Mary was glad when the day ended and the final bell clanged, and she pedaled home by herself on the bicycle that Griffin had given her.
Only 179 more school days to go.
It would be a five marshmallow afternoon.
26
[wolves]
Saturday night and an empty house. Mary was alone and loving the freedom and solitude. She could do anything she wanted—there was no one looking over her shoulder—and it was laughable to see what kind of everyday, normal, boring activities she chose. Mary made a big bowl of popcorn in the microwave. Read for a while. She thought about lounging on the couch and watching a scary movie, but it was already dark outside and she wasn’t absolutely 100 percent sure she could handle the fear factor.
There were times when Mary wished she had a dog. Those times were morning, noon, and night, every single day of her life. But now, alone in her groaning, buzzing, creaking home—the house was never this loud when people were around—Mary strongly felt that lifetime desire. Dog as companion and protector. So she got a little spooked when at nine thirty there were voices at the front door, and sharp knocking.
“Little May, Little May, let us in!” Jonny roared. “Or with a huff … and a puff…” She heard laughter, giggling. He wasn’t alone. She peeked out the window and saw a thin girl in a black skirt with stringy auburn hair and another boy she’d didn’t recognize. He wore a big, loose afro and dark shades, which was ridiculous because, yeah, it was dark out. He puffed on a vape; Mary saw its glow intensify, then fade to black.
Mary stood by the closed door, watching the doorknob jiggle.
Jonny rapped against the door more forcefully. “Oh, May? Oh, my darling sister?”
“Mom’s not home,” Mary said through the door.
“May, I don’t have a key,” Jonny said. “Are you going to let us in or what?”
She heard voices and laughter. The other boy said something about checking around the back. Was the glass door locked? Yes, Mary remembered. She’d locked every door and window. “Mom said not to let you inside,” she said through the closed door. “I’m sorry.”
“Mary, Jesus,” Jonny snapped. “Just open the door.”
Mary turned the lock, click, and stepped back.
The door swung open and Jonny tumbled inside, waving in his two companions. Mary backed up another step. A ripple of apprehension floated down her spine. “I’m alone,” she repeated. “Are you here to pay back the money you owe me?”
“May-May, my sweet May!” Jonny said, opening his arms in greeting. “Vivvy, Dez, this is my little sister, May-May. Any food in the kitchen? Mom’s always got good snacks. Ernesto loves those pretzel nuggets! We’re starved, May, famished!”
Mary crossed her arms. Dez had a shabby, scarecrow-left-in-the-rain appearance, faded jeans and a rumpled shirt. Vivvy, who was surely Vivian Connelly, Griff’s sister, had all the features of faded beauty: long, straight hair, narrow hips, slender shoulders—but with orange-blue discolorations on one arm, like she’d bumped into a brick wall. Mary decided by the looks of things that her brother was very much with the wrong crowd, and he fit in perfectly.
Vivvy and Dez glanced around, as if casing a bank for security cameras. They nodded in Mary’s direction without ever looking her in the eyes. “There’s some frozen pizza, I think,” Mary offered.
“Where’s the booze at?” Dez asked. He giggled softly. A joke that wasn’t a joke. Vivian, who had Griff’s same complexion and hair color, smacked Dez playfully and shushed him.
“Whoa, popcorn!” Jonny lurched at the bowl on the dining room table. He shoved a fistful into his mouth, dropping kernels to the floor. Mary’s art supplies were spread out on the table.
“Jonny? Jonny!” Mary repeated, trying to get his attention. He seemed high on something, unfocused, giddy. “What’s going on?”
He turned and, with some effort, focused on his sister. A crooked smile reached his lips. “May Queen! We decided to bring the party here.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mary said.
Dez and Vivvy tottered toward the kitchen. Dez paused at a photo on the wall, snickered as if it said something funny. A private joke. “That you, man?” he called to Jonny.
“What? Yeah, that’s us, Cape Cod,” Jonny replied, walking over to the framed photograph. “Long time ago, right, May? You must have just turned three. Our last vacation together with Mom and Dad.” He scratched uncomfortably at the inside of his elbow. “Anyway, help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen, guys! I’ll be in inna minute. Just need to”—he waggled a hand in the direction of the stairs—“get a few things.”
