In the Real World

by Nōnen Títi

  I sit down next to her.

  “Not that I have any idea where she’ll go. People are calling me to say that my children are ill-raised and somebody ought to do something about it and if I don’t then they will. Miranda came home early with a stomachache, but when I asked she said a group of boys pulled her shorts down and said she was a teacher’s whore like her sister. They’re eleven years old and they’re doing things like that and just now a group of kids threw a stone through the garage window. But otherwise I’m fine, Jerome. I just don’t want to live here anymore.”

  I do what I wanted to do for Mariette earlier; I put my arm around my aunt and hold her as she once held me. “Mariette didn’t do anything wrong, Aunt Karen. She only spoke out where others didn’t. You should be proud of her.”

  “I should but I’m not. I can’t ever again… I can’t live with this shame.”

  “Did you call Uncle Gerard yet, or the farm?”

  “Maybe I’m a bad parent. Every time something goes wrong I look to my mother-in-law for help.”

  “Isn’t that what they’re there for? They have experience. They like to help.”

  “You’re sweet, Jerome, but I can’t deal with Mariette. She’s just too much. Maybe that counsellor was right.”

  “No! Please no – don’t listen to them. There’s nothing wrong with Mariette except that she knows right from wrong and isn’t afraid to say it. Ask Grandpa Will tomorrow, he’ll tell you.” I’m talking for the sake of talking, like I used to do with Dad. She doesn’t hear the words, just the tone, but maybe that’s enough for now. “How about we order out tonight, Aunt Karen? I have money saved so you don’t have to cook or do dishes and tomorrow we go to the farm.”

  She says she’d like that. On my way upstairs to ask the girls what pizza they prefer, I pull the phone plug out of the wall. I find Miranda cutting up her school shirt. She’s taking out the names from the back and putting them in the bowl next to her, and she has a box of matches. “I’m sorry you were teased at school.”

  “I’m not ever going back there, or to your school, or to netball, or to swimming, or… and if they make me, I’ll burn it down.”

  “I know, Miranda.”

  “I hate Mariette.”

  “Mariette didn’t do anything.”

  “She did, she did everything! I hate her and I hope she dies!” Miranda screeches towards her sister’s room.

  I explain about the pizza and try to get Miranda to focus on the weekend. “We’ll all have a really long holiday.” I help her sort some things for the farm until she says she’s looking forward to telling Grandpa Will everything to get her sister in trouble. I take the matches. By now it’s five o’clock.

  Mariette is sitting on her bed doing nothing. She doesn’t object to pizza and has no preference. Then I call Uncle Gerard on his mobile. He’s on the way home. He’ll meet me at the door and we’ll pick it up together. In the car I briefly tell him what went on and what Aunt Karen and Miranda said.

  “We’ll have to tell the police that we’re away in case they break any more windows,” he says.

  That one line tells me something about him that I never realized before: He doesn’t pick sides. He accepts me the way he does Dad and so he accepts Aunt Karen and the girls for who they are. That’s why Mariette doesn’t fight with him.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  “I was thinking you’re a great father to Mariette and I’m a bit jealous.”

  “Your father loves you, Jerome. He just needs a bit of help sometimes. People weren’t meant to be single parents.”

  “I know. I wasn’t trying to cut him down.”

  “I like having you stay with us. I like having a son. I think boys are easier than girls at this age,” he says.

  I’m not sure if he’s right. I don’t think Mick would have been an easy child and I think Lizette and Kathleen are pretty easygoing; so is Fred, but I don’t think his father believes that.

  “You don’t have to pay for this,” Uncle Gerard says.

  “But I’d like to. Please?”

  “Okay then, we’ll enjoy it even more that way.”

  The pizza helps relax the atmosphere a little though Miranda keeps saying bad things about her sister. I tell Mariette to let her. “She has the right. Don’t respond. She needs to get it out.”

