Child of My Right Hand (27 page)

“Simon!” she shouted, then came back on. “I've been so angry, Sweets, I felt so betrayed, you have no idea.” She hesitated, considered she shouldn't say it, then did, it was such a relief to open up to someone. “I thought I'd lost you a second time.”

“That's the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

Simon bounded onto the deck. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging.

***

Jack sat between Genna and Lizzie in the near-dark, second row center. Simon's first big scene was coming up. Marla was somewhere in the back of the auditeria. She'd arrived ten minutes before the curtain, and he'd gotten up to go to the men's room, passing close by her and smiling—she smiled back, nervously—but not stopping to talk. He was surprised, and a little terrified, to see her. After the drive-by on Sunday, Marla had phoned his office.

“My God, she must have been lurking, waiting for me to pull out of my driveway. She looked right at me!”

Jack disliked talking to Marla about Genna; it felt so disloyal. He tried to explain Genna liked to take long drives, it was how she relaxed.

“If you'd seen her eyes, you'd know she wasn't relaxed.”

A sudden absence at Marla's end. She was on her cell, driving, and service was so spotty around Tipton, he thought the call had been dropped. Then she came back, breathless.

“She's behind me! No, it's not her. I'm pulling over.”

“Are you okay?”

“Freaked out.” Marla's voice pinged, as if she were calling from inside a cave. “Think she was outside when you were over?”

No, no, he'd spoken to Genna—he didn't like mentioning this—as soon as he got back to his office.

“Then what the hell?”

Sitting in the hushed auditeria, he still didn't know. Coincidence? More likely, Genna suspected he was seeing Marla and wanted, what? Marla had said, They'd better be really careful, and she wasn't coming to the show. She couldn't face Genna. Then she'd called this afternoon to announce Simon had begged her and she'd promised. She wanted to see the show, and it would seem too strange if she didn't. Didn't he agree?

Simon entered stage right, in the red velvet tunic and dark tights he'd worn for the opening scenes. He'd always loved velvet, and had somehow convinced Ms. Cherry to let him wear red. A silver scabbard glistened below the wide belt that cinched the tunic, and he looked very knight-like, if maybe a little swishy, as he crossed the stage, right hand grasping the hilt of his sword. Jack replaced grown-up Simon with Simon at three, dressed as He-Man, his hair still blond and curly, brandishing a plastic sword, piping, “Bad Skeletor! I slay you!”

Jack glanced at Genna, her expression in three-quarter profile so rapt and glowing it was an indictment, as Simon joined his leading lady, a skinny blonde with alabaster skin.

A lark was singing in the trees and you said you'd remember that moment forever.

Yes, Larken, yes!

And then we watched the sun go down? Well, I'm going to have a baby. So you see, a princess for Dauntless must be found…or I shall have to go away somewhere.

How bizarre, Jack thought, the one gay kid, and he plays the stud. Gazing into her eyes, Sir Harry sang, “It won't be long, it won't be long, it won't because it can't be long, before our dreams come true.”

Larken answered, her voice indifferent and thin, nothing like Simon's, “In a little while, just a little while, you and I will be one, two three, four. In a little while…”

What a sweet illusion, Simon loving a girl, her swain, her knight. Then he answered, in that God-given, hard-wired, oh who knew what, glorious instrument, “In a little while, I will see your smile, on the face of my son, to be for, ever hand in glove…”

Just playing a part, but wouldn't it be wonderful, Simon having a son, Simon who'd always loved children. Who didn't play a part? Jack squeezed Genna's hand, the proud parents, and she squeezed back without glancing towards him, her eyes fixed on stage until the duet ended, the lights went down, and the auditeria rocked with applause for Sir Harry and his lady fair.

In the halls, strangers chorused, “Way to go, Sir Harry!”

Popular kids, losers, jocks—not the moonfaces, of course—patted his shoulders. Ms. Cherry hugged him, curls corkscrewing away from her face as if her toe were stuck in an electric socket. By fifth bell—lunch!—Simon rode the cresting wave of his life's best day. Hang ten! He'd turned in his French. In Animal Chorus, everyone who wasn't in the show applauded for everyone who was. Then, shyly, eyes glowing as if he wanted to kiss Simon right then, Peter whispered his mom said he could attend the party, and thanks so much!