He stomped up the stairs while the others walked loose-limbed into the kitchen, flicking on the lights and noisily opening cupboards and drawers. Mary stood as if under siege, not sure where to turn. Her phone was charging on the table. She unplugged it and slipped it into her back pocket. What should she do?
“How do you work this oven?” Vivian called. Mary hurried into the kitchen. Vivian Connelly had already placed a box of frozen pizza onto a baking rack, and was vacantly hovering a finger over the oven controls.
“Um, you were going to take it out of the box, right?” Mary said, as if talking to a child. She stepped in, gently brushed Viv aside, removed the pizza from the box, removed the plastic wrapper, and set the controls. “It should be ready in fifteen minutes,” she told them, setting the timer.
Dez pulled out a box of cereal and had plunged his arm into it up to the elbow.
“We have bowls, spoons,” Mary offered, voice dripping with snark. She made a silent note to discard the box after they left.
Dez kept chewing. He probably didn’t realize she was talking. He seemed pretty absorbed in chewing, as if it required all his concentration.
Jonny thumped down the stairs.
He was carrying a Tiffany lamp and a shoebox.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked.
“I need this for my apartment,” Jonny said.
“That was in Mom’s room,” Mary said. “I think it’s expensive.”
Jonny sniffed, rubbed his nose with the sleeve of his upper arm. “I hope so. Anyway, I need light. I can’t sit in the dark, May. You guys have all this fancy stuff while I’m in a dingy hovel. Is that fair?”
“What’s in there?” Mary asked, gesturing to the box.
“Baseball cards. I’m going to sell ’em,” he said, sniffingly.
“Those were Dad’s,” Mary said. “You can’t—”
“Calm down, May, it’s not his ashes, it’s just cardboard. I can get good money for these.”
“His ashes,” Mary repeated in disbelief. It felt like a punch to the gut.
Jonny stood, slightly wavering.
“You’re gross. I hate you,” Mary said. “Get out. Mom will be back any minute. You don’t want to be here when—”
“She’s in the city, seeing a play,” Jonny said. “Mom won’t be back for hours. How do you think I knew to come over here?”
“You’re such a jerk,” Mary said.
Jonny nodded, as if in agreement. He even smiled wanly, looking sad and stricken. Maybe somewhere deep down she had wounded him.
“Yo, look what I found,” Dez cried, entering the room. He held up a quart-size bottle of liquor. “Rum from Jamaica, mon!”
“That’s not yours,” Mary protested.
“Your mom won’t miss it,” Dez told Jonny, ignoring Mary completely. “It was way, way in the back.”
“Get out,” Mary ordered.
Dez looked from Mary to Jonny. “What’s up with this? You said she was cool.”
“She is,” Jonny murmured. He lowered his head, then perked up again, raising the lamp in triumph. “Let’s go. I got what we needed.”
“Score!” Vivvy celebrated, twirling car keys on her index finger. “Bye, bye, little sister. It’s been real.”
“You’re driving?” Mary said in shock.
“No, we’re going to walk five mil
es,” Jonny said.
“Jog, maybe,” Dez quipped, snickering again. It’s what he did, Mary surmised, made unfunny comments and giggled like he was the only one deep enough to get the joke. Truly annoying. They tumbled out the door like leaves blown by some invisible wind. Mary turned the lock and leaned her back against the wall, breathing heavily, relieved they were gone. After a few minutes, the oven dinged.
Pizza was ready.
And there on the side table, Mary saw the shoebox of baseball cards. Jonny had left them behind. Maybe he wasn’t ready to sell those memories after all.
27
[junkie]
Mary hadn’t said more than ten words to Griffin Connelly since the ketchup incident. They saw each other in the halls, locked eyes, but didn’t speak or smile. No one in school would have detected any outward enmity—theirs was just your basic, standard freeze-out. It was just one more thing that added to the overall suckiness of seventh grade in September. Middle school blues: the trouble with Chantel, the weirdness within the shifting dynamics of her friend group, and bad vibes from the entire crew that hung around with Griff. It didn’t leave a lot of options. No matter where Mary turned, nothing felt right. She’d already bombed a science test and was lost in math—Ms. Parmeleit was the worst at explaining things, and she was an unbearable Yankees fan, constantly crowing about every last victory. Up to this year, Mary had aced her studies without effort. But things had changed.
