, like, fifteen hours. Darius couldn’t help because his shoulder was beyond dislocated. It was broken. I sort of felt bad about it, but not really because it meant he had to sit still and reflect on all that had happened.
There was no school, and we had no food. Very late in the day after the roads were plowed the best they could be, Mr. Nussbaum braved the snow and brought us a pizza.
Darius had already agreed to check into Tellurian up in Madison. It didn’t take much talking. Nussbaum said, “You need to be in treatment.”
Darius said, “You know it, dude.”
“Madison is the place.”
“Anywhere,” Darius said. “Please.”
The next day Mr. Nussbaum got the money for Darius, and I signed the documents releasing my parental rights to the baby, even though it made me barf into the garbage pail next to Nussbaum’s desk. I wasn’t as sad about the baby itself. I really did believe it would have better parents than me. I was sick because Maggie couldn’t just sign a paper and be done. She would carry it with her and get bigger and bigger and be reminded every minute until the baby was born of what we lost (each other for one thing and lots of other stuff having to do with being a kid). I barfed again.
“You have to clean that up, amigo. Got it?” Mr. Nussbaum said.
I nodded.
And then slowly life began all over.
Chapter 32
I’m a keeper (Mr. Nussbaum says so).
I haven’t actually seen Maggie Corrigan since the day I got yanked in my bear slippers down the hall by Mrs. Schoebel and Coach Johnson. Maggie and her mom had a final blowout that night (bad physical confrontation) because Maggie had run to my house instead of getting picked up after school by Mary. I had been hiding in the hallway and hadn’t answered the door, which probably helped send Maggie over the edge with her mom (although that time was coming anyway).
No more school for Maggie. No more Bluffton either. She’s gone.
The baby is being adopted by two Oberlin English professors with patches on their elbows. They’re friends of the Corrigans. So Maggie is in Ohio, close to those professors, staying with her grandma while she finishes the pregnancy. The professors go to all the doctor appointments and birth classes with her, and I guess they cry and hug a lot…for joy, which I would too if I were them.
I know all this because Maggie emailed me several times over the course of a couple months. She said she is taking GED classes, and she’s getting along better with her mom now that they aren’t living in the same house. I thanked Maggie for the information, but I always ended my emails asking her not to contact me anymore because I worry I have a Maggie addiction like Darius has for booze.
In her last email, she talked about going to a Cleveland Cavaliers game and seeing LeBron James play and about going to huge malls with her cousin. “It’s so much better in Cleveland!”
Then she stopped emailing. Like I had asked. But I haven’t stopped missing her because I’m a junkie, I think. I love her.
Still, this is the best day ever—first because we’re alive and second because the professors are over the moon about the baby. They can afford granola and organic macaroni and cheese and Go-Gurt for our little kid.
There are also other things to think about. So much happened so fast. With the money we got, Darius paid his fine and went to rehab. He hasn’t had a drink in seventy-one days. He smiles at me when Nussbaum and I visit him in Tellurian. He sits up straight too instead of looking like a deflated balloon all the time. He apologizes for all the harm he caused me because that’s part of the program. I apologize for the harm I’ve caused him. He hugs me back when I hug him. He hugs me like he actually cares. It’s kind of like having a bit of my mom back. It’s like having a real family.
Nussbaum tells me not to get my hopes up, that the booze business isn’t easy to leave behind. But Darius is working hard at life, so I hope (a lot) that he can stay clean.
And things go on and on, dingles. Stuff just keeps happening all the time.
At the beginning of February, I performed in the musical. Mr. Lecroy wanted to give me back my part as Mayor of Munchkinland, but I had to refuse. This freshman, Charlie
O’Neill, had been practicing at it for weeks as the understudy, and it didn’t seem right for me just to boot him out the door. He sings a shitload better than I do, but he doesn’t have the same pep in his cucumber or the general flash. The schedule worked better for me anyway. As a chorus munchkin and badass flying monkey, I could still go two weekdays to Nussbaum’s. If I booted Charlie O’Neill, I would’ve had to be up at school for every practice.
