Beetle Boy (22 page)

Clara has come home from work without saying hello, and now she is warming a can of soup for herself in the kitchen without asking me if I am hungry. I come close and stand behind her, waiting for her to acknowledge my existence. She slowly and deliberately puts down the spoon she is stirring the soup with and turns to me with the most impatient expression. “What is it, Charlie?”

“I called Mrs. M. today,” I tell her. “We had a good talk, and I've made a decision. I'm going to take a trip. To Iowa. To see her one last time. And as soon as I get back, I'll move my stuff out of here, okay?”

Telling her this seems to deeply affect her. She looks up into my eyes, and I see that she is suddenly holding back tears. “I think that's a very good idea, Charlie. If it would help, you can borrow my car for your trip to Iowa.”

“Really?” I hadn't yet given a thought to how I would actually get to Cedar Rapids. “But wait, Clara. How would you get back and forth to work?”

“I'll work it out. I have Monday off next week—I would only need to take the bus two days if you promise to be back by Wednesday.”

I nod, figuring out times and distances in my head. “Today is Thursday. I could leave early Sunday and be back late Wednesday night. But, Clara, there's one more little detail I should tell you. Mrs. M. has a certain requirement for my visit. She is very manipulative, have I ever mentioned that? Very, very manipulative.”

“Just tell me the requirement, Charlie.”

“She says I have to bring Liam.”

“Bring Liam?” Clara echoes. “Why does she want you to bring Liam? Does she even know him?”

“Actually she's never met him.”

This surprises her equally. “In all the years you knew her she never once met your brother?”

“Never.”

“Even when you lived with her?”

“Especially not then. I was pretending I didn't have any relatives except her.”

“And she let you do that? Pretend you didn't have a brother?”

I am about to tell her that I can't explain it, but I stop myself. I can explain it.

I take a deep breath and confess, “Actually, Mrs. M. worried about Liam from the beginning, but I always told her he was doing fine even when he wasn't. When she found out that Dad was sleeping with the babysitter, she made me write a letter to Mom about it before she would let me move in with her. And not too long after that, Mom came back to Grand Rapids. But I never told Liam any of this. He thinks Mrs. M. didn't care about him any more than I did. Not true. I just didn't want to share her. I still don't want to share her. But I called her today, and she said ‘Take it or leave it.'”

Clara is frowning, taking it all in. Her hair is windblown from the car, half out of her barrette, curlier than usual around her face.
You're so beautiful
, I think sadly. She paces for a moment, then goes back to the stove, turns off the burner, and asks, “Charlie, what makes you think Liam would agree to go on a trip with you?”

“I've been thinking,” I tell her. “I thought about it all afternoon, see, and I've decided that if
you
asked him to go with me, like as a favor, he would probably say yes. Especially if he thinks that I don't know you're asking him.”

Clara tips her head in utter bewilderment. “What are you
saying
?”

“I know, I know. It's a strange request, given all the things I said … before. But I really need to see Mrs. M. It might be my last chance. And Liam would never say yes to me. He needs to think that it's another way to get back at me.”

“I don't understand. Would you be there? When I ask him if he'll go on a trip with you?”

“I would like to be there,” I admit. “But I have a feeling it will work better if I'm not there.”

Clara crosses her arms tightly across her chest and sticks out her chin. Her voice is quavering but unusually loud. “Jesus, Charlie—why is this idea okay with you now? Suddenly you don't care if I'm alone with Liam? Why don't you care? Is it because you're over me already?”

I don't know how to answer. It seems pointless to respond. What difference does it make how I feel about her? I will never get over her. I say, “Clara, I need to see my friend before she dies. Please help me. Please talk to Liam.”

This makes her put her face into her little hands and break down.

I stand awkwardly, my arms stiff at my sides, wondering if it would even be appropriate to comfort her, to hold her, when she surprises me by bolting across the space between us, wrapping her arms tightly around me and laying her damp cheek against my shirt. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, I'll help you this one more time.”

I hug her back for a long moment, then whisper, “Do you have his phone number?” Forgetting that of course she has it. And he has hers.

“I'll call him tonight, Charlie. I'll arrange to meet him somewhere. Starbucks or something.”

I nod, resting my chin at the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair like a starving man. “Don't tell him we're breaking up,” I say. “It'll go better if he doesn't know.”

Clara nods against my chest, agreeing to my sad request. Apparently, I am very persuasive when I am pathetic. Guess it runs in the family.

“Charles!” she gasps. I am standing at the stoop of her second-floor apartment—a ten-unit brick building on a quiet street in East Grand Rapids. It's a nice neighborhood, tree-lined and shady, houses on either side of the apartment complex, lots of porches. Her front door is painted sky blue with a cursive Welcome sign above the peephole. She is really surprised to see me. She says, unnecessarily, “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Probably not.”

“How did you get here? Is Clara—”

“It's just me. I can drive now. I take the boot off while I'm driving, and then put it back on when I get out of the car.”

“Oh. That sounds good. Is anything wrong?”

“I just needed to tell you a few things. One thing in particular. Something that's come up with me and Liam.”

“All right, then. All right. Come into the kitchen. Excuse the mess. Liam is already packing for school.” Her voice is shaky. I have unhinged her, coming over unannounced like this. She puts a hand on her chest as she leads me to the kitchen, as though to protect her heart. I want to tell her to calm down. I want to tell her that it's not such a big deal that I have come.

