The Usual Rules

by Joyce Maynard

  I thought they usually found the person in Tibet, Alan said.

  That’s true, she said. We were traveling there. On a vacation. My parents thought it would be an educational trip. But we weren’t bargaining on the search team wanting my brother.

  Your parents just let him go like that?

  It was a rough decision, she said. We all talked about it a long time, and my parents decided it was important not to hold my brother back. They believe in letting their kids make their own decisions about life. We go see him every year though, and when he becomes the Dalai Lama, we’ll always go hear him when he comes around to give his speeches.

  Alan seemed quiet. I see, he said.

  She thanked him for the tea. I should probably be heading home, she said. But next time I’ll help you put away books, if you want.

  I’d say both the children in your family have unusual gifts, said Alan.

  Nights at Garrett’s, he defrosted a couple of Healthy Choice dinners and put on a record. The music he listened to was different from what she’d listened to back home—old rock and roll albums from back when he was young, and rhythm and blues, and tons of reggae. Sometimes he brought home a video or they watched the Discovery Channel. She sat on the couch with him some-times, drawing, with Shiva’s head on her feet. Sometimes, sitting there, she’d think of home, her mother and Josh, and Louie. The odd thing was that sometimes she didn’t.

  Most mornings, on his way to work, Garrett would drop Wendy off near the school. This corner’s good enough, she’d tell him. I can walk from here. After he pulled away, she’d catch a bus back into town. Some days, she’d ask to borrow his bike in the morning.

  Pedaling along the bike paths of the university or out along the highway, with the sun on her shoulders and the smell of cut grass in the air, the world felt like a blank canvas, the day stretching out in front of her like a long, flat field.

  I thought I’d teach you how to tie flies, Garrett said. Come spring, we can go fishing in the Merced River. He took out a box with drawers full of special hooks and wire and feathers. They sat there working on their flies from six-thirty till close to eleven, not even talking, except when he gave her instructions now and then.

  You have a lot of patience, Slim, he said. Sign of a good fisherperson. I taught your mother how to do this one time, he told her. She liked it at first, but she got tired of it. You know how she was—she could never sit still that long. That’s a dancer for you.

  I’m not a very good dancer, Wendy told him. I’m terrible, actually. She said it as if this wasn’t a big deal to her.

  Never mind, he said. Your mother was lousy at fishing.

  Wendy studied the fly she’d made, a collection of feathers with a bobbin attached, and a piece of sparkly filament. If her mother could see it, she’d turn it into an earring.

  I like doing things like this, she told him. It’s like drawing or playing clarinet. You concentrate so hard, everything else in the world goes away.

  She called Josh and Louie before Garrett came home, so she could be private.

  I figured you might be too busy to call back right away, Josh told her. I wanted to give you a little time. But every day I wanted to call.

  I’m fine, she said. It’s different from how I thought but it’s okay. She didn’t want him to think she was too happy, but she didn’t want to upset him, either.

  So how’s school? In the background, she could hear Louie calling out, Let me talk. You’ll get your turn, Lou-man, Josh told him.

  School’s okay, she said.

  How about the kids? You spot any potential friends?

  One maybe, she said. Alan.

  Potential romantic interest or just a friend?

  Just a friend, definitely, she said.

  How about your clarinet? They have a decent band? You make arrangements yet to rent an instrument out there?

  I decided to take a break, she said. I’ll look into it soon.

  Don’t leave it too long, he told her. It’ll feel good to start playing.

  You should talk.

  We have a gig again Saturday, he said. Things are picking up a little in the city. Kate said she’d stay with your brother.

  How about just playing? she asked. In the old days, Josh never let one day go by without spending a few hours on his bass.

  Maybe in a while, he told her.

  She didn’t need to ask if there’d been any news about her mother.

  Sissy. A small voice on the other end. Last Christmas, Josh had gotten them walkie-talkies, and they’d tried them out on the street. Louie sounded as if he was on one of the walkie-talkies now, and drifting out of range.