Nussbaum twisted my dad’s arm enough that he came down for the last show. Miz came too. They both said that I was a kick-ass monkey but that I looked a little uncomfortable as a munchkin. (I couldn’t find my knee pads that night.)
Really, Nussbaum got Dad to visit for an ulterior reason.
On Sunday, me, Nussbaum, Dad, and Miz met at Country Kitchen. Between coffee and the omelets arriving, Nussbaum laid into Dad.
“Have you noticed one of your boys is in rehab and the other could have starred on a reality show with all his drama?” Nussbaum asked.
“They make their own mistakes,” Dad grunted.
“There’s a reason for that,” Nussbaum said. “They have no adult to tell them what to do.”
“Don’t tell me how to raise my kids,” Dad said.
“You don’t raise them at all. Never did as far as I can tell. Sounds like their mother did all the work, and you hit the road as soon as she bought the farm.”
“I got laid off, goddamn it. I had to go where the money was.”
“Darius tells me you stopped sending money. Still, he almost managed to keep the boat floating on his own. You don’t think you could’ve made ends meet if you’d stayed in town, gotten a little help from Darius?”
“No,” Dad said.
“I call bullshit, Chuck. You weren’t chasing money. You were running away.”
“You back off,” Dad said quietly.
“I will not, Chuck. Grow a pair and look in the mirror.”
Dad looked down at the table. His chin began to tremble.
Dingus, I’d never seen my dad cry. But this was real. He swallowed hard and said, “Michelle was everything. We…we were in love since middle school, and I never, never knew what to do. But she always did. She always did right. Before she died, she told me to get my head out of my ass, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t live in this town with these boys that reminded me of her every damn minute of the day.”
Whoa. My dad ran away because I reminded him of Mom? That’s not okay. While I can understand the sentiment, that’s not what it means to be a dad at all. “Not okay,” I mumbled.
“No,” Dad said. “I know.”
“I’d like Taco and Darius to move in with me,” Nussbaum said. “If they’ll agree to it.”
I turned and looked at Nussbaum, who sat next to me. This was the first I’d heard of the plan. “Yes,” I said. “I agree.”
Nussbaum smiled at me then turned back to Dad. “I’d like you to send me $500 a month to keep them in food and clothes.”
“Aw shit,” Dad said. “I don’t know.”
Miz, who had been sitting quietly next to him the whole time, just about leapt out of her skin at that point. “Goddamn it, Chuck! Of course. Of course you will send that money.”
Dad looked at me so sad, dingus. He nodded. “Of course. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me. I’m sorry, Will,” Dad said. “I love you, Taco, but I don’t know how to do it right.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I really don’t think it’s okay, but I’m not going to let my dad ruin my whole life because I can’t stop being pissed at him.
Now I live in Nussbaum’s little girl’s room. She was so cute. There’s a great photo of her and her mom on the wall. They’re at the beach. I love that photo.
Nussbaum made me quit the hospital. Mallory, Nussbaum’s old assistant, decided not to come back to work, so I do her whole job in half the time it took her. I am the majesty of the law. I get paid fifteen dollars an hour, which Nussbaum still says saves him mad stacks of cash over what he paid Mallory for not working very hard.
He needs that extra money. He has to pay for an expanded cable package and Netflix because he doesn’t hang out at the VFW anymore. After we’re done working and I get my homework finished, Nussbaum and I watch sports and movies and television from all over the globe. Lots of times we eat Steve’s Pizza or subs from Pickle Barrel. We eat so much cheese that old Nussbaum has started getting up early to get on a treadmill before he drives me to school.
Nussbaum. Yeah.
I guess there’s just one last thing to tell you.
In March, I ran over to Piggly Wiggly to pick up some nondairy creamer for our coffee machine because Nussbaum had a client who was lactose intolerant. Nussbaum believes in service. “That’s why I’m loaded,” he says. “Because I get the people what they want so they come back again and again.” So I had to run like a gazelle to buy it.
I burst in the automatic doors and waved at Sharma. (He was working a cashier line). Then I shot down the baking aisle to cut to the back. That’s where I ran smack into old Dr. Patches himself, Reggie Corrigan, right in the spot where he’d tried to throw me into the mayo jars by throttling my jean jacket just nine months earlier.