  Uncle Gerard is wonderful. He comforts both Aunt Karen and Miranda in his patient and gentle manner. I call Uncle Alistair’s later and talk to Rowan, who tells me he’s staying there until summer break, and then to Lizette. Finally Dad comes on the phone. He and Nikos have made their relationship official and we’re all going to move in together. “We’ll be a real family,” he says. This is what Mariette predicted in her story, and with that thought I go to bed.

  MARIETTE

  If I stay here any longer I’m going to end up jumping through the window. I need to get out of the house. They’ll be more than happy to see me go. I don’t care. They can have their stupid school and their garden, burned to ashes with PM inside it. Moralistic hypocrites, all of them. I’ll never be able to fix this. I’ll never be able to get a diploma anyway. I’m not polite enough, not sheepish enough. I’m wrong for this world. Why did I walk away from that stupid debate? Why did I agree to do it in the first place? Just so I could fall apart in front of all of them, to prove them right. Why didn’t I fight his arms, which were so warm and- Shit, I’m going mad here.

  I get out of bed. ‘Quarter past two’ is the only light in the room. I head for the bathroom to cool my feet down on the tiles. There’s no use going out. Hypocrisyville doesn’t have transport at night. Fuck them all.

  I almost crash into someone in the hall.

  “Mariette?”

  “I was just going to have a drink, Jerome.”

  “Do you want to come in with me?”

  The idea of not being alone makes me say yes before wondering why he asked.

  “You go first. I don’t like being cornered,” he says.

  It is the weirdest thing to crawl into his bed, even if we did this at Granannie’s. It’s different now. For one thing I’m not wearing my sweats and he has no pyjama top on.

  He straightens the cover so it reaches the wall behind me and then slides in next to me. “It isn’t your fault, you know,” he says.

  I try not to breathe too hard against him, but then I have to anyway and it feels like my chest tears open.

  “It’s okay, Mariette. Let it go, please, before you explode.”

  But I can’t and I can’t talk. I just want to hide in here, in the dark, in the warm smell of his body, forever. He was so wonderful today… I have to come up for air then. He moves his arm to let me in closer and kisses my head. “It isn’t your fault.”

  What does he know? But I don’t try and explain. I don’t want to ruin this.

  I wake up when the door opens. Jerome has been out for a shower. “What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Not one little bit,” he says.

  “Sorry.”

  “But I had the best night anyway and today we go home.”

  Home? The homestead. The place we all get together. Even now with his parents living nearby Jerome still considers that home. I like that. I watch him tidy up his towels and clothes: practiced moves, smooth and automatic.

  Voices from outside disturb the image; feet running up the stairs and then a frantic knock on the door. “Jerome? Jerome, are you awake?” Mum calls.

  He opens the door.

  “Mariette’s run away. We can’t find her anywhere. I don’t know what to do.”

  Oops.

  Jerome opens the door wider. Mum’s jaw almost hits the floor. “Of all- …Of all the horrible things- …I really thought you two had more brains than that!” she shrieks.

  “Aunt Karen-” But she runs into the bathroom and slams the door.

  “She’s so judgmental.”

  “She’s worried, Mariette
. That’s all. She worries for you, don’t forget that.”

  Mum is still muttering to herself when we come down for breakfast. Jerome takes my arm and signals for me to let him do the talking. His eyes twinkle. “We’re really sorry to have frightened you, but we met in the hall in the middle of the night and didn’t think of putting a note on the door,” he says.

  Dad looks up from his paper. “Do we have to be worried about anything else?” he asks.

  “No. Mariette needed company. That’s all.”

  “See?” Dad says to Mum, who doesn’t answer but her shoulders slump. If she’s been this tense all this time she’ll end up with a headache. I should say something to her, tell her not to worry or that I appreciate that she cares, but I can’t say it. I’m sorry that she’s lost her status and for all the nasty phone calls she had to deal with all alone yesterday. I feel sorry for Miranda. Nothing I say or do can ever make up for that. It can’t be undone; nothing can be. I leave the kitchen to get ready for the trip. I can’t eat anyway.