  Hey, Lou. I missed you.

  When are you coming home?

  Not for a while, Louie. Remember how I went away in an airplane? And just like I said, nothing bad happened to me.

  It’s time to come home now.

  Maybe in a while, Louie.

  Now.

  She could picture just where he was. In the kitchen, on the high stool at the counter, where he liked to sit while Josh fixed dinner. She could tell from the sound that he was eating carrot sticks.

  What did you do in preschool today, Louie?

  Nothing.

  I don’t believe you. There had to be something.

  Peed my pants. Pooped on the floor.

  You’re just joking. You don’t do those things. You’re a big boy.

  My teacher threw paint at me. There’s a mean girl in my class that puts worms in your sandwich.

  You’re making up this stuff, Louie, she said. Poppy would never let your teacher throw paint at you.

  She could hear him sucking his thumb, and then Josh’s voice saying, It’s long-distance, Lou-man. We’ll talk to Sissy again soon. Then Louie saying, One more chance. I can talk regular now.

  Sissy, he said, softer now.

  Yes, Louie?

  Some people say magic isn’t real, but it is, right?

  I don’t know, Louie, she said. Sometimes, maybe.

  That’s what I told them.

  She could hear him on the other end, breathing, and Josh telling him to say good-bye.

  You weren’t supposed to go away this long, Sis.

  I’ll call you again soon, Louie, she said.

  Say good-bye, Louie, said Josh.

  Wait, he said. There’s something else.

  You can tell Sissy next time, Josh was saying in his firm voice.

  So we’ll give you a call in a couple of days, Wen, Josh said. In the background, she could hear Louie crying. Then Josh saying, I know how hard it is to say good-bye. What do you say we put on our coats and go find ourselves some pigeons to feed? We’ll call Sissy again in a day or two.

  One thing, Josh, she said.

  I’m here, Wendy.

  It’s not like it’s so great here, either. I just thought I’d see what it felt like.

  And what does it feel like?

  Like I’m hardly even the same person.

  Don’t change too much, he said. I liked the old you.

  Saturday morning, Garrett told her they were going for a ride. Carolyn wants to meet you, he said.

  Who’s that?

  My girlfriend.

  She lived on a dirt road a couple of miles out of town. When they pulled up in front, Wendy recognized the cabin from the photograph he’d sent her. There was a car in the yard that looked as if it hadn’t gone anywhere in a long time, and another one not much better. There was a sign that said PALM READINGS, and another that said CACTUS PLANTS FOR SALE.

  Shiva knew the place. She was out of the truck before Garrett had come to a full stop. A woman came out.

  She looked around the same age as Wendy’s mother. She was tall and large-boned, as her mother would put it. More friendly-looking than pretty, with freckles and a strawberry blond braid down her back and jeans with holes in the knees.

  It’s about time you brought her by, she said.

  We’ve been busy.

 
She looks like you, Garrett, she said. But prettier.

  You sure have a lot of cactus plants, Wendy said.

  You could say it’s my obsession, Carolyn said. Can you believe I started with one measly ninety-nine-cent cactus from Albertson’s Market six years ago?

  They’re beautiful, Wendy said. She was telling the truth. Funny how she had started considering, in the last few days, whether what she said was real or made up, because so much of it was made up.

  I’ll give you the tour, Carolyn said. The ones in here are very sensitive to water. One rain shower and they’d be done in. So this is the indoor garden. Outside, you’ve got your hardier varieties.

  Wendy studied one of the larger plants, a perfect globe, covered in spines. There was a smaller one next to it that looked like the ruffle on the bottom of her mother’s gypsy skirt, with a tall fan of spears and little teardrop bits coming off the sides. I never knew how many different kinds of cactuses there were, she said.

  Honey, you couldn’t even count them all. In the yard alone, I’ve got a hundred and twenty varieties, and I’m just a beginner. I meet people at the cactus shows with six, seven hundred different species in their collection, and they can tell you every one. Cactus people—they’re a different breed of fish.

