Danny's Mom (8 page)

“I needed company tonight.”

“Yeah, but I can't understand why you spend so much time with him. It's not normal, you know. And he babies you, like you babied Danny.”

My hands clenched, but I was too sad, too tired to fight. Tears started in anticipation of what I had to say. “Sometimes I need someone to talk to, Joe. About Danny, I mean. And about what's happening at work.”

Joe slammed his thermos on the counter. “Come on, Beth. I told you to just do your job and stay out of trouble. You don't need any more problems now. And you're not the only one here who's lost a child.”

Joe cradled his head in his hands at the kitchen table. I glimpsed those long fingers, which knew every inch of my body, and wondered how I'd ever let them touch me. Then I pushed my thoughts toward simple tasks: lifting coffee grounds from the pot; sponging sesame seeds off the counter; scraping cream cheese from the edge of a knife.

I didn't look at Joe until I poured detergent into the dishwasher. Slumped in his chair, he was so still I thought he might have fallen asleep. Too much beer, I assumed. But then he started jiggling, as if someone had switched on a motor in Joe's right leg.

As I swallowed cold coffee from Danny's mug, sadness lumped in my throat. “Joe?” My voice ripped the silence. “Have you seen my mug, the one I always use? The MOM one?”

Joe pulled out the chair next to his and patted the seat.

“Have you seen it, my MOM mug?” I asked again as I walked to the table.

I sat and turned to Joe. He looked old, his face darkened with shadows. “Sorry, Beth. I couldn't stand having it around here.”

“So where'd you put it?”

Joe stood and moved behind me. He braced my shoulders. “I threw it away. You don't need a MOM mug. You're not a mom anymore.”

Chapter Seven

I
didn't come to bed that night; I dozed in Danny's room, burrowing in the comforter I'd bought him three years earlier when we replaced his blue and white children's dressers with gray Formica pieces. We kept the blue carpeting, still in good shape and soft underfoot. Danny liked it. But the children's furniture went to the basement. Joe hadn't wanted me to give it away.

Now things were different. Joe wanted to toss, and I wanted to save. Everything. Danny's clothes. His tennis racquets and trophies. Shoe boxes of photos and snips of paper and Trident chewing gum. Danny's CDs. His tiny Superman costume in a box on the top shelf in the closet.

In the middle of the night, I got up and unfurled Superman's cape. How big it had seemed when I first wrapped it around Danny's shoulders. Now I folded it again, then picked up a trophy, its metal cold against my palm. I ran my index finger over the engraved plaque on its base: C
AMP
C
AYAHOGA
I
NVITATIONAL
. S
INGLES
R
UNNER
U
P
, D
IVISION
A. I studied a photo of Danny, his arms draped over two boys I had met on visiting day. Did they know he had died?

I held the incense his girlfriend had given him. Moist grass and honeysuckle. R
AIN
, the package read. I breathed in the incense as a memory unspooled. A snowy Sunday weeks before the accident. Joe yells up to Danny to turn down the Bob Marley CD, then finds me
in the kitchen. “How can you let him burn that incense crap?” Joe asks. “Don't you know what's going on up there?”

“The kids are listening to music and burning incense. So what? What's wrong with that?” I stir a pot of tomato sauce. Bits of garlic stick to my fingers, gluing them to the handle of a wooden spoon. Onion and oregano invade the air.

“God, Beth, you're so naive sometimes. Don't you know why kids burn that stuff?”

The Wailers drift from Danny's room: a song about not worrying, that things would turn out fine.

“You know why they burn that stuff?” Joe asks again. He opens a beer and settles himself at the table before he gives me the answer. “It hides other smells, that's why. They close the blinds and sit in the dark with that music blasting. And the room stinks. The whole hallway stinks for that matter. It's that incense and God only knows what else. Pot, maybe. I can't even breathe up there.”

Standing by the counter, I sip fresh coffee and welcome its calming aroma. “You're telling me you think Danny's smoking pot?”

“For Christ's sake!” Joe raps the beer bottle on the table. “Either nothing he does bothers you, or it bothers you but you still won't say anything. But this isn't Danny's house. This is my house, our house, and I don't want those kids burning that incense crap and doing whatever the hell they're doing and blasting me out with that music. All I want is a little peace and quiet and the sports section, which Danny must have taken.”

“So go tell him he can't do whatever you think he's doing.”