By the time Simon reached the auditeria, which was cloaked in its daytime drab, Simon and the other cast members were walking with a bop, a bounce, a wiggle. Word had spread like the enticing scent of buttered popcorn that every performance was sold out, and Ms. Cherry was trying to add one for Sunday night. Simon emerged from the food line like Keanu Reeves in
The Matrix
(now that boy was hot), able to dance up walls and pluck bullets, like raindrops, from the air. He craned for an empty table. But King Sextimus and Princess Winifred (Millie Miles, who looked like Julia Roberts, and had the second-best voice after his), both waved him over. For the first, and who knew, maybe the last time, Simon lunched with the cool kids. No one said much, and he felt too intimidated to talk, but at least he was at their table. Just before the bell, Tina Murphy bustled up.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Larken, my love.”

She dropped her hand on his arm as if she owned it.

Will, who sat across from Simon, was thin, dark and always clowning, just like Sextimus. “Some kiss, you guys.” He hugged his own face with both arms, wrapped tight his nose and mouth, then moistly smooched his forearm.

Millie tossed her dark hair, more like a mane than human tresses. “It looked like you'd been practicing.”

Tina blushed, that pale skin. “We have.”

This was so weird.

“Watch us tomorrow.” Standing above him, Tina set her hands on his shoulders. “Right, Sir Harry?”

She gazed into his eyes like they'd practiced—windows of the soul!—and sweat oozed from his armpits. Then the bell clanged, and he escaped to Loser Study Hall. Mrs. Lindstrom took him aside as soon as he entered. Proud of himself, but not wanting to appear too nerdy, Simon said, “I did my French.”

Her bright eyes brightened. “And I saw the play. You are so talented.”

He longed to tell Mrs. Lindstrom everything. “My grandfather's coming.”

“From California?”

How did she know that?

Mrs. Lindstrom's blue eyes held him. “Now, Simon.” She led him towards the small blackboard, as far from the others as possible, her nails biting his biceps. “There's something.” Her voice whispery. “Someone left a note in the guidance office saying three or four boys beat you up.”

He felt tears at the back of his throat, and wanted to flee. He didn't want to tell, but he didn't want to lie. Her nails dug deeper into his muscle.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“That hurts.”

She looked, at first, as if she didn't know what he was talking about, then released him. The whole time Simon was frantically searching as if his mind were a desk drawer, tossing away ideas like balled-up papers. “I can handle it myself.”

“Was it Nick Fleming?”

He shook his head.

“Did they hurt you?”

The other kids were watching. Then the first bell sounded, time to get to work. Mrs. Lindstrom faced the Losers. “Take out your assignment books.” To Simon, she whispered, “Do you know their names?”

He shook his head. “I can handle it myself.”

For a moment, Mrs. Lindstrom looked so, so sad. Then she was just a teacher again. “Sit down, I'll be around to check.”

Simon found his seat, feeling he'd gotten away with something.

***

Everyone agreed: Friday night sucked. Right in the middle of “Man to Man,” doofus Tom froze so solid you could have skated on him. Will did his bulging eyes, miming best—busy hands, suggestive smiles—like they'd practiced. Tom was meant to interpret, “Woman…like girl flower, Man like bee and boy flower…Man, that's me!”

But nothing buzzed from Tom's mouth, and his eyes swelled until he and Will looked like costumed toads. The audience thought it was part of the dumb act and howled. Will kept swirling his hands. Flower. Bee. After thirty seconds that felt like thirty days, the stage manager croaked, loud enough for the first few rows to hear, “Girl flower, boy flower,” and Tom lurched into motion as if he'd been lubricated. Add to that screw-up, the unfortunate incident during “I'm in Love with a Girl Named Fred,” (a flat toppled on a dancing knight and lady, and everyone had to stop and pull it off them), and Friday's performance was better off forgotten, which Simon was attempting to do by sleeping in. He couldn't remember ever being so tired; except for getting up once to whiz, he slept like a dead one and didn't stumble upstairs Saturday until almost noon.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dad called from the kitchen.

