The Usual Rules

by Joyce Maynard

I think Sunday would work fine for the trip, if you were interested in coming along, he said. Tim seems to be getting a little better about my changing the schedule now and then.

  Alan was quieter than usual on the drive. She was talking about A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The girl, Francie, lived in a different part of Brooklyn from where Wendy came from, and she was very poor, but Wendy could just picture sitting out on the fire escape the way Francie did, with her package of peppermints and her new library book, losing herself in the story.

  She also told him about the book they were reading in English, Lord of the Flies. The boys in Lord of the Flies went crazy, too, a little like the butcher boy. But unlike the butcher boy, who was also named Francie, oddly enough, it seemed as if the writer was saying that when you put people in a bad enough situation, they would do terrible things to one another, because that was their true nature. That was the difference about the butcher boy. Even after he’d killed Mrs. Nugent, you could still believe that he was a good person. The boys in Lord of the Flies were just plain bad. Wendy didn’t want to believe life was really that way, but maybe it was.

  Normally Alan would have observations of his own about the books, but he mostly just listened.

  My wife isn’t coming back from the ashram, he said. She decided to stay up there.

  Forever? Wendy asked.

  Who knows? She said it feels better living there now. Being away.

  She might change her mind after some time passes, Wendy said. How about you? What will you do now?

  I’ll probably carry on pretty much the same as I always have, he said. What else can you do?

  On the porch at Homewood, the younger children were playing Picture Lotto. One of the teachers would hold up a card with a picture on it, and whoever had that picture on their card got to put a bean on it.

  House, said one of the teachers. The girl with the house on her card was sucking on the collar of her dress.

  Look at this, Lily, the teacher said. You’ve got the house. She placed the bean on Lily’s card.

  Bunny, said the teacher. She held up a new picture.

  I got it, said another girl, who had been rocking in her chair, winding thread around her finger.

  No, Davia, that’s a toaster, said the teacher. That’s what we put your bagel in at breakfast, remember?

  I got the bunny, said a boy, the one who knew so much about shipwreck disasters.

  We had a bunny one time, said the boy. My mother forgot to feed it carrots, and its teeth got so long, they curled all the way out its mouth like elephant tusks. One day, they poked through our bunny’s neck and he bled to death.

  That’s a very interesting story, Jacob, she said. I hope next time if you get a bunny, you’ll feed him more carrots to keep his teeth from doing that.

  We don’t get bunnies anymore, he said. We don’t get anything.

  They got to the room marked TIM AND BRIAN. Alan knocked. I’m here, he said. I brought our friend Wendy again.

  They waited. Silence.

  We’re coming in now, he said. Here we come.

  Alan opened the door. Tim stood there in his turtleneck and high-belted pants. His piercing blue eyes locked on Wendy.

  Picabo Street, he said. I call her Picabo Street.

  I used to call her Kitty, myself, Alan said. But her real name is Wendy.

  They had brought the laundry, but no tin of cookies this time, only store-bought. The Lego set was a man on a horse, a jousting knight.

  Number 6043, he said. I have that one already.

  I guess I forgot, Alan told him. Sometimes it’s hard to keep them straight.

  Wendy went over to the fish tank. The scuba diver was bent over his treasure chest, same as always, lifting the string of pearls up and down, up and down, as, all around him, bubbles rose from the mouth of the plastic frog.

  I was thinking maybe we should try a fish or two in that tank again, Alan said. Something along the lines of an angelfish. Those hardly ever die. What do you say, son?

  Tim didn’t answer.

  Not this week, maybe, said Alan. Just something to think about for the future.

  They drove to the Laundromat. Only one load of laundry this time, probably because his mother was at the ashram. No gardening clothes.

  He took the handful of quarters over to the detergent dispensing machine. Bought one packet of Tide and one of bleach.

  I don’t actually have a bleach wash for you today, Tim, Alan told him.

  They got ice cream. Tim was worried about getting back in time to start the dryer, but Alan said they’d be fine.

  Then they put the wet clothes in the dryer. Wendy had brought along a couple of the fabric softener sheets they had at her house that made the wash smell like lemons.

  The girl with the baby, he said.

  That’s right, she said. My friend Violet used these, didn’t she?

  We had pie, he said. Someday that baby won’t be little and cute anymore. They might put a ball in his head.

  You don’t miss a trick, do you, son? said Alan. It only seems like it.

  If we put a fish in my aquarium, it could die, he said. We’d have to flush it down the toilet.

  Everything dies someday, Tim, Alan said. But probably not for a long time.

  I have a joke for you, Tim, Wendy said. What’s white and wanders through the desert?

  He didn’t answer, but he looked up, as if he was trying to think of something.

  A flock of yogurt, she said.

  Normally, his face had a haunted look, as if there was a movie playing in his head, or a piece of music that nobody could tune in to but him. His blue eyes seemed so vacant, Wendy wondered if they saw anything at all.

  Now, though, an odd thing happened. Not all at once but slowly, like time-lapse photography, a small look of pleasure came over his face. First nothing more than engagement, the sense that her words had actually gotten through. Then an actual smile.

