Falling Under (8 page)
Under the disinfectant are the smells of sweat, cigarette smoke, and urine. Gross.
Cold, cold concrete everywhere and Dad cries when he sees you.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, “I’m so sorry. Promise me you’ll forget this ever happened.”
“I’ll try.”
“Please?”
All these moments adults expect to wash over you with- out effect—such bullshit.
“Sure, Dad, I promise.”
No big deal, just another day when you see your father sur- rounded by criminals, unable to cope with anything, including leaving his dick in his pants until he can get to a bathroom.
“It’s not my fault I couldn’t find it,” he says. “Find what?”
“The can, I couldn’t—” Ew, ew, ew!
“Shh, that’s okay, Dad.”
“Please don’t tell your mother,” he says, and looks at you with those big eyes.
“Of course not.”
He shakes his head back and forth and whines. He’s still drunk, obviously, and a pathetic sight.
“So, Dad, I don’t have enough money for bail and I don’t know how else to get you out.”
“It’s okay, I called a friend and she’s coming in the morn- ing,” he says. “They’ll probably drop the charges anyway, but I have to wait till tomorrow.”
“But... will you be okay here?”
“Sure, sure. You go to Bernadette’s house for the rest of the weekend, all right?”
“Okay.”
His face crumples and he grips your hand in his. “I’m sorry, I’m a bad father. I’m a terrible father.” “No you’re not, you’re fine.”
Lots of fathers get hauled into jail for being drunk in the middle of the afternoon! Don’t worry about it!
A guard comes to tell you your time is up. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you too, Dad.”
“Don’t ever stop. Please don’t ever stop.” As if you could.
It might be easier if you could. In fact, it might be better not to have parents at all. The thought feels like a stab in the belly. Shame on you.
You walk back to the waiting room and Bernadette. There is a grapefruit-size lump in your throat and you try to swal- low it as she gets up to ask how he is.
“Tanked. Pathetic,” you say. “As expected.” “And you?”
“Well, it’s nine o’clock on a Friday night and other teenagers are watching a movie, going to a party, or grounded and doing their homework. And I’m here.”
“Yeah,” she says, and puts an arm around your shoulders and squeezes.
You are stretched, singed, raw. “I feel old,” you say.
“I know,” she says.
Bernadette’s family is great, but you don’t relish explain- ing why you’re showing up there late Friday night when you’re supposed to be at Dad’s. Back in his living room, about to repack and leave for her house, Bernadette seems to read your mind.
“Why don’t we just stay here?”
You nod. “There’s vodka in the freezer.” She grins. “Right on!”
It’s a good night to drink.
Bernadette is wise and sweet and knows not to pry, knows you’re not a fan of “letting it all out.” Letting it all out is bullshit.You can cry and scream and let it out, but it will still not BE out.
Vodka and orange juice. Cigarettes.
You stick your legs through the balcony railings and swing your bare feet. Bernadette blows smoke rings and you look up at the sky.
“No stars,” you say.
“City’s too bright,” she says. “Something about...I dunno, they told us in science class, didn’t they?”
“Dunno. Doesn’t fucking matter.” “Nope, doesn’t.”
Your blood is sluggish as it moves through your body.You feel a slow, achy thrum in your legs as they swing. You down the last of your glass.
Bernadette eases down onto her back and you join her. Things are starting to spin.
“Whoa,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Well, at least we got a good grade on the curtains,” she says.
“Waste of fabric,” you say. “Nah.”
“We should’ve done prison stripes instead,” you say, and laugh even though it’s all starting to hurt again. “And instead of a beach mural, I should’ve done graffiti.”
Bernadette snorts.
You need more alcohol, because it’s not working any- more. It’s worn off.
“Come on,” you say, and get up.
Inside, your eyes land on a paint can. “BEE!”
“Shh, not so loud,” she says, and leans on the wall. “What?”
“I think there’s still some... what’s that color?” You point.
“Purple.”
“Yeah, still some purple.”
It’s funny, it’ll be so funny, fucking hilarious.
You pry the lid open and find a brush. Bernadette wobbles along beside you. You dip the brush in.
“Wait,” she says, “you’re not actually... don’t wreck your mural, Mar, that’s not—”
“Shh, don’t worry,” you say, and walk carefully toward the front door.