Outside during recess, a loose gathering of students sat at the tables under the shade of a large, umbrella-shaped tree. Drew Peterson sauntered up to Mary’s table with Will and Sinjay. “We ran into your brother last weekend.”
Mary slowly turned her head in the direction of Droopy in a show of supreme indifference.
“It was messed up,” the big, raw-boned boy continued. “Is your brother, like, homeless or something?” He had a sneering, mocking attitude in his delivery. “Jonny, right?”
Mary glanced at the others, assessing the mood. At least eight people had heard what he said. In middle school, that was as good as making announcements on the PA system. The whole world would know. Droopy had also gotten the attention of Alexis and Chrissie, who lived for this kind of playground gossip. “Don’t you have somewhere to go?” Mary spat.
“It was scuzzy—he was with a couple of dirtbag friends. He asked if we knew you. What happened to him? They were smoking cigarettes and even tried to hit us up for money—I mean, we were all wondering, is your brother a junkie?”
“How do you even—” snapped Mary.
“Is that true, Mary?” Alexis asked.
“Oh, so true!” Droopy interjected, enjoying the spotlight. “Total human trash show. Cigarette butts, broken glass everywhere. We were, like, gone, you know, out of there. Bunch of dopeheads. I didn’t want to be near that stuff. Griff told us they sniff heroin, maybe shoot it.”
Griff told us, Mary noted. Was he the one pulling these strings? She felt the presence of eyes on her, waiting for a reaction. Mary shifted with embarrassment. A worm of shame crawled through her stomach. She found it hard to think. A dull roar, like the drone of a jet engine, filled her head.
Chrissie reached out, squeezed Mary’s hand.
“That’s enough, be gone,” Alexis said, flicking a wrist at the boys.
“We want to be alone with our girl,” Chrissie said.
Mary appreciated their support. They could be really nice at times. A moment later, Mary got up to leave. “I’ve got to, um,” she stammered. “The nurse’s office.”
“Are you okay?” Chrissie asked. “Do you want us to come with you?”
Mary didn’t answer. She just blindly hurried away, bent slightly forward, holding her stomach. She muttered something about the nurse’s office and barreled past Mrs. Rosen, the trim and tidy lunch aide, who wisely let Mary go. When kids held their stomachs and moaned about the nurse’s office, Mrs. Rosen knew to get out of the way. It wasn’t her first rodeo.
Claiming a killer migraine (which always worked) and a mother too busy with work at the bank to pick her up, Mary managed to spend the rest of the school day in the nurse’s office. She lay on a cot in a darkened space, an aromatic towel draped across her forehead. She felt humiliated about Jonny, and at the same time she hated herself for letting it get to her. Why was she so afraid and embarrassed? As if what Drew Peterson thought meant anything to her. And yet, there it was: she couldn’t even rise up in defense of her only brother. He had called Jonny “human trash” and a “junkie,” and she just sat there in stunned silence and shame.
Mary’s thoughts bounced around like bumper cars the rest of the day, so that when it was time to go, she felt foggy and uncertain. Not wanting to look at another face, Mary lingered until the buses left and most of the walkers departed. She distractedly fumbled with the lock at the bike racks when she heard a voice. “Everything okay?”
Mary turned and saw the school cop, Officer Goldsworthy, standing nearby. He often circulated outside at the end of the school day, saw the buses off, kept a low-key eye on the comings and goings. Mary realized she’d been crying, burbling like a baby while spinning the combination lock round in circles. No wonder he checked on her. In response, Mary wiped her eyes. “Fine, I’m good,” she said, looking at her feet. “Really.”