  A flock of yogurt, he said. A flock of yogurt. Get it? A flock of yogurt!

  What’s blue and hangs from the trees? she asked him.

  What? he said. A flock of yogurt?

  No, that was the last one. Tarzan in winter, she said.

  He looked at her blankly. Whatever small moment of connection they’d found, it had passed over like mist over the Golden Gate Bridge. Or maybe it was the opposite: For just a second there, the brilliant red towers of the bridge had shown themselves against the sky, but then the mist had rolled in again, obscuring the towers until you wouldn’t even know they were there anymore, or that there was a bridge, or a bay below it, or a city on the other side, full of buildings and people, Japanese gardens and cars, men pushing shopping carts and men sleeping under cardboard boxes, doormen and skateboarders and ballerinas. Nothing but fog.

  They got back to his room at the home earlier than usual, due to the light laundry load.

  So I’ll see you next week, son, Alan told Tim. Tim stood straight to receive his hug, arms at his sides as usual.

  They didn’t say anything, the first few minutes on the road, but she could tell from Alan’s face that he was feeling unsettled.

  Something like what happened there with the yogurt joke, he told her as they reached the entrance to the highway. I can live all week on a moment like that.

  Amelia called. So, she said. Any new developments in the saga of Kate and Josh?

  Words like that—saga—she picked up from her mother. I would never tell that woman anything, Wendy’s mother used to say, if I wasn’t prepared to have it broadcast across Park Slope.

  I’m fine about them, Wendy said.

  You are so amazing, Amelia said. All the things that keep happening to you, and you stay so brave and upbeat all the time.

  Good things happen, too, she said. It’s not all terrible.

  Does this mean you’re never coming back? Amelia asked. Because if so, I may just slit my wrists, it’s getting so incredibly boring here.

  What about Chief? Wendy asked.
r />   We broke up. I found out he had this other girlfriend from his old school. The one where he said it wasn’t really intense like with me. Then it turned out the whole time he was having sex with her.

  I don’t believe men. Her mother talking. Wendy on the couch, five years old.

  What don’t you believe?

  Anything.

  At least you didn’t have sex with him, right? said Wendy.

  Silence on the other end. Not exactly, Amelia said. But sort of.

  What are you talking about? said Wendy. I thought we were going to discuss it before we did anything like that. You were the one who was saying fourteen was too young. You could get pregnant, Wendy said. That happened to a friend of mine out here.

  He told me all these things. About how hard it is for a boy when he really wants to be with you and he can’t get this physical release he needs. It can actually be bad for his health.

  We didn’t exactly do it the way you can have a baby, Amelia said. We did it a different way.

  Did you like it?

  I liked having him for my boyfriend. I liked it that he liked me. Only it turned out he didn’t, even.

  On the other end of the line, Wendy was looking at her picture of Madonna on the wall, thinking about her song.

  Life used to be a lot simpler, huh? said Amelia. Everything got so complicated.

  It was probably always complicated, Wendy said. We just didn’t know before.

  Thirty-One

  A letter arrived for Wendy, postmarked Steamboat Springs, Colorado. From Todd.

  Dear Wendy,

  The first place I went after I got to Denver was Telluride.

  This guy told me the name of a ski resort he saw my brother working at back in the fall. Oh yeah, I remember him, the manager says when I got there. He took off back in November.

  I wouldn’t admit this to a lot of people, Wendy, but I started to cry. Not right then and there, but after, when I was outside. Out on the street of this dumb ski town full of all these happy-looking vacationers, families, parents and kids, guys with their girlfriends, me feeling like I don’t have anyone in the world anymore.

  Man, was it cold in that town. A girl comes over to me. This may seem like a dumb question, she says. But you wouldn’t have a brother named Kevin, would you? Because you look a lot like this kid I used to know.

  Turns out she worked at the same lift as him back in the fall. He told her he was heading to Steamboat, she said. Someone knew of a restaurant there that was hiring.

  This girl Brittany knew a guy that was driving there and he gave me a ride. Dropped me right in front of the restaurant.

  I walk in the door. Who’s the first person I see, standing there in this Wild West-type getup, cowboy hat and chaps and everything? My crazy brother.

  Ultra-bro, he says. Gives me a bear hug. Who knew why, but I started in crying all over again. Worse than the first time, only now it was on account of being so happy to see him, I thought I’d burst. Him too. The two of us were standing there in the middle of the restaurant, pounding each other on the back, doing this dance we made up when we were kids, where we used to pretend we were part of Riverdance.

  Hey, everyone, he’s yelling out. This is my little brother. You gotta meet my brother.

  So this is where I’m writing you from. My brother Kevin’s place in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, where I’m working as a busboy at Big Bob’s Old West Tavern, the breakfast shift, seven A.M. to three. Not doing as much skating as I’d like, considering every inch of potential sidewalk is covered with snow at the moment, but I’m working on my GED, if you can believe it, and if I keep up at this rate, I’ll be a high school graduate in a year, max. Kevin and me got an apartment together, a couple of wild and crazy bachelors in a town full of snow bunnies. Just joking.