  “I wish you would have been really lost and never found,” Miranda shouts storming down the stairs.

  Very little is said during the ride. Mum warns us to leave the talking up to the adults. The welcome is, as always, a lot of noise. Uncle Charl and Nikos only arrived an hour ago and we all gather in the kitchen to have drinks before unpacking. Miranda’s timing is excellent. “You know what, Uncle Charl? Mariette started a war in her school and now people are dead and everybody hates us and they’re throwing rocks at us and Mariette is sleeping with Jerome.”

  I don’t attack my sister for this, mostly because I can feel them all looking at me, but also because of all the hurt in Miranda’s voice. She’s become a victim of that war, innocent and bitter, and I can’t blame her.

  “We did exactly that; we slept together, nothing more. She didn’t start a war and nobody died because of her. They threw one rock and the people who’re now saying that they hate us weren’t worth the trouble in the first place,” Jerome explains, and his last words are directed at Miranda.

  After all the pain I caused him all this time, now he’s taking charge and standing with me against the rest of the world. The problem is that he’s wrong to do so, because people did die in this war; a person he cared about a lot. But I sit back and let him speak, unable to make myself deny the words, to lose this bit of warmth. I do what the soldiers do, the ones who bask in the glory of the war they fought without admitting to the dirty deeds they did. I’m worse than they are because I know I’m doing it and I can’t stop the deceit, because… Because it’s easier to keep quiet, I guess; easier but cowardly.

  I have to leave the room. I’m not even sure who’s sleeping where yet, so I go outside and sit on the patio chair. For a long time nobody comes out, which must mean they’re telling all the details. I don’t mind. I want them to know. I’m tired of fighting. Somebody needs to put an end to it.

  It’s peaceful here, warm enough with the bit of sun- until the quiet is disturbed by the need to unload the car and a discussion about sleeping arrangements.

  “Charl and Nikos have taken an attic room so you can have the big room again, Jerome. Gerard, you and Karen take the other big room and Miranda can have her old room back. That means you get a choice, Mariette. You can have the Petite Room to yourself, share with your grandmother like last time, or share with Jerome if you prefer – that is, if he’s willing.”

  Grandpa Will stands leaning in the patio door, his arms folded and a cigar in his mouth. Only his eyes give away that he’s teasing me.

  “I think I’d like to share with Granannie.”

  “Good girl, she was hoping you would.”

  Jerome smiles at me. Just like Grandpa Will, his happiness is in his eyes. It hasn’t left since this morning. “No offence,” I tell him, just in case.

  Nobody asks or says anything to me about school during the day. Miranda makes a point of saying hateful things every time I’m near. Granannie takes her for a walk after dinner. They sit on the herb garden bench together until mosquitoes and darkness chase them back inside.

  Grandpa Will spends the evening talking with Mum and Dad while Jerome goes out with his dad and Nikos after I reassured him three times that I’d be okay. I have that same feeling of anticipation I had before, of waiting until somebody talks about it, but this time I’m calm.

  It is nice to crawl back into the big bed. I missed that. I missed the routine of Granannie switching off lights and hanging her shawl over the headboard. “Talk to me,” she says, lying down in the dark.

  “I messed up. I didn’t mean to cause a war, it just happened. I didn’t mean for people to get hurt. I just wanted to be treated like a person instead of an irrelevant number. They call it a voice, but it doesn’t exist. It’s make-believe and it isn’t fair.”

  “You know who wrote the story of Cinderella?” Granannie asks.

  “No.”

  “That’s because it’s a folk tale and so old that nobody knows where it started. They call it make-believe and it survives through the ages. In the case of Cinderella it gives a bit of hope to those on even the lowest rungs of the social ladder; the hope that purity of heart will be rewarded because it’s more valuable than riches, a virtue rather than a vice. Why do you think that is?”

  “To teach people a moral lesson.”