Technically the school’s resource officer, Officer Goldsworthy was a cop who’d been assigned to the middle school. He was an intimidating presence, a large black man who always looked physically constrained in a suit and necktie, but Mary had never seen him do anything other than talk quietly to people. A lot of big guys were like that. They didn’t have to “do” anything, because nobody dared test them.
There, Mary finally got the lock. She wrapped the chain loosely around the seat pole and rolled the bike out of the rack. He was still there, watching.
“That’s a nice bicycle, Mary. Is it new?”
He knew her name. Okay, that was unexpected.
“I borrowed it from a friend,” she answered.
Officer Goldsworthy nodded. “That’s a nice friend.”
A short laugh leaped from Mary’s throat. “Not really.”
He laughed, too, and asked, “How’s your brother doing?”
Oh hell, not now. Mary wasn’t up for this. She snapped on the strap of the bicycle helmet. “He’s…”
And that’s all her mouth could manage. Her vocal cords glitched. The words wouldn’t come.
“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “I’ll leave you alone. Maybe we’ll talk another time.” He turned to step away and stopped himself. He loitered for a few seconds, nodding, looking off at the clouds. “I’m rooting for him. You tell Jonny that for me. I’m rooting for all of you.”
“You know him?”
“I do,” Officer Goldsworthy said, stepping closer. “I remember Jonny when he went here. We talked sometimes. I played football for Clemson, back when I had two good knees. Jonny liked asking me about that. And I’ve seen him since.”
Mary looked at the man. Without thinking, she blurted, “Some jerk called him a junkie today. That’s why I was crying.”
The man took that in, gave it some thought.
“Is that what you call him?” he asked.
Mary shook her head. “He’s my brother.”
Officer Goldsworthy scratched the side of his face. He wore a big, gold ring. “At the force, we’re trying to get away from that kind of language. It’s degrading and demeaning. Junkie. Druggie. Crackhead. Addict. It dehumanizes the victims of this disease.”
Mary listened, swallowed. Her throat felt dry.
“There’s too much blame and not enough compassion,” the man said. “I don’t think calling people names helps us face the problem, do you?”
Mary’s eyes supplied him with her answer.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to preach,” he said. “That’s something I got from my father, the good Reverend Goldsworthy. But this is an issue I care about a great deal. We see a lot of it around here, more
than you’d expect. The EMTs, you don’t want to hear their stories. It’s the hidden disease. People don’t like to talk about it. The shame and the suffering. We’ve lost too many lives already.”
Mary didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything to say.
And then, in parting, the man offered up five simple words, like a priest at the altar in a high-ceilinged church: “Your brother’s a good kid.”
Mary watched him walk toward the front doors, feeling the echo of his words reverberate in her chest. He was, she thought. Maybe he always will be. Mary pushed the bike back into the rack, left it unlocked, dumped the helmet on the ground, and walked home. She’d never ride that bike again. Three days later, it was gone.
28
[paella]
Ernesto had been spending more time at the house, which didn’t bother Mary. He did something subtle that Mary observed but couldn’t quite figure out. Her mom was happier, lighter, but that wasn’t it. Everything just went smoother, like in science when she experimented with friction and gravity. Mary recalled sliding blocks of wood down a ramp. Each identical block was covered with different surfaces: aluminum foil, ordinary wood, and sandpaper. The aluminum foil slid down easily, the regular block came next, while the sandpaper required a lot more gravity.
Ernesto, she realized, was aluminum foil.
Less friction.
He cooked that night for the first time in their house, and Mary helped. It was fun. They made a traditional paella dish that Ernesto said he learned from his grandmother, who immigrated from Spain long ago.
“First a sprinkle of salt into the pan, then the olive oil,” Ernesto instructed. He prepared the chicken—which was gross, not Mary’s thing—and had Mary fry it in the pan. When the chicken was almost ready, he asked her to open space in the middle of the pan for the vegetables, lima beans, and other greens. With flair, Ernesto added the seasonings. “I never measure,” he said, scoffing at the thought. “A good cook does it by taste.” He threw in sweet paprika and grated tomato and garlic. Mary stirred it all together, breathing in the rich aroma. Ernesto poured in chicken stock and two pinches of saffron, bringing it all to a boil.
Upstander Page 9