“No. I'm not going up there again. You tell him.” Joe swigs his beer. “Oh, what's the use? He'd lie to you, and you wouldn't suspect a thing.”

I turn back to the stove and stir the sauce. Funny, I think, how Joe and I actually want the same thing that day: the lull of a weekend afternoon. But for me that means music—loud as it is—and laughter,
Danny's laughter with friends. And for Joe that means a house with no teen noise, no R
AIN
.

My silence pushes Joe from the kitchen. I stay and watch snow frost the window. Does Joe really think Danny's smoking pot? Every time we've talked about drugs, Danny's told me not to worry.
Don't worry about a thing.
The music blares from his room. I think about Joe's decision not to adopt a child when Danny was five. “If we were meant to have another child, you'd be pregnant by now,” I hear Joe say. “And anyhow, one's enough for me.”

“But what about me, Joe? I want another child. And you know what Dr. Feinman said. Adoption's probably our only choice.”

“Well, then just forget it. I told you I don't want to adopt. Danny's already become your whole life, Beth. Between Danny and work, you never have time for me anymore.”

The night Joe told me he'd trashed my MOM mug, before I tried to sleep, I lay on the floor of Danny's room. Moose hunkered down next to me. When I closed my eyes, ten-year-old Danny pillowed his head on Moose's other side. I reached over to rumple Danny's hair.

Chapter Nine

I
pieced together what Ann had said—and what she had already shared with me earlier in the year—with what I had heard from Mary and Liz. The rest of the saga I imagined, which wasn't hard to do. After more than ten years in the high school, I knew what went on and how kids like Tina and Jen behaved. Their poison permeated the air, making it hard for students like Liz to breathe. And their mean-girl voices echoed through my haze of grief.

Looking back, I hear them as if they're standing next to me. Picturing it now, I see them as if I'm right there in the locker room. Liz's story still plays in my mind.

It starts in the fall. Tina and Jen go after Liz, and it doesn't matter that her mother works in the school. Liz won't rat on them; Tina and Jen are certain of that. The only sophomore girl in gym class, Liz is a perfect target—so easy to keep her threatened and quiet.

Liz asks her counselor, Ms. Greene, if she can take gym some other time. She's willing to change her lunch period, to skip lunch altogether. Liz knows she won't survive gym without a female classmate. But Debra says, “No way. Mr. Stone won't let anyone change gym sections.” Debra won't even ask him.

So Liz asks him herself. “Please, Mr. Stone. I'll do anything to have a different gym period. I don't want to be the only tenth-grade girl in that class.” But Peter doesn't budge. No changing schedules once programs are printed. No time for that nonsense. No sir. No way.

Liz toys with asking her mother to speak with the principal. He's a nice man, Mr. Andrews, Liz thinks. He'll probably help— especially if Mom asks him. But Liz decides not to have her mother do battle for her after all. It's bad enough her mom works in the school and knows everyone and everything that goes on. Better to just accept things than to have Mary intercede.

Liz tells me what happened in October. Tina takes Liz's watch, the one her father sent last year for her birthday, the only decent gift he ever gave her. Tina steals it from Liz's open gym locker when Liz races to the toilet after the mile run. But Liz suggests it wasn't such a big deal, actually, and she did get her watch back. “So promise you won't say anything, Mrs. Maller,” Liz says. “I never should have told you, 'cause if my mother finds out, she'll say it was my fault.”

But I can't get this image out of my head: Tina sitting on the bench in the locker room, sticking out her arm to show off Liz's watch. “Better hurry, Liz,” Tina says. “Wouldn't want you to be late for your next class.”

“Give it back. Please,” Liz begs.

“Hey, Jen!” Tina calls to her sidekick. She takes off Liz's watch and dangles it from her fingers.

“Give it back, Tina. Please,” Liz says again. “It's a good watch. I need it.”

“Of course it's a good watch. I wouldn't have taken it if it wasn't a good one. I'm not stupid, you know. So, you want it back? Well, if you catch it, you can have it. Now what do you say we make time fly? Jen, look alive. Catch!”

Tina and Jen toss Liz's watch like a ball. Girls cheer as it sails over them. Or they leave. Or they pretend not to notice. They can't get involved, can't tell Tina to stop. If they do, their lockers will be next.

Ann Richardson walks in on the action. “Hustle, ladies,” she calls. “Let's go! Don't want to be late for third period, do you?”