  I was thinking you were giving us breakfast, Car, Garrett said. Or should I run into town and pick up some doughnuts? Not that this one would have any. Slim here eats like a bird.

  I made corn bread, Carolyn said. You ready for coffee?

  Carolyn only had two chairs, but they brought in a stool from the garden and Garrett sat on that.

  California’s a lot different from New York, I bet, she said.

  Wendy realized Carolyn was the first person she’d met out here who must know about her mother. Now she was waiting for Carolyn to say something about that, but she didn’t.

  I come from Iowa myself, she said. Flat. But not as hot as here.

  I’ve been in New York all my life, Wendy said. Till now.

  I’m thinking you’re a Gemini, Carolyn said. Or a Capricorn.

  Capricorn, Wendy told her. She didn’t know much about astrology, but Amelia used to read their horoscopes out loud over the phone. Look for career advancement opportunities in the early part of the week, she’d say. Romantic prospects bring confusion best resolved by taking things slow. Think they’re talking about Buddy Campion’s desk being moved next to mine? she said.

  It’s the eyes, Carolyn said. Capricorns always have deep, clear eyes. Unlike your father, for example. His are opaque. You never have a clue what’s in there. Just as well maybe.

  You’re looking good, Car, he said. He stroked her shoulder. When they’d first pulled up, he’d kissed her, but nothing particularly romantic. Not like Josh kissing her mom after they hadn’t seen each other for a few days. Or even just one.

  I wasn’t wild about him showing up at your family’s apartment the way he did, she said to Wendy. I thought he should call you first, or write.

  Wendy might have said that Josh agreed but she didn’t.

  The thing about your father is, he means well, even if he might not do things the best way.

  She’s doing great, he said. Enrolled in junior high and everything. On a basketball team.

  Field hockey, Wendy said. Just in gym class. She didn’t want to talk about school.

  I hated gym, Carolyn said. I remember when I was your age, trying to figure out how I could get to the locker room first so I could dress in private, without all the other girls seeing me. I was so modest.

  I guess you got over that one.

  Shut up, will you, Garrett? Don’t you know anything? Like I said, he means well. And in answer to your remark, mister, most girls thirteen years old are more modest than forty-three-year-old women.

  My daughter’s fourteen.

  I’m thirteen actually, Wendy said. I was going to tell you.

  She doesn’t have any kids? Wendy asked him as they were driving home.

  Can’t. Some kind of problem. I never got into it with her.

  How long have you known her? she asked.

  Three years? Four maybe.

  She’s nice, Wendy said.

  Carolyn’s what you might call a no-nonsense gal, Garrett said.

  Nobody needed to point out it would have been different with Wendy’s mother. My problem is, I still believe love should be like all the songs, her mother used to say.

  Has grandma met her?

  Wendy hadn’t seen her grandmother on her father’s side for a couple of years anyway, and then just briefly. But she could remember those visits to Connecticut well enough to know what it would be like having her grandmother pull up in front of the dead car, and the nearly dead car, and the palm-reading sign. Getting the cactus tour.

  My mother? Not on your life, he said. First off, she’s never been out here. And if she did, the last person I’d want her to meet would be Carolyn. For Carolyn’s sake, among other things. Your grandmother is still waiting for me to get back into the game of tennis, and have a show of my paintings in some gallery in Newport.

  But that’s not what you want, right?

  My mother wasn’t the type to consider what I wanted, he said. It was more what she wanted for me. Or what she wanted for her, that I might provide. As I mentioned, I’m not a big fan of the extended-family concept.

  She keeps sending me these white blouses with my initials stitched on, Wendy said. I never wear them.

  Join the crowd, he told her. She still sends me shirts from Brooks Brothers for Christmas.

  Parents, he said. The best you can hope for is that their children get away before the parents do too much damage.