But I suppose it is.

Even in the kitchen, there are the signs of serious packing—stacks of books on the far side of the table, boxes filled with music paraphernalia, and near a sliding door leading to a small balcony, yes, three suitcases. Matching new suitcases. Khaki with black trim, very masculine. They instantly infuriate me. Mom sees me staring at them and says, “A going-away present from his music teacher.”

“Is that where Liam is now?” I ask, although I know perfectly well where Liam is now. I had recently dropped Clara off a block from the café where they had arranged to meet.

“He did have a lesson earlier,” Mom says. “But I don't know where he is now. He's usually home before this.” She looks faintly anxious.

“What, Mom?” I ask. “Are you worried because you haven't seen him in a few hours?”

This finds its mark. She receives the blow mournfully, then looks past me, to the small apartment balcony where a single lawn chair sits, as though longing to be alone there. I remind myself that my reason for being here was not to upset her. I make my voice more conversational and continue. “Actually, I came over to talk to you about—”

But something stops me. Something sitting atop a stack of Liam's sheet music on the kitchen table stops me. A single copy of
Meet Beetle Boy
. The first one. The one that came most directly from her own voice into my ear. Our eyes light on it together. It completely disorients me, this proof of what we did to her stories.

She seems also to be having a hard time deciding what to say. She does not look at me directly, but she brushes the book with her fingertips and murmurs, “I asked Liam to leave one here for me.”

“Did Liam ever tell you how much we hated those books, Mom?”

She sighs. “Many times. He threw the rest of them away.”

Not quite. The next words rush out of me. “God, it makes me sick to think you actually have one of them. I never wanted you to see what we did. I couldn't stop him, Mom. He kept wanting to take it farther and farther. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't let it die. We were so trapped.” I put a hand over my mouth to stop the final words:
How could you leave us?

She says in the same soft voice, “I know. I always thought … I used to hope …” She shakes her head and finishes plaintively, “They were such silly stories, weren't they? To end up hurting you both so much.”

I am calm again. My voice is cold. “Then why would you want to keep a copy, Mom?”

She grimaces. “I don't know. It seemed that I should have just one. To remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and waves one hand at the wrist, a pleading gesture. Her face is collapsing, and I am more than happy to change the subject back to why I am there. “Never mind. Never mind. Like I was saying before, I'm here because I wanted to tell you about something that Liam and I are planning to do together. Something he might not have told you about yet.”

“You and Liam … together?” Now she is confused.

“Yeah, because you know that older woman I was living with when you first came back to Grand Rapids? The one who moved away?”

“I always wished I could have thanked her. For helping you.”

“Well, there is a way that you can thank her, if you still want to. Because she's very sick and she wants me to come to Iowa and visit her. You know … one last time.”

“Oh, dear. Is it that serious, Charles?”

“It is.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, oh, dear. Let me …” She moves to the cupboard beside her stove and takes down the blue teapot. It pains me to see it. I want to tell her that I don't like tea, but I remember that Dad used to make fun of her for drinking tea instead of coffee. I hear his voice, in the room with us, teasing and belittling her: “Miss Lucinda and her special tea.” Remembering this makes me glad that now she can have tea whenever she wants. I let her make some for me, observing that the ritual—water, kettle, tea ball, and spoon—seems to calm her. Then I get back to business.

“Liam has decided to come with me to Iowa,” I say with great certainty.

This throws her, I can tell. She pours the tea, a cup for both of us. “But Liam leaves for school in less than two weeks, Charles.”

“I know that,” I say. “We'll be back in time. We're leaving Sunday, and we'll only be gone a few days.”

“This Sunday?” She is clasping her cup for dear life. She does not like this idea. These are her precious final days with Liam before he goes away. We are both silent a moment, sipping, refocusing. Then she says, “I'm just so surprised, Charles. Liam hasn't mentioned anything about going on a trip with you. Although,” she admits, “he doesn't tell me everything.”

I bite my tongue.

“And I can certainly see why you would want him to come with you.”

“Can you?” I ask, curious. “Why do you think I want him to come with me?”

“As a way for you two to become … more like brothers. Before he goes away.” She adds, nodding hopefully, “Maybe it will be a journey of healing.”

She looks at me as she says this, stops nodding, and looks me straight in the eye. “A journey of healing,” she repeats somberly. Then asks, “Is there some way I can help you, Charles? Do you need money for your trip?” And I think,
Mission accomplished.

With cash in my pocket, I drive back to the street corner closest to the café, where Clara had told me she would be waiting after one hour. She is standing under a streetlight, and when she sees me driving her car, she waves to me, but the gesture is a bit defeated. I wonder if Liam might have stood her up. But when she gets into the car, she says, “You were wrong about me convincing him, Charlie. He wants to talk to you. He wants you to call him tonight.”

“Did he at least seem interested?”

“I would say yes. But he also seemed worried about leaving your mom. He said they had planned to do some things together before he moved up north. Since he won't be coming home to see her on the weekends.”

Then she is quiet, and I wonder if she is considering offering to go with me to Iowa if Liam won't go. An offer I would definitely say no to. It would be a mercy trip, and she has shown me enough mercy.

“Mom will let him come,” I say. I am sad, realizing that any sort of trip with Clara is now impossible. We never got to hit the road as a couple. We never really went anywhere together. Most of the time I couldn't get off the sofa without her help. It was a pretty miserable excuse for a romance, such as it was.