“Taco!” he said, startled. “What are you sprinting through here for? Are you on the lam?”
“What lamb?” I asked. “I’m looking for nondairy creamer.”
He stood back and blinked. Then he said, “Are you doing well? We saw you in the musical. You looked good.”
“Yeah, I’m good. And…and how are you, sir?” I asked. My heart pounded in my shirt, my mouth went dry.
“Well, we’re doing fine. It’s going to be quiet, you know? Mary’s packing to move overseas, and with Maggie gone…”
“Yeah, Maggie,” I said. “She’s pretty noisy, right?”
There was this pause. Mr. Corrigan stared at me. His mouth sort of hung open in that beard of his.
“So…I’m kind of in a hurry,” I said. “Client is waiting for cream.”
Mr. Corrigan sighed. He shook his head. “Can I say something?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“I’ll be quick about it.”
“Shoot,” I said quietly.
“I want you to know I always liked you, Taco. I always thought you were doing the best you could. I don’t think you’re a criminal or…or poisonous.”
“I know I can be a dumb kid. But I’m growing up,” I said.
“You’re not a dumb kid. You’re a really, really good kid,” he said. His face started to go red, and that made my face go red. You know how I feel about Mr. Corrigan, Dr. Patches, the man, right? He’s top shelf. “I know that,” he said.
“Thanks, sir. I appreciate it. I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble. My mom told me to wait. To be the gem I am. But it’s hard. I can’t tell you how much—”
“Listen, Maggie was going to get in trouble with or without you, Taco. She’s hardwired like that.”
“She’s also wired to be great and luminous. She’s a bright light.”
Mr. Corrigan paused and took a deep breath. “You’re right. She’s luminous.”
Neither of us said anything. I started to feel really awkward, and I’m not the type to get awkward, dingus. So even though Nussbaum told me not to mention it ever again under any circumstances, I blurted out, “Thank you for the money, okay? You probably saved Darius’s life. He paid back all the Taco Bell damage, and he’s in rehab up in Madison. He’s doing so well.”
Mr. Corrigan looked so confused. “Rehab? We don’t have that kind of money. We didn’t…we didn’t give you that money, Taco. When we met with Nussbaum, he said no money was necessary. After your arrest and suspension from school and… He said we didn’t need to give you a cent, Taco.”
“What?” I asked. My monkey brain was spinning, trying to understand how that was possi
ble.
“I think that lawyer of yours must’ve—”
“Oh my Jesus,” I said slowly. “Nussbaum? The money came from Nussbaum? I think I really do love Nussbaum.”
I could tell you about how I confronted Nussbaum later at his office, how he cried and said he didn’t want me to ever feel indebted, that he never thought he’d have a family again and now he did, but I won’t, dingus. Just imagine the beauty of that sweaty old Mr. Nussbaum weeping at his desk.
Okay. I have to go now. Sharma, Emily, Brad, and I are starting a punk cello, clarinet, keyboard band. I’m the lead singer. I don’t sing that great, but I’ve got some serious monkey magnetism. We’ll likely go on tour in the next year or two, so look for us.
I’m also totally acing English, but Mr. Edwards no longer thinks I’m a math guy. He told me this during our parent-teacher conference. (Nussbaum drew the line at going, so I went in to meet with my teachers myself as if I was my own dad.) I told Mr. Edwards, “You try having two jobs and a pregnant girlfriend while learning calc!”
He said, “How about you try for a B? Make school a priority the rest of the year?”
I said, “You’re on!”
He said, “Brad and Sharma will help you out, right? If they can’t, just meet me during your independent study.”
And I said…
Jesus. I really have to go.
Okay, here goes. And my baby?
Every day I think of you, baby.
You are going to be so smart and so funny, and your parents aren’t going to believe how awesome and athletic and pretty and hilarious you are. I mean, so funny!
Your parents are going to cry happy tears every day because you are the greatest thing in the universe!
And even though Maggie and I aren’t there with you in person, we are always there with you just out of sight—just the way my mom is here with me.
We love you, and your parents love you. And we are so happy your parents are happy and will do everything to make you happy.
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