  Really it’s more like we get up, go to work, stop by the deli on the way home to pick up something for dinner and maybe a video. I might put in a couple hours on my homework while he’s doing his assignments for this correspondence course on mechanical drafting he signed up for. Six-thirty, seven we grill ourselves a couple of steaks or what have you, put on the video, maybe split a beer. My brother gets us a cigar once in a while to share. We might sit around, smoking and shooting the breeze about the old days. Days off, we get to go snowboarding free at the mountain where his friend works, but it’s a rare night we haven’t hit the sack by ten-thirty. Funny thing is, I was never this happy in my whole life.

  I wanted to write and tell you, Wendy, how much it meant to me spending time with you Christmas, and I think you understand without me going into the particulars of what I’m referring to. If I never saw you again in my whole life, which I hope is not the case, I will never forget that night. I am not just referring to the kissing part either.

  I want you to know I also am thinking of you on this cold winter night and many others besides.

  Yours truly,

  Todd

  At first when Wendy picked up the phone all she heard was breathing. Then a small voice she knew saying, Now, Poppy?

  In the background, Josh’s voice. Now, Lou.

  She heard the sound of his xylophone then. Josh must be playing, because it wasn’t random notes; it was the tune of “Happy Birthday.”

  Happy birthday to you, Louie sang. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Sissy. Happy birthday to you.

  Hey, Louie, she said. I was just thinking about you.

  It’s your birthday, Sis, he told her. Did you know that?

  I did, Louie.

  Did you have a party?

  No party, but Garrett’s taking me into the city to a museum this weekend and out for Chinese food after. To Louie, she spoke of him as Garrett, though more and more lately she was calling him her father.

  And pretty soon it’s going to be my birthday, too, Louie said.

  I know, Louie, she said. Just one more month. Have you decided what you want?

  I already know what I’m getting, he said, in a low, serious whisper. But it’s a surprise.

  I wish I was going to be there.

  I’m being a very good boy, Sissy, he told her. The best I ever was.

  You were always good, Louie.

  But even better.

  Have you been over to Corey’s lately?

  Not so much, he said. But Kate and me go to the park a lot. Sometimes even on school days, when she gets out from work.

  That’s good, Wendy said. But I hope you don’t give up on Corey. He’s been a really good friend.

  Corey says there’s no such thing as magic.

  And what do you think, Louie?

  There is.

  Well, she said. It’s okay for friends to disagree. Amelia and I disagree sometimes, too, but she’s still my best friend.

  He said magic was dumb. I told him it was real. He said I was dumb if I said that. He hurt my feelings.

  Maybe you can just not talk about magic so much with Corey, knowing you have different ideas on the subject, she said. Hearing herself saying this, she got an odd feeling, as if she was hearing her mother’s voice.

  But it is real, right, Sis? he asked her again. Sometimes magic is real.

  Josh had sent her a package. She read the letter first.

  I could have sent you this at Christmas. But I decided it might be better if it came when there weren’t a million other things going on.

  You know how your mother always loved getting you presents. Truth is Jan started shopping for one holiday the day we finished with the last one. Two weeks after Christmas, she was bringing home things for you again and showing me. All year long, she was setting things aside on the top shelf of our closet for you. You probably knew that.

  She didn’t. Though sometimes, opening a package Christmas morning, she would recognize some item she’d admired in a store from months ago and wonder how her mother managed to remember and track it down.

  Treats make trouble, her mother used to say, and it was true she was never one for things like buying
you candy at the checkout, or video games or expensive clothes at department stores that hadn’t gotten marked down yet. But tell her about some funky pair of cowboy boots in a thrift shop or some great old ring in an estate sale, and she’d be there.

  Other kids got those toys they advertised on Saturday-morning TV when their birthday or Christmas rolled round, or board games, or Hello Kitty accessories. Wendy got a rabbit-fur muff for skating and a real treadle-operated sewing machine, not some toy version. One time, for her birthday, her mother gave her a whole box of interesting buttons and flower appliques to sew on her overalls. Another time it was a complete set of every eye-shadow color made by Estee Lauder that she’d talked some woman into giving her who worked at the makeup counter, when they got their new line in. A music box that you kept bath powder in, and every time you lifted the top, it played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” An antique Victrola and a set of old 78s, mostly Al Jolson. Red sparkle shoes like in The Wizard of Oz. A night-blooming jasmine plant to set by her bed, that really did bloom only at night, so when the blossoms opened, her room would be filled with the most wonderful smell.

  After September, Josh wrote in the letter, I found all kinds of stuff on her top shelf. Some things for your brother and one or two little items that must’ve been meant for me. But most of them were for you.

  He hadn’t wrapped the things separately, he said. He wanted her to find everything the way her mother had left them in the box.

  Carolyn was there in the kitchen while Wendy read Josh’s letter. It’s from my mom, she said quietly. Things she bought me a long time ago.

  Maybe you’d like to take the box into your room, where you could be private, Carolyn said. I can see how it might be kind of a big thing.

  I think I’ll wait till later to look, Wendy told her. I’m not quite ready yet. She set the box under her bed.

  Her birthday fell on a Friday. Garrett had told her to save Saturday, when he was off work. They were heading to San Francisco again.