Upstander

by James Preller

  “I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” Mary said.

  “Ah, this is simple. I’ve lived alone many years. Look at my belly—I do okay, no? But today I miss my pots and pans. A good cook wants an iron skillet, Mary, not this fake Teflon stuff. It flakes off, you die, cancer, boom. What good is that? And these flimsy knives,” he said, making a face, “very sad.”

  Mary’s mother, laughing from a seat at the table, said, “You should bring your knives here, if mine make you want to cry.”

  Ernesto turned to her, “If you’d like.”

  It felt to Mary like she was witnessing a moment. They were talking about knives, but it was bigger than that. A merging of cutlery, of lives. “What now?” she asked.

  “The rice!” Ernesto exclaimed. He poured it into the pan. “No more stirring, Mary. Give your arm a rest. Now we let it cook. You can set the table, if you don’t mind. And pour your splendid mother more wine.” Ernesto adjusted the flame to a simmer with painstaking precision.

  “Pay attention, Mary. I like the rice to be a little burnt, sticking to the bottom of the pan,” he said, a trick his grandmother had taught him. “Some lemon and—perfection!”

  The meal was a happy one, and delicious. They didn’t talk about Jonny. And Mary noticed that her mother never once checked her phone.

  “But what a mess you’ve made of my kitchen!” Mary’s mother teased.

  “No, no, you sit,” Ernesto said when the meal was finished. “I actually like to clean.”

  Mrs. O’Malley looked at Mary, raising her eyebrows and flashing a discreet thumbs-up. Mary grinned. “Mom, maybe you should show Ernesto where we keep the vacuum.”

  Later, snuggling together on the living room couch, Mary told her mother about what happened at school and her conversation with Officer Goldsworthy. Mrs. O’Malley rubbed Mary’s back while she listened.

  “We have so much to learn.” Mary’s mother got up and returned with a few pamphlets. “Here’s some information I got from the therapist. I should have involved you sooner. Maybe we can go together one day. All of us. A family session. I think it will help.”

  She continued, “Your brother has a damaged brain. Think of it as a broken leg. It’s not that he’s ‘bad’ or ‘weak’ or ‘selfish.’ Yes, he’s made mistakes—it’s true. Haven’t we all? But now the drugs have impaired the way his brain processes information. It’s like his wiring is all screwed up. The signals and messages aren’t right. Even if Jonny sincerely wants to get on the road to recovery, it’s likely not going to be a smooth, straight line—there may be relapses, bad scenes.”

  “Like the other night,” Mary said.

  “I’m very sorry you had to go through that,” she answered. “I’ve tried to protect you from it. Maybe that was another of my mistakes. I do that a lot. But this is our life now. We don’t get to pick our stories. And I think for you—and for me—we’re going to have to learn how to carry this weight.” She reached out with two fingers and lifted Mary’s chin. “Head high, chin up.”

  Mary felt a small change happening within her. As if a chrysalis had formed deep in her belly. Some new miracle would emerge. Not only a new way of thinking about her brother, but a new way of feeling about everything, and everyone. She silently promised herself that no matter what, she would never again feel ashamed of Jonny. Pissed off, maybe. Angry, hurt, disappointed, sure. But not ashamed.

  “Did he ever find his phone?” Mary asked.

  “The one he supposedly lost?”

  Mary allowed a new thought to enter her mind. Maybe Jonny didn’t lose it. Maybe he sold it. She had to remember not to believe him. To love, but not to trust. It was confusing.

  Mrs. O’Malley took a long, slow breath. “I bought him a cheap phone. Just so he can receive calls, text. That’s something I insisted on. We have to have a way to stay in contact. Especially if he needs us, ever, for any reason.”

  “That’s smart,” Mary said. “Same number?”

  “Yes, same number,” Mary’s mother answered.

  Mary fell asleep early that night before ten o’clock. It had been a day, and her stomach was full. But a voice awakened her in the middle of the night. “Jonny?” she said, sitting up, expecting to see him by the side of the bed. But no one was there, just the lingering sound of his voice in her ears. Must have been dreaming. She picked up the phone to check the time. It was 3:37.