  “That too. But do you remember the story of the Emperor’s New Clothes? Two salesmen come to the palace and convince the emperor that they can make him a robe of the finest and most sheer silk known to man – so sheer that only a person of special intellect can see it; a robe fit only for an emperor – and that all the people will admire him for it. The robe is spun and the emperor wears it on his tour through town.”

  Granannie tells me the story as if I’m five years old again and I listen and wish I was.

  “Of course, everybody knows that greed and deception are vices. So the salesmen are villains, because it’s wrong to mislead – especially those who are vulnerable or easily led.”

  “The sheep,” I agree.

  “Now, is that the moral of this story? Do the salesmen get in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “No, the people all know that the emperor’s robes are always made of the newest and best materials and so when the announcement is made that this wonderful material can only be seen by those with special intellect nobody questions this truth. So the salesmen get paid and everybody admires the robe. Not only that, but soon everybody wants a robe just like it and the salesmen become richer than anyone but the emperor. You could argue that children would be the most vulnerable to deceit, but in the tale it’s a child who isn’t misled. When a little boy sees the emperor go by, he shouts out loud that he’s not wearing any clothes. The child isn’t fooled. Then what happens?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t need to remember the story, just remember the last few days. The emperor prefers the deception and all the people copy him. Soon they can’t see that the emperor is naked; they believe that their own eyes are deceiving them. None want to risk being called stupid and none want to risk standing alone, even if it means freezing to death in winter. The followers – the mob, the soldiers, the sheep – go willingly to the slaughterhouse, Mariette, because they’ve been made to believe that they are going to gain immortality through death; they believe they can reach peace through war.”

  “But that’s stupid.”

  “Yes, but nobody said that sheep have to be clever. It is wrong to mislead a stupid person, but only if that person is willing to admit he’s stupid. But what about the child? Did he survive the winter, do you think, or didn’t he live long enough to find out? In the case of an institution that has functioned the same way for years, new ideas are threatening. They won’t allow you to expose their ineptness so you’re told that you made a mistake, just like the little boy is told that he’s wrong and the clothes are real. But here’s the thing, Mariette; because it makes you so angry, you do exactly
that – you start making mistakes. You forget that you are the little boy and he is the emperor. You throw a tantrum and shout out loud that he’s naked. That’s where the fable ends and reality begins; where power wins and the child is silenced. So if you’re born with the ability to see, like the child in the tale, you have to make a choice. You choose to either let others believe that they really are wearing clothes or you risk being disposed of in order to protect the emperor’s reputation. Unless you manage to avoid all the injustices that infuriate you, you have to learn to keep your mouth shut. I’ve told Jerome this as well; he’s also a seer, but he channels it into his poetry as much as he can to avoid becoming a victim and getting hurt.”

  “But I don’t get hurt. I hurt others.”

  “I know, baby, I know.”

  At least she doesn’t deny it. For the second night in a row I get to hide in somebody’s arms.

  I open my eyes to bright sunlight pouring in the window. For just a moment I look at this and see what I used to: a sunny day. Until the haunting thoughts catch up with me. Is this what it was like for Uncle Charl every day he woke up? Shit, I don’t want to think.

  I get up, jump in and out of the shower and go downstairs to find everybody in the kitchen having coffee, not breakfast.

  “What time is it?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Whoa… I had no idea.” That was a waste of a good weekend; they’ll be planning to leave after lunch. But I’m soon told otherwise.

  “Since you won’t be going back to school this year, we’ve decided that you can both stay here until Wednesday when Charl and Nikos return. Grandpa Will is going with Gerard today and Karen and Miranda will stay with me for a holiday,” Granannie says.

  I’m not quite sure about the logic of all this, but I’m not complaining. Jerome has no problem with it either. Mum and Miranda seem elated even, if that’s a word that could ever describe my mother.

  “Now you two remember the work you did last time. Granannie will need help,” Grandpa Will says when saying goodbye.