I hand the phone back to the librarian. I’d already told Mom I didn’t need a ride. That was just an excuse to check up on me. It makes me feel strange, and sad, to think my mother doesn’t trust me anymore.
During a quiet time I go into the library to look for an article about the guy who wrote “Metamorphosis.” All of the books that have anything about Franz Kafka are already checked out. I guess Ms. Lee must have given the same assignment to all of her classes. I pick up the latest issue of People and take it over to one of the square tables in the reference section.
I sit at the dark, heavy wood table, the magazine open in front of me, absorbing the library atmosphere. The hushed conversations, the quiet air of books, the helpful, efficient librarians—it all feels so quietly safe. When we lived overseas, the base libraries were minimal, not like real libraries. The city libraries were often huge and beautiful, but the books were mostly in German, or Japanese, depending on where my dad was stationed. One of the first things I did when we moved to Hamilton Heights was to get my own library card.
I look out the window and see that nothing much is going on at the pet van, then I wander over to the travel section, near the entrance, and pick up a book about Germany. That’s where my dad is right now. That’s also the last place we lived, back when we all lived together on the base.
There’s a picture of Linderhof Castle, where this weird guy, Prince Ludwig II, built his own version of Fantasyland long before Walt Disney was ever around. And there are pictures of Augsburg, which is where we lived for awhile. It was like a whole different life, living in a town that was 2,000 years old and that was filled with buildings that were at least four or five hundred years old. In Hamilton Heights, the original Humane Society building is one of the oldest buildings still standing, and it’s not even a hundred years old.
“Erica?”
I look up to see Beth. “Oh, sorry,” I say, putting the book back on the shelf and catching up with her. She keeps her head down, eyes on the floor, as we walk past the busy check-out counter to the parking lot.
“I’m sorry, Sinclair. I guess I lost track of time.”
“That happens to me in libraries, too,” he says, smiling. “But help me get the dogs back in their cages now.”
After the dogs are secure back in their own spaces, and we’ve emptied the poop bags, I wash and spray my shoes and go to check the black and white dog in the infirmary. She still hasn’t eaten much. I hand-feed her a few bites.
“You’ll be okay,” I tell her. “You’re someplace where people will love you and take care of you. But you’ve got to try.”
Sinclair reaches in and touches her gently under the chin. “My poor, beautiful baby,” he coos.
This dog is anything but beautiful, but Sinclair, as if he’s read my mind, says, “If we see the beauty in her now, she’ll soon be so beautiful everyone can see it.”
“I just want her to start eating,” I say.
We walk past the double green doors that lead to the forbidden section where drugs are kept and euthanasia performed. Beth is waiting for us by Sinclair’s perfectly maintained old Dodge Dart. I climb in the back seat, leaving the front for Beth. Sinclair drops her off first, then takes me home. We sit in the driveway for a bit, talking.
“I can’t believe it’s only three weeks to Thanksgiving,” Sinclair says.
“I know. I think my dad will be home by then.”
“Do you have a big family Thanksgiving dinner?”
“We always do. Even when we were living overseas we usually managed the home for the holidays thing. How about you?”
“My family always does, but I’ll probably just have a few friends in.”
“Does your family live far away?”
“No. It’s a long story, but, you know, my dad . . .”
I wait for Sinclair to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t do it.
“My mom bakes a great pumpkin pie. She’ll probably bring one over to me. But my dad . . . and my brothers . . .”
The kitchen door opens and Kitty comes bounding out. Sinclair opens his car door before she has a chance to jump up on it and scratch it. She jumps inside the car and sits up straight in the back seat, as if she’s waiting for a chauffeur to take her somewhere. I get out and drag Kitty out, and Sinclair gets my books for me and carries them to the porch.
“Thanks for helping me out,” he says. “I hate to cancel any event, and it’s hard to manage with just two people, especially if one of them is too shy to talk.”
“It was fun,” I tell him. “And it looks as if at least two of the dogs have found a home.”
“Yep, another success for the traveling zoo,” he laughs.
Mom comes to the door and calls Kitty in, and I introduce her to Sinclair. They talk long enough to be polite, then Sinclair leaves and I take my books back to my bedroom desk. Mom follows, looking a bit haggard.
I’m sort of mad at her for calling the library to check up on me tonight, but it’s not worth the trouble to confront her.
“Erica, I’m glad you’ve decided to see other people . . .”
“See other people?” I think, trying to figure out what Mom’s talking about.
“And you know I’m not prejudiced. But I hope you’ll think long and hard before you get involved with an African American.”
I’m speechless.
“Not that he wouldn’t be as good as anyone else. I don’t mean that. But even though we’ve come a long way, social attitudes still make mixed relationships very difficult. Sue and Jack at work, both wonderful people, but it’s hard . . .”
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Well, you seem really to like Sinclair . . .”
“Mom! I told you. I love Danny. He loves me.”
“Well, but I just want to warn you. Erica. I don’t want you to be hurt. And you and Sinclair seem fond of each other.”