  He was in trouble somewhere.

  Mary punched in a message, writing to him by his old nickname: Jonny Bear.

  He answered, amazingly, thirty seconds later. May Queen.

  And that was enough. He was alive, somewhere in the night, and they were connected by a gossamer thread.

  What are you doing up? he wrote.

  Mary yawned, typed, Going back to bed now.

  I’m sorry, he wrote. My little May.

  Shhh, she answered.

  I’m so sorry, he wrote again, five minutes later. You deserve better than me.

  But she had already fallen back to sleep.

  29

  [empathy]

  Mary saw Eric in school during home base, lunch, and last period—English. They managed to talk a little, exchange a few words, every day. She noticed that he kept an eye on her, and she was pleased by the attention. They sometimes traveled the same pathways from class to class, silently in close proximity. Mary began to treasure these little moments of nearness. Nothing earth-shattering, just a growing ease in each other’s presence.

  “Still no phone,” Mary teased, leaning on his desk in home base.

  “Nope, but I do own a guitar,” Eric said, looking up at her, his blue eyes shining.

  “Okay, maybe that beats a phone,” Mary said. “Are you any good?”

  “No, I suck,” he said, laughing. “Every time I pick it up, it’s a knife fight—and the guitar kicks my butt every single time.”

  Mary suspected it wasn’t true. He wasn’t the kind of kid who’d brag. If he was good, Eric wouldn’t say so. They talked about what kind of music they liked. Mary didn’t know many of the groups he mentioned, but she nodded at the familiar names. “I guess I’m more into radio stuff.” She named a popular hit song. “Do you like it?” A straight-up question.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” Eric replied with hesitation.

  Mary smiled, leaned closer. “I think it’s insanely bad. Makes my ears bleed.”

  “Whew, I didn’t want to say,” Eric admitted.

  “In case I liked it?”

  “In case you loved it,” he answered. “It would have cast doubt on the future of our, you know, friendship.”

  Mary heard it, the slight catch in his voice. By the look on his face, she guessed he didn’t intend to say it. Not the words so much, but the tentative, vulnerable way the words fell from his lips. She answered, “I’m glad to hear I passed the test.”

  So, yeah, she was putting that out there.

  “I wouldn’t go that far—it was just a quiz,” Eric joked.

  “Talking about music makes me think of my brother,” Mary said.

  Eric looked baffled. “Because … why?”

  “He always used to have a passionate opinion about everything—and he was always right. I mean, sometimes I would like a song, but I wouldn’t know why. I’m not super sophisticated about music. I like what I like, and that’s as far as it goes. But Jonny—that’s my brother, but you guessed that—he would lay it all out in excruciating detail, and explain exactly why some song I liked was the worst song ever in the history of western civilization. In the most hysterical and cruel way!” Mary laughed, remembering how smart and caustically funny he could be. “A cheesy song filled with clichés would make him so angry. He’d snap pencils in half, throw things. But mostly, my brother would make me come into his room and tell me what I had to listen to—like, right that second, he’d cue up a song, wrap the headphones around my head. I was this little girl, third grade maybe, and he’d be, like, ‘You must listen to this tune by the Ramones!’”
r />   “Sounds like you love him,” Eric observed.

  “Does it?” Mary asked, as surprised as if a wombat had suddenly waddled into the classroom. She hadn’t expected to be talking about her brother, recalling good times. Mary thought it over. “Yeah, I pretty much used to flat-out worship him.”

  “Used to.”

  “What?”

  “Past tense,” Eric said.

  “Things changed,” Mary admitted, glancing at the wall clock. Some shift in the room alerted her that time was almost up. People packing up, tucking papers in folders. Fourth period next. “He’s just … different now. My brother loves only one thing.”

  Eric grinned. “Yeah? Like what? Bavarian polka music?”

  “Getting wasted,” Mary replied.

  “Oh.”

  That lowered the temperature fast.