“Okay,” she says, and tips then catches herself. “Lush,” you say.
“You should talk, chicky.”
g
On the wall beside the door, you paint: And then, a few feet farther:
And again, down the hallway: “Ooohh,” Bernadette says.
On the bathroom door:
TOILET
g
Ha.
Ha, ha, ha, fucking ha.
And then... in the bathroom... above the toilet...
GET OUT OF JAIL FREE!
(piss in your own toilet)
Excellent.
You are standing with the brush in hand and you are laughing. Bernadette isn’t.
“What? It’s so awesome!”
“Yeah, but maybe too... too much?” she says.
But “much” comes out sounding like “mush” and that’s funny too. And funny is good, funny is great because you would rather laugh than cry.
“It is definitely too
mush
,” you say. “That’s the point. It’s all too fucking mush. Musshhh. Muh-muh-muh- mmmuuuussshhh.”
She just looks at you.
Another laugh bubbles up, but it comes out sound- ing like a shriek. Too loud. Too loud and everything is a bit...
“Fuzzy brain,” you say. “Fuzzy.” “Me too,” she says.
“Fuck it all anyway. T’s’all too musshhh. But I’m fine, fine, fine, always fine. My job to be fine. Too mush to be fine, but I am FINE!”
“Shh, shh, I know.”
All fine, except... except for the mush.
The mush, which is too
fucking MUCH!
Paint can and brush waver on the cracked toilet seat. Shitfuckdamn...
Eyes crying, nose running, both traitors. Nose and eyes damned traitors.
Well, then, let the traitors drip. Let them run and drip right out. Bernadette is here and also... also dripping from the eyes and nose.
“Hang on,” she says. “Just hang on to me.” And you do.
6
You hear a moan and turn carefully, and see Bernadette on the floor next to the couch.
“Oh my God,” she says.
“Shit... he’s home.” You sit up on the couch and blink your eyes.
Dad enters with a woman in short shorts and frosted blond hair. She sees you first, puts a hand on his arm. “Henry?”
“Oh. Ah, hi, sweetheart, Bernadette.” “Hi,” you and Bernadette croak in unison. Bernadette looks green.
“I thought... Weren’t you two going to stay at Bernadette’s?”
You say, “Um.. .”
“It was late,” Bernadette says. “And we... were worried about you.”
Dad introduces you to his woman-friend, but you forget her name immediately. Everyone tries to play nice, but you reek of booze and Dad just spent the night in jail. Nice family.
“So, you posted bail?” you ask her. “Yes.”
“Thanks. You must be a good friend.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, we, um, work together.”
Screwing, in other words. “Ah,” you say. “Henry, I should go, and let you.. .” “Sure,” he says, “sure.”
She goes. He closes the door behind her.
“Well,” Dad says, “excuse me, I gotta visit the little boy’s room.”
It’s only when you hear the bathroom door close behind him that you remember.
“Oh no. Oh shit.” Bernadette groans.
You wait, hear the toilet flushing, and then he’s back, standing in front of you.
You force yourself to meet his eyes.
“What’s that?” he says, and waves a hand toward the hallway.
“Nothing,” you say. “Nothing?”
“Just...a joke.” “A joke.”
“I was just being stupid, Dad. We had a couple of drinks and.. .”
You see his chin quivering and his shoulders slumping. You stop talking. You feel Bernadette beside you, breathing fast.
“Well,” he says. “You’re just like your mother, aren’t you?”
You blink and swallow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” “Too late,” he says. “Too late.”
He takes two steps, sinks into a chair.
This is the worst moment ever.Your dad, no matter what, the dad you love, the dad you need, the dad you would never want to hurt... wounded, diminished, brought low when he is already down.
Hurt by you.
Weeping, stabbed, shot down by you, kicked by you, sobbing, shaking, heart broken by you.
Please, please, make it not so. But it is so.
You piece of shit.
“Daddy . . .” You reach out to touch his shoulder. He flinches.
I
’ve often wondered what happened to Faith English af- ter she left our high school in disgrace, but my wondering never included the desire to have coffee with her.
Bernadette and I are catching up with Faith as though the three of us were great friends back then.