Suddenly, the tension of the last few days and the ridiculousness of it all gets me laughing.
“What?”
I’m gasping for breath.
“What?” Mom says, a tentative smile that’s kind of a cross between amusement and annoyance playing at her lips.
“He doesn’t even like girls,” I manage to say in spite of my laughter.
“He seemed like he liked you,” she says, looking puzzled.
“No, I mean, he likes girls, but not for, you know, to be with them.”
Slowly Mom’s expression changes. “He’s gay?”
I nod my head yes, still laughing, not knowing what’s so funny.
Now my mom starts laughing, which gets me going again. “I guess you think I’m as bad as April about jumping to an unfounded conclusion.”
I nod my head yes again, laughing harder, barely able to breathe, afraid I’ll wet my pants I’m laughing so hard.
Rochelle comes to my room and leans in the doorway. “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know,” I say, still laughing.
“I want to laugh,” she says, which makes us laugh that much harder.
Mom motions Rocky to come sit beside her on the bed. She scoots over a bit and motions to me to sit on the other side. She puts an arm around each of us and pulls us toward her. Rocky is forcing one of those phony laughs that people do when they want to pretend to get a joke. I wipe tears of laughter from my eyes.
“My two babies,” Mom sighs. “Not babies anymore.”
I lean my head against Mom’s shoulder, relieved that the tension between us has lifted.
Kitty perks up her ears and sits stiff and alert. We get suddenly quiet, listening, watching the dog. When Kitty relaxes, we do too.
“I’ll be glad when Dad gets home,” Mom says. “I’ve been hearing noises late at night and sometimes I get the strangest feeling that someone’s watching the house.”
“Too many of those horror stories,” I say, referring to my mom’s weird tastes in reading.
“I don’t think so,” Mom says. “I’ve been reading Step
hen King and Dean Koontz for years without hearing noises. Haven’t you heard anything?”
I shake my head no, hoping I’m not blushing.
“I did. Just the other night,” Rocky says.
“What kind of noises?” Mom asks.
“Sort of like footsteps and breathing.”
“Great imagination,” I say, sarcastically. I suppose now we shouldn’t even breathe when Danny visits late at night.
“You should see the dog Antoinette brought in today,” I say, desperate to change the subject.
Chapter
7
Something about this day, the weather, sitting waiting for the bus, the smog, something reminds me of the day Danny’s mom died.
I was at school when it happened. As usual April was the newscaster. I’ve heard older people talk about where they were and what they were doing when they first got word of Kennedy’s assassination—the feel of the day, the people around them, all are clear to them. It seems that my memory of the day Danny’s mom died will always be that clear to me.
I was waiting for the 117 bus to take me to work. Even though it was only early March, it was typical summer weather, ninety-two degrees and smoggy. I could feel a sting at the back of my throat with each breath of heavy gray air I inhaled. I was reading The Catcher in the Rye for my American lit class, and trying to figure out why Holden Caulfield was such an unhappy guy.
Sinclair had asked if I could be at work a little early, to help the health technician get things set up for spaying and neutering. That was fine with me. I was scheduled to assist later, which was also fine with me. I’m not squeamish.
So I was sitting there breathing poison and reading, when a car pulled up to the bus stop. April got out on the passenger side and told me to get in. Usually I don’t take orders from April, but on this day she was so intense I didn’t even ask any questions. I simply climbed into the back seat. The driver was one of the security guards from school—Narco, kids called him because he was always on the lookout for drugs. His real name was Frank.
April climbed into the back seat next to me and held my hand, tight.
“Something awful has happened,” she said, breathless.
In that moment my mind filled with thoughts of tragedies—my mother, Rocky, Kitty, my father, far away in Germany. Or maybe April’s mother, or father? In an instant, tons of people, maimed, dead, whizzed through my mind. Not one of them was Mrs. Lara, or even Danny.
“She was in the crosswalk and everything,” April said, red-faced and teary-eyed.
“Who?”
“Danny’s mom. Mrs. Lara. It’s really bad.”
“What hospital?” Frank said.
“Community,” April answered.
Frank took off toward the freeway.
“Will she be okay?”
“I don’t know. They said she was critical.”
“Who?”
“Alex. He was at Danny’s when the call came from the hospital. They asked him to get her family there as soon as he could.”
“Where’s Danny?”
“They already got him from class and over to the hospital.”
“How did you hear?”
“Alex found me in the hall, just before class. He was looking for you. I told him I’d find you.”
“God. Where was she?”
“Down near that big nursery, on Seventh.”
“But how bad was she hurt?”
“All I know is what I already said. The hospital said her condition was critical, whatever that means.”
“It doesn’t mean anything good,” I said.
Frank turned off the freeway and onto Santa Anita. “Here we are,” he said, stopping at the emergency entrance. “Want me to wait for you?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
April and I walked through the automatic double doors, into a waiting room. Alex was there, with his head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. April and I sat down next to him.
“How is she?” I asked.
Alex opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Bad.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know. They’re in there with her now.”
“When did it happen?”