  “He has a problem with addiction,” Mary said, immediately regretting the language. “I guess I should say, he has a substance use disorder. It’s like he has a broken leg in his brain. He gets mixed-up signals. Something about dopamine, chemicals in the brain, frontal lobes—I don’t understand it completely.” It was the first time she’d confessed those things to anyone other than her mother. Something about Eric made it feel safe, that she could trust this blond-haired boy with her secrets. She could be her true self.

  Eric looked pensive. It was one of his endearing features, the way he’d ruminate deeply before speaking, arranging his thoughts in perfect order, like the Thanksgiving dinner table before company arrived. Napkins, plates, candles, centerpiece, just so. Eric asked, “Is he getting help?”

  “Doesn’t want it,” Mary replied. “Thinks he doesn’t need it. He’s wrong.”

  “Can’t your parents make him go to one of those places?”

  Mary shook her head, suddenly exhausted. It was a hard topic to discuss. “He’s too old. Once you’re eighteen, they can’t legally make you do anything. My mom says he has to be involved in the decision-making or it won’t work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eric said, and he offered it up in such a way that Mary believed the words were genuine. It wasn’t just an empty phrase. Eric truly felt sorry, as if he’d carried around some similar sadness of his own. Like he knew. What was it called? Empathy. Eric had something that people like Griff would never understand.

  Everybody has stories, she figured.

  “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “I hope it gets better for you guys.”

  Mary pointed a finger at her heart. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  She caught herself and added, “Just to be clear, it’s not because I’m ashamed or anything. It’s just … you know. I don’t need everyone in my business.”

  30

  [denial]

  Everything turned in October, the month when it all hit the fan. Leaves were beginning to change color: yellow, orange, red. Mary had learned (and somehow remembered) the reason: in autumn, there was less light and temperatures fell, signaling to the trees that big changes were in the air. So they stopped making chlorophyll, like a factory shutting down, which was responsible for the green color. In colder climates, deciduous trees turned garishly brilliant before dropping their leaves altogether. Then they shifted into survival mode, like turtles overwintering in the mud. Skeletal limbs braced for whatever came their way.

  Mary knew the feeling.

  At home, Mary’s mom sat in the backyard on a dark red Adirondack chair. Mary opened the sliding glass door. “Hey,” Mary said, “there you are.” She knew from the look on her mother’s face that something was wrong.

  “Tell me,” Mary said.

  “Oh, it’s your brother again,” Mrs. O’Malley said, glancing at her phone in irritation. “He’s in love and moving in with his girlfriend, Vivian.”

  “Vivvy,” Mary said, picturing the rail-thin girl who stood in their kitchen and tried to cook pizza while it was still in the box—and the plastic wrapper. Griff’s sister. If left alone, she might have burned down the house. Great roommate.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about that girl,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “I don’t know what this new apartment is all about. He says he had a falling out with Dez, and that this new arrangement with Vivvy will save money. Supposedly there’s other people living there, too.” She bit at her nails, chewing on the skin of her fingers. “I’m at my wit’s end.”

  Mary thought of making a joke about her mom’s healing crystals. Maybe they weren’t working out so well. Or maybe they were helping—she just needed to buy more! Maybe order by the truckload. Mary smiled to herself, imagining a huge delivery truck pulling up to the house. Here’s your quarry, lady, where do you want it?

  She decided not to share the joke. The time didn’t seem right. “He’s still going to the therapist?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, so far, so good. But I don’t know. It’s so hard. You can relapse like that,” Mrs. O’Malley said, snapping her fingers on the last word. “Jonny’s so vulnerable right now. And he’s smitten with this girl.”

  An hour later, mother and daughter were still in the yard, Mary reading in the hammock, when Ernesto returned home from the dealership. Yes, home. He was pretty much living there full time, along with his favorite iron skillet and kitchen knives. He surveyed the scene, the lack of movement in the kitchen, and proposed a solution. “Let’s go bowling. We can get pizza there.”

  “What? Now?” Mrs. O’Malley said.

  “Yes, now,” Ernesto said, checking the time. “The leagues start up at seven thirty on Fridays. If we get a move on now, there should still be lanes open. What about you, Mary? Want to come?”

  Mary closed her book. “I guess—” she said without enthusiasm.