What I remember is Bernadette’s broken heart, the worst fight we ever had, guilt over Faith’s meltdown—bad times.
Of course, she still looks perfect, her yellow hair stick- straight, brown eyes big and long-lashed, and her clothing— lilac cashmere turtleneck, black pants, leather boots— conservative but stylish.
“So, nonprofit, that’s admirable,” Bernadette says to Faith. “You like it?”
Faith nods. “We never have enough funding, of course, but the people I work with are fab. How’s your family?”
Bernadette blushes. “Fine. Good.”
“Your brothers still like to wrestle with you?”
“Oh, I kicked Martin’s butt for good years ago, and Paul is way too dignified to wrestle these days. I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Well,” Faith looks down and then up again. “You used to have bruises.”
Okay, wow, suddenly I may as well not be here.
I excuse myself and go to the washroom, where I hide out for a couple of minutes. Crazy protesters, riot police, and now Faith English. This day is seriously killing me.
“Bee, I need to get home,” I tell her when I return to the table.
She blinks at me like she’s forgotten who I am. “Oh!Yeah, sorry.”
Out on the sidewalk we both shake hands with Faith.
“It was great to see you both,” she says. “Really, really great.”
“Mm,” I say.
“Absolutely,” Bernadette says.
“Yeah,” Faith says, not leaving. “You said you live on Euclid?”
Bernadette beams. “303A,” she says.
“Great, great. Well, maybe I’ll... see you in the neigh- borhood.”
“Maybe. Bye, Faith,” Bernadette says, and we walk away. Half a block up, Bernadette says, “Do you think she’ll call?” “You gave her your number?”
“Nope.”
“You think she’ll actually remember your address?” “Faith has an excellent memory for numbers.”
“Bee, I don’t think... I’m not sure this would be... positive for you.”
Bernadette chuckles at my concern, and we keep walking. I’m feeling unwell. My stomach is queasy, my temples are throbbing, and I feel, that is, my body is convinced, that something bad is about to happen. I hear thudding in my ears, inside my head. I look around. Some vengeful ex could leap out of an alleyway and stab Bernadette, a rabid dog or raccoon might attack us. We are in front of Sappho when I suddenly can’t walk any farther. I’m having a heart attack, a stroke. I need to sit down, but there are no benches and too many germs on the ground. Lead, dirt...I will never leave
my house again.
Hugo will think I’ve stood him up tomorrow night and give up on me. People will realize my paintings are shit and stop buying them. Sal will cut me off and I will lose the house, have to be forcibly removed, evicted, and I will live in the park until Bernadette finds me and by then I’ll be terminally ill. Tuberculosis, malnutrition—
“Mara!”
I blink twice and find Bernadette standing in front of me with her hands on my shoulders. Right. I am on Church Street on a chilly autumn day. There are tears in my eyes and I’m shaking.
“Mara?”
“Hi,” I say. “Ah, what’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up! What the hell is going on? We were having a conversation and suddenly you were gone. You just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.”
“I’m fine, it’s okay. I got, ah, tired.”
“And it made you cry?” She puts an arm around my waist and starts walking us forward again.
“I guess I’m just a bit overwhelmed.” “But you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, good as ever,” I say.
She sighs with relief. “Okay,” she says, and squeezes me close to her. “Let’s get you home then.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, I forget you’re so sensitive sometimes.” “It’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Listen, dude,” she says. “You fucking scared me.” “Please don’t call me
dude
,” I say. “Because that scares
me
.”
6
Normally a day in bed wouldn’t be a big deal.
I could hide here until the world seemed safe again. But tonight Hugo is waiting for me and I can’t get up, can’t do anything. I am overwhelmed, exhausted, neurotic. I hate it, hate myself for it.
And do I have his phone number so I can call and cancel? Do I even know his last name? No, because I am a paranoid, difficult, ridiculous fool.
I sigh. Failure is inevitable. I will lay here staring at the ceiling, shuffle to the bathroom to pee, and watch the minutes and hours go by as my chance at love passes me by. My imagination could spiral into variations of worst-case scenario, but I might already be there.
Good-bye Hugo.
I pull the covers up high so they tuck under my chin. The sheets feel cozy, the comforter soft, but I can’t get comfort- able and every second that goes by, I feel worse.