“A couple of hours ago, I guess. It was about one when they called. It was lucky I was there. I’d been staying there all week. I’d washed my gym stuff last night, then forgot it. I went to get it at lunchtime and that’s when they called.”
We sat for a long time on hard plastic chairs, under fluorescent lights, watching people come and go. I walked out and found a pay phone so I could call work and tell them that I couldn’t make it.
“I hope everything’s going to be okay,” Sinclair said. “Send our best thoughts to Danny and his family.”
“Thanks, Sinclair.”
I bought a soda and went back to the waiting room. It was nearly dark out when a nurse said we could see the family. She led us to this sort of private place that was carpeted and had upholstered furniture. I got a really bad feeling when I saw that room. Danny and his father were sitting at opposite ends of the couch. His dad was leaning forward, into his arms. Danny was sort of staring at the wall. When he saw me, he just shook his head no.
I sat next to Danny and took his hand. Again he shook his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“No, man,” Alex whispered. “No. She was right there this morning, when I was leaving for school.”
Mr. Lara looked up at Alex, and then back down again. A nurse came to the doorway.
“Come with me,” she said, motioning to Danny’s dad. He followed her out of the room and Alex and April both pulled chairs close to where Danny was sitting.
“She was walking across the street, in the crosswalk and everything, and a lady ran right over her—didn’t see her, she said.”
“Was she drunk?” April asked.
“No, she never drank anything,” Danny said.
“She means the driver,” I said.
“No. Nothing like that. She had a kid in her car. Maybe she was distracted. I don’t know,” Danny said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t know.”
“Can I go see her?” Alex asked, tears in his eyes, too.
“No, man. You don’t want to. She’s all messed up,” Danny said, letting go with high-pitched little gasping sounds. I put my arm around him, not knowing what to say. Alex came to the other side and put his hand on Danny’s shoulder. April sat watching, her eyes, too, filled with tears.
“My dad’s signing papers right now, for har . . . har . . .” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Harvesting of organs,” he said, convulsing into sobs.
At the service, three days after she died, people talked about what a wonderful friend Irene had been to them. A lot of them were people Danny’d never even heard of before. They talked of how she’d given them plant cuttings, or helped them bring a dying azalea back to life.
Alex stood and told of how he always felt safe with Irene, and knew she’d let him stay whenever things got tough for him. He didn’t talk about why he needed another place than home—his mean, crazy brother, or his drunk mom, he just said how important Irene had been in his life.
There were pictures of Irene on display at the front of the chapel—wedding pictures with Danny’s dad looking young and handsome and happy, next to a broadly smiling young Irene. And family pictures, and pictures that she’d taken of her flower garden in bloom.
There was a whole series of Danny with his mom, taken on the first day of school from kindergarten through high school. The pictures and the talks people gave made me wish I’d known her longer and better.
Danny and his dad both sat stiff and dry-eyed. At the cemetery they each dropped a shovel full of dirt onto the casket, before it was buried in the ground. I was close enough to Danny to hear his whispered promise.
“I won’t forget you, Mama. I’ll be here every week, no matter what.”
After that, he and his dad shook hands with ev
eryone, not saying much, accepting condolences. We stood on the side of the hill, surrounded on all sides by acres and acres of tombstones, looking out over the freeway, the noise of the whizzing cars offering a background rhythm to the prayers of the priest.
But for all of my memories of that day, Danny’s controlled sorrow and his father’s stiff-backed posture, the pictures, Alex’s sweet talk, and the weedless green grass covering rolling hill after rolling hill, what I most remember is the muffled sobbing of the woman in the back row of the chapel—the driver of the car that had taken Irene Lara’s life. And I thought of all the lives that had been so drastically changed with her death.
A week after the funeral, late at night, in the car he’d borrowed from his dad, Danny and I made love for the first time since his mother’s death. We’d only been with each other, in that way, for a month or so. Always, after we finished, we’d lie together talking about the future, and how much we loved each other. Sometimes we laughed, but neither of us ever cried.
On that night back in March, though, we got together quickly, without much talk. When it was over, Danny clung to me and cried the full cry of a hurt child. I kissed the top of his head and wiped his cheeks. Now every time we make love, he cries when it’s over. Maybe the only time he can release his sadness is when we’re so close. I’m not sure. I am sure he needs me more than ever since his mom died, and more than ever I want to be there for him. That’s what love’s about.
In April, Ms. Woods, who knew Danny and I were a couple, called me to her desk after class.
“Why hasn’t Daniel returned to school yet?” she’d asked, sounding concerned.
“I’m not sure,” I’d said.
“You know, we’ve got a grief group that meets here—for students who’ve experienced the death of a parent or some other important person. It might help.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“I’m sure he could still graduate on time if he came back soon and did some make-up work.”
“Okay,” I said, eager to get to my next class before the tardy bell.
When I saw Danny later that evening I told him about my conversation with Ms. Woods. Of the possibility of graduating on time, he’d said. “What’s the point?” And of the grief group he’d said. “I’ll handle it.”
But What About Me? Page 6