Simon scratched his stomach. It felt hairy, even through his T-shirt, and Simon wondered if he should shave it. “Wrong play.”

Dad grinned over the sports section. “Some girl called, Tina something.”

“Lady Larken.”

“Said you'd call back. And Peter's mother, wanting to know if you were a safe driver.” Dad paused for an explanation.

“I'm driving Peter to the cast party.” Dad wanted more explanation. “She's really overprotective.”

Mom entered wearing her jogging gear, blue T-shirt and shorts.

“Hi, Mommy.”

“Do you have homework?”

Who could remember? “Maybe a little.”

“Do it today.” Something passed between her and Dad. “Remember, Sweets arrives tomorrow.”

“Of course, I remember.”

“What time?” Dad asked. “I'll get him.”

“Don't bother,” Mom said loudly. “I will.”

Simon hated when they fought.

“I was just trying to be nice.”

Mom's face looked like a balloon about to burst. “We all know how nice you are.”

Simon said, “This is supposed to be a happy day, you guys.”

“Mind your business,” Dad said, looking more embarrassed than angry.

“You and Mom are always telling me and Lizzie not to fight.”

“That is our business.” Dad's neck vein was starting to throb.

“He's right!” Mom shouted. “It is a happy day.” She looked as if she might start sobbing. “His play, and Sweets coming.”

“Even Mrs. Lindstrom thought it was wonderful about Sweets.”

It's weird, Simon would think later, how sometimes you know things a moment too late, like he knew just after he'd said it that he shouldn't have.

“How did she know?”

Simon's eyes swung, pulled like a tractor beam by Mom's, towards Dad.

“She called, let me think,” Dad looked only at Simon, “yesterday, that's right. There was some sort of problem at school.”

Mom looked horrified. “Don't you dare talk to her about my personal business.”

“I was talking to her about Simon.”

There was a split-second pause like when you're about to sneeze but trying not to. Simon sent Dad brainwaves, Don't tell about being beaten up. Don't tell! Mom looked as if she might start screaming. Time stretched and pulled between them until the silence formed a sheet of ice with a brick falling towards it, and the only thing keeping it from shattering was the power of Simon's mind. Then he thought, Mom's jealous of Mrs. Lindstrom, and the brick crashed through. Dad said, “There's a rumor about Simon getting beat up.”

“When?” Mom shouted.

“Thursday.”

“And you didn't tell me?”

She turned on him, Dad too, as if they were a team again. The whole time Simon was deciding what to say, to lie or not, his brain was pumping, Dad and Mrs. Lindstrom, Dad and Mrs. …and he took off for his room, hurling over his shoulder, “I don't want to talk about it!”

Dad and Mom shouted, “Get back here, if you think you're going to that play tonight!”

And blah-blah-blah. He was starring in the fucking show, what could they do? He pounded down the steps and slammed his door so hard the house trembled.

***

Later that afternoon, Jack drove towards Marla's, going over what he needed to say. This is no good, it's making me insane. He inspected the hands on the steering wheel. He'd always been proud of his hands, which could palm a basketball. They were larger than Russ's, one of the few ways in which he outdid his brother physically. His father had had large hands, too. But he eyed them as if they abutted someone else's wrists. Dark hair grew between the first and second knuckles on every finger, and Jack recalled his grandfather's hands, the same springy hair, remembering, too, how that had bothered him when he was little Now even his hairy knuckles were someone else's.

He turned onto Marla's road. The southern vista over greening fields, the way the land fell away as if it were part of a river valley was not only aesthetically, but somehow morally soothing. He understood why she liked it, but the view wouldn't be enough to keep him in Tipton if he had the money to leave as Marla seemed to. Using the control pad on his door, Jack opened both front windows, and warm, moist air gusted through the Camry.