  “You could bring a friend,” her mother suggested. “I never hear about Chantel anymore.”

  “She’s so busy,” Mary replied.

  Mrs. O’Malley stood with hands on her hips. Leaning left, leaning right. That was her notion of yoga.

  “I’ll try,” Mary said to appease her mother. She sent Chantel a text: I know this is random but do you want to go bowling? Like now?

  Shockingly, Chantel replied, Sure!

  Okay, that wasn’t expected.

  Twenty minutes later, the four of them were trying on two-toned bowling shoes. Red and navy blue. “I look good in these,” Mary observed.

  “I’ll order a couple of pizzas,” Ernesto said. “Some wings, too. Soda okay? Root beer? What about you, Chantel, what floats your boat? How do you like your pie? Cheese, mushrooms, sausage, pepperoni, the works?”

  “Just don’t say Hawaiian,” Mary advised. “Ernesto believes that pineapple on pizza is a crime against nature.”

  “Cheese, please,” Chantel said. And to Mary, “Come on, let’s go pick out our balls.”

  The two girls wandered off while Mrs. O’Malley and Ernesto set up camp in Lane 16.

  “I was surprised you texted me,” Chantel said.

  “Yeah, I’ve been, like—”

  “Busy, huh?” Chantel said. “Spending time with Alexis and Chrissie.”

  Mary didn’t answer. She plugged her fingers into a pink-and-purple ball with a tie-dye design. It looked awesome but weighed a ton.

  “I prefer a light ball,” Chantel said, weighing the heft of a solid red ball in her hands.

  Mary tried a green marble ball. It wasn’t right, either. Also: not very pretty. “Oh wow, this one’s cool!” She lifted up a bright neon orange ball.

  Chantel was scowling, intently flipping through images on her phone. She held it out at arm’s length to show Mary. It was an image of a heavy black girl in a bathing suit, from knees to neck. A silhouette of a pig’s head sat on top of it. Below it were the words, OINK, OINK! CHANTEL WILLIAMS WANTS TO MESS AROUND WITH YOU!

  Whoa, that’s messed up, Mary thought. Before seeing this image on Chantel’s phone, Mary had remained in a twilight between knowing and not knowing. She’d been aware that stuff was going on without learning the details. But now seeing the hurt in Chan
tel’s face, the impact hit home.

  “You do this?” Chantel asked.

  “What? Oh my God, no!” Mary sputtered. “Where’d you get that?”

  Chantel’s face was hard and resolute. She waited.

  “Seriously, I swear,” Mary said.

  Chantel flipped through some images, but seemed to decide against sharing them. She pocketed the phone. “There are others that have gone around that are worse. Hakeem told me. He’s disgusted by the whole thing. I’m surprised you haven’t seen them.”

  Over Chantel’s shoulder, Mary saw Tamara Agee and a few other girls from school enter the alley. Please, no, Mary thought. The last thing she needed was to be seen with Chantel. To Mary’s relief, Tamara walked in the opposite direction.

  “You have no idea what this is about?” Chantel’s eyes fixed Mary in place the way a pin through the thorax secures an insect to a display case.

  “No,” Mary said.

  “I want to believe you, so I will,” Chantel reasoned.

  She knows who is behind it, Mary decided. But she isn’t sure about me.

  “Do you know who did this?” Mary asked.

  “I have a good enough idea, but I’m not one hundred percent positive,” Chantel said. “You know them. People you’re friends with. I just ignore it. What am I going to do, take on the whole pack by myself?”

  Mary raised an eyebrow, as if to ask, “Why not?”

  “It’s not who I am. I refuse to be shamed by them,” Chantel said. There was steel in her voice. But in that brief moment, Chantel’s guard dropped. Mary saw a sparkle of moisture in her eyes. Not yet a tear, but the pool from which tears are formed. Chantel said, “I can’t get into trouble. My parents would take away my privileges.”

  “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Chantel wavered slightly. “Nobody’s perfect, Mary. I’m not the angel you think I am. There are things I’d prefer my parents didn’t find out. I’ll handle this on my own. I just need it to go away.”