Tina pockets the watch. “Of course not, Ms. R. Jen and I are just helping Liz look for her watch. Aren't we, Liz?”

Liz keeps her head down. She doesn't speak.

“Liz, I'd like to see you,” Ann says when the bell rings. “Meet me in my office. And Tina, you and Jen go on to class now.”

“Maybe you should give it back to her,” Jen says when the teacher leaves. “It's an ugly watch anyhow.”

“I think you're right,” Tina answers. “It is an ugly watch.” Tina sidles next to Liz. “Listen, loser. Here's your fuckin' watch. And if you tell anyone about this, you're dead. You hear?”

Liz doesn't tell when Ann asks if everything's okay. “You can always come to me if there's a problem, Liz. Those girls can be tough.”

“Thanks, Ms. Richardson.” Liz studies the floor. “But everything's all right. I just need a pass to English, that's all.”

Liz doesn't wear her watch anymore. She keeps her locker open only while she's changing, and she never leaves her lock on the bench.

A few weeks later, Ann tells me, they get her during volleyball. Liz starts by playing front right. After four rotations, she's next to Tina, who's center at the net. Jen's on the other side and knows the plan: Hit to Liz and watch Tina slide into her. Volleyball's tough. Sometimes you've just got to knock into the player on your left, especially if that player is Liz Grant, who must have told about the watch 'cause Richardson's been keeping guard ever since—even supervises in the locker room, though no teacher's done that since second grade.

Liz will have to be warned again, Tina must think. Adults can't know what goes on in our school. It's our world. We make the rules.

Rule number one:
If you snitch, you get hurt.

I picture Liz on the floor near the volleyball net, her breath sucked out by Tina's impact. Ann rushes to check Liz's knee.

“I'm okay,” Liz says. She doesn't look at Ann. She doesn't look at anyone. She struggles not to cry. If eyes meet, she might. Ann helps Liz to the bleachers, packs her knee in ice. Then Ann calls for Tina.

“No. I'm okay. Really, Ms. Richardson,” Liz says again. “It was just an accident. I'm sure Tina didn't mean to bump into me.” She speaks loudly so Tina can hear—as loudly as she can without breaking into tears.

Ann tells me about the rest of that game. She brings in a substitute for Liz. Tina and Jen hit without force, as if it's a beach ball they're pushing around now. They're just passing time, waiting for the kill, Liz must think.

But it doesn't come then because Ann stays in the locker room. “Get a life!” Jen says under her breath when she sees the teacher spying on them.

“Maybe this
is
her life,” Tina answers. “Everyone knows she's a fuckin' homo.” Tina turns toward the door, where Ann stands guard. “Might as well give her something to dream about,” Tina says as she adjusts her bra, wiggling her breasts.

“You sure you're okay?” Ann asks Liz when the class leaves.

“Fine. Thanks, Ms. Richardson. See you Thursday.”

Liz tries not to limp. She can't risk anyone asking what happened. Telling would make her feel the hurt, and then she might cry. Liz knows the rules.

Rule number two:
If you cry, you get laughed at.

Liz doesn't tell anyone the truth about what happened. Not her mother. Not Ann. Not even me. When I see Liz in the hall, she shrugs off her slow walk.

“Just a banged knee,” she says. “No big deal.”

Tina and Jen wait for Liz after fourth period. They corner her in the corridor between the science labs and Liz's locker.

“We're not morons, you know,” Tina says. She blows an enormous purple bubble, then picks the stringy remnants from her lips. “Jen, you want to tell her why volleyball was so rough?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. You told Richardson about that stupid watch. We know you did. She's had her eye on us ever since.”

“That's right.” Tina blows another bubble. “And next time it'll be worse. You snitch, you die. Got it?”

Liz nods.

“So, we have an understanding now. Right, Liz?”

Liz doesn't answer.

“I'm talking to you, Liz Grant. We have an understanding now, don't we?”

“I didn't say anything about the watch. Honest.” Liz stabs at the truth.

“Yeah, like I really believe that. Who do you think I am, an idiot?” Tina takes a package of Big Chew from her bag, unwraps a piece, drops the paper on the floor. “But today you did good. I liked what you said after the … after the volleyball accident. Shows you're not completely brain-dead.” She kneads the gum between her fingers and offers it to Liz.