After Simon had locked himself in his room, he and Genna had raged at each other. Hours later, he was still upset and needed to squeeze the wheel to keep his hands from shaking. Maybe that's why he didn't recognize them, so white and bloodless. There was a good chance Genna would kick him out. She might have done it today if not for Simon's play and Sweets's arrival. A bitter, bloody fight, conducted in whispers, with Simon barricaded in the basement. And Lizzie? She always seemed to be out when they fought. For a moment he wondered why, then it came to him. Simon was so attuned to his own feelings and everyone else's, there didn't seem to be any point in trying to shield him, while neither he nor Genna would let themselves fight with Lizzie around. And maybe there was revenge in it, too. They were often fighting about Simon.

Jack turned into Marla's drive, parked beside the silver Beetle and started up her steps.

“Jack,” Marla said, kissing his cheek after she'd let him in. “I don't think you should be here.”

He tried to read her expression, but she turned and headed for the living room. They sat on her leather couch, and skylight-filtered sunlight sparkled in her hair.

“Do you want me to leave now?”

“What I don't want is you sitting here if Genna drives up.”

He wanted to say, We've been fighting because of what you said to Simon about Sweets, but that would sound as if he were blaming her. He said, “If I move out…”

“Have you been discussing that?”

Jack nodded.

“I wouldn't want it to be about me.”

“It's a little late.”

“Oh, Jack.” She scooted closer. “It's too much responsibility. What if I don't like you if you're not married? I don't think it will happen, but it could. And what about your kids? They'd hate me. Simon would hate me. You'd be the bad guy, and I'd be the home-wrecking bitch from hell. Have you considered that?”

“Of course.”

Her bright eyes searched his face. “Frankly, Jack, I think you love your kids and your wife a good deal more than you love me.” She put her hand on his cheek and caressed it; the pads of her fingertips thrummed his stubble. “I think you're a family man down the tips of your toes and I've just turned your head,” she smiled, “because I'm so little and cute, because no one's ever made love to you like that in the shower, and because you think you have to save me.”

He looked at Marla, who without a doubt was what passed for beautiful in middle age, and couldn't remember what he'd come to tell her.

“I don't hear you telling me I'm wrong, Jack.”

He didn't answer.

“Then maybe you better leave before I get insulted.” She edged away and folded her arms across her chest. “I'm sure Simon needs a car to drive to the show.”

Jack walked towards the kitchen, feeling more relieved and confused than he'd felt in a long time. Had she just broken up with him? Had he come to break up with her? When he turned back, Marla was reclining on the couch, eyes half-closed, gazing up at the skylight.

***

There was a special excitement Saturday night in the auditeria. Genna had felt it grow as the room filled. Last night was also sold out, but tonight even the back wall was lined with bodies, and there were more students, fewer parents. It was also the last nighttime performance; Dr. Burroughs had turned down Ms. Cherry's request for Sunday night. The man had impeccably bad judgement. No doubt the kids wanted to make up tonight for Friday's flop; Genna had nearly died
not
laughing when the scenery toppled onto that poor knight and lady. Afterwards, there was the cast party, to be held at some large house in the country. Simon had told her at least three times not to wait up. If the rain held off, there was going to be a bonfire, and whoever's parents it was (she'd spoken to them, some sophomore girl with a small part), said anyone who brought a sleeping bag was welcome to sleep over. Simon had left for the play, wildly excited, although he said he'd probably come home to sleep because he'd promised Peter a ride. That was adding to his excitement. I'm driving him, Mom.

Genna sat between Jack and Lizzie, who'd tried to weasel out of coming, but Jack wouldn't hear of it. Genna wasn't sure she agreed. Simon rarely if ever attended Lizzie's soccer games, and she was sick to death of being her brother's audience. Genna had grown pretty damn weary of cheering her own brother in high school. But Jack had returned from his office (that's where he said he was), to give Simon the Camry and demand Lizzie come, too. Then he'd taken her aside, and though the last thing in the world Genna was interested in, really, was a heart-to-heart with Jack, he insisted on telling her, with that open Barish face and big nose peering right at her, that she was the one he loved, the only one he loved, and if he'd done anything to make her think otherwise—Like having an affair? Give me a break, Jack—she should put it out of her head.