  They rented a video—Traffic. Michael Douglas played a judge in charge of stopping drugs in America, but his daughter was taking cocaine and sleeping with her boyfriend. Michael Douglas thought she was this good student who never did anything wrong. There were other parts in the movie about drug dealers in Mexico that she didn’t follow too closely. The most interesting thing was the girl. Wendy watched as she took out a lighter and heated up drugs on a spoon. One second after she sniffed it, she looked like every problem in her brain had floated away.

  Wendy wondered if she’d get into drugs now that she was a dropout. She never would have thought about that before. Who knew anymore? It looked sort of tempting, the way the girl drifted off into this happy mood every time she sniffed the stuff on the spoon. Wendy knew the movie was supposed to be showing you how bad it was to take drugs, because the girl also got so desperate to have drugs, she started having sex with all these guys. But the part Wendy kept thinking about was how the girl didn’t care about anything once she took the drugs. How every worry went away. Being stoned might be terrible, but maybe not as bad as thinking about your mother being dead all the time.

  The guy’s not very tuned in to his kid, is he? Garrett said. The mother in the movie knew she was on drugs, but Michael Douglas didn’t have a clue.

  I guess he was really busy with his job, Wendy said. Talking with the president and everything.

  Still, he said. He should have paid more attention, right?

  I guess so. She reached for the popcorn. She had told Garrett that she didn’t like butter on it, even though, with Amelia, they used a whole stick.

  That might be true of me, too, he said. Not paying enough attention. I know I haven’t been doing the greatest job these last few years.

  It was okay, she said. She could have said but didn’t that up till now she had her mom and Josh.

  I didn’t have the best role model, he said. My father was always off working when I was a kid. Either that or playing golf. When he came home, all he wanted to do was read the paper and drink his martini. He liked it if you won a tennis tournament, but other than that, I was never all that sure he would have noticed if I just didn’t show up.

  That must have felt bad.

  One thing it does is set you free in a way, he said. There’s nothing holding you back. I to
ok off when I turned eighteen, and never felt anything pulling me back. The whole thing made me my own person.

  Anne Frank had said something like that when she was describing how she felt about her problems getting along with her mother. “I’ve emerged from the struggle a stronger person,” she wrote. “ . . . There’s only one person I’m accountable to, and that’s me.”

  I’m not saying I’m so much better at it now, either, Garrett was saying. On the screen, Michael Douglas had discovered his daughter sitting on the toilet, taking drugs.

  I want to do better, Garrett said.

  It made her uncomfortable hearing him talk this way. With someone like Josh, who was always talking about his feelings, it wouldn’t seem so odd, but with Garrett, it was different. You could tell he’d be more comfortable talking about trout lures or the designated-hitter rule.

  How do you like the popcorn? he asked.

  It was microwave. Another thing Josh said they should make a law against, along with margarine and Minute Rice. At home, they had an old-fashioned popper with a crank you turned while the kernels were popping. Josh used some special oil and more butter than her mom said was good for them.

  Great, she said. She put a hand under the blanket and felt her stomach. Almost flat.

  That Catherine Zeta-Jones, he said. She even looks good pregnant.

  Fifteen

  It was Sunday.

  With her mom and Josh, if there was a day Wendy didn’t have school and neither one of them was working, they’d nearly always head out on some special family outing. They would go to a museum or the zoo, or take a road trip.

  Josh had a thing about amusement parks. They knew all the roller coasters within driving distance of the city, but now and then he’d hear about some new ride, and they’d have to go try it. Her mom hated scary rides, and Louie was still too little to meet the height requirement. It’s up to you and me, Wen, he’d say. Let’s test-drive this baby.

  They’d buckle themselves in while her mom and Louie stood at the fence.

  The first couple of times she went on a roller coaster with Josh, she was scared and only went to make him happy, but then she started loving them, too. For one thing, he held on to her so tight she knew nothing bad could possibly happen. If it gets really dicey, start singing at the top of your lungs, he said. There was this Fats Waller song, “Choo Choo Cha Boogie.” That was their favorite for roller coasters. But sometimes they sang old Beatles songs, the early period.