Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (19 page)

Everyone stares at me. Mr. Gabor leans forward in his chair and says, “Yes, Epstein, there
is
a difference between thought and action, as Hamlet well knows. And I believe you’re coming to the crux of the issue: We all grieve and suffer in this world, but has Hamlet driven himself crazy with grief?”

The class looks from Mr. Gabor back to me. “Hamlet isn’t crazy,” I say. “He’s a sane man living in an insane world. That’s the irony of the play, I think. Craziness is just his cover, but he’s
the only one who sees everything clearly. All the corruption, the greed, the betrayal. That’s why he’s so torn up inside.”

“Well, it’s partly his own damn fault,” Carla snaps. “He could have chosen to marry Ophelia. He could’ve had a happy life with her. She loved him, and look how he treated her. Which is just more proof that he’s insane.”

Sherrie nods. “Yeah. First he’s sending her love letters, and the next minute he’s insulting her and shrieking,
Get thee to a nunnery
.”

“Because he doesn’t want her to turn out like his mother,” I say.

“So he ditches her?” Carla exclaims. “That’s his idea of loyalty?”

“She was the one who returned his love letters,” Geoff points out.

“Only because her father made her do it,” Carla says. “If Hamlet loved her so much, he should’ve stuck by her instead of ditching her. It’s his fault she drowned herself.”

“Yeah,” Sherrie says. “He broke her heart.”

I have to admit, I don’t like the way Hamlet treats Ophelia either, so I’m not about to argue the point, but suddenly Ian speaks up. He says, “You can’t blame Hamlet for Ophelia’s death.”

Carla swivels around in her chair. “What?” she says.

Ian shrugs. “It’s not his fault. He made choices; she made choices.”

“Are you kidding?” Carla gawks. “That jerk treated her like dirt. He was rude and mean. He humiliated her in public. I can’t believe you’re defending him!”

At this point, any other guy would’ve been backpedaling like mad, but not Ian. He laughs. It’s the wrong thing to do. Carla’s body goes rigid. Ian and Carla stare at each other like two cowboys facing off at high noon, and everyone knows that this is
not
about
Hamlet
anymore.

Ian says, “Look, Carla, you can’t be responsible for what another person does. Yeah, Hamlet dumped her. But if she comes unglued because her boyfriend moves on, it’s not his problem. Shit happens.” At which point, Carla slugs Ian in the face, full force, right hook. Her fist smashes into the side of his nose. His head snaps sideways, and he howls in pain. Blood spurts out everywhere.

Mr. Gabor leaps across the room. He helps Ian to his feet and grabs Carla by the arm. He herds them both out the door. The rest of us sit there stunned.

“I believe we just witnessed the termination of that relationship,” Benjamin says.

“That was better than the soaps,” Geoff says.

“I’m surprised it lasted this long,” Jeremy says.

“Aw, those two love fighting,” Jason says. “That’s what they do for fun.”

“That wasn’t fun,” Sherrie says.

“It was fun to watch,” Jeremy says.

“She has a good arm,” Jason says.

“Do you think she broke his nose?” Geoff asks.

Jason shrugs. “I don’t know. Either way, Carla’s in deep shit.”

“Let It Bleed”

Mr. Gabor takes Ian to the school nurse, and I’m sent to the principal’s office. When Principal McMillan asks me “what transpired,” I tell him that Ian got exactly what he deserved. I explain that Ian insulted all women, and that as a feminist, I wasn’t going to put up with any lip from some filthy, male chauvinist pig. Mr. McMillan stares at me like he can’t believe I’m spouting this ridiculous feminist rhetoric in his office. I can’t believe it either. I don’t know where this stuff is coming from (
TV
?), but Papa always taught me that the best defense is a good offense, so I’m going with the feminist angle.

The secretary delivers two files to Mr. McMillan: mine and Ian’s. Mr. McMillan looks them over. Mine is thin, but Ian’s is thick with papers—probably from all those suspensions and expulsions he got in North Bay. I try to use this to my advantage. I tell Mr. McMillan that Ian is a bully and he shouldn’t pick fights with girls. Unfortunately, Mr. Gabor storms in and tells Mr. McMillan that he has never, in his entire teaching career, seen such appalling behavior from a young woman, and that if I think the classroom is a public
forum for working out private relationships, then I have another think coming!

Shit. I am in serious trouble.

Phone calls go out to the parents. Mrs. Slater arrives and whisks Ian off to Emergency. Ma flies into the office, all distraught, thinking that I’m the one who’s been punched in the nose. When she realizes her mistake, she practically lunges for my throat. She apologizes for my inexcusable behavior and begs Mr. McMillan to throw the book at me and “teach that rotten child a lesson.” I get suspended for a week. Ma hauls me out of my chair. As we leave the school, Jason and Jeremy call me Slugger and Ali. They fake-cringe when I walk past. Jason whimpers, “Don’t hit me. Please, don’t hit me!”

In the car, Ma won’t even listen to my side of the story. She yells so loudly, she practically has a coronary. “What kind of girl goes and beats up boys!” she screams. “Wait till your father gets ahold of you.”

Thinking about Pa makes me feel faint. On the phone, when I talk to Deb and Mar, they advise me to cry a lot and beg for mercy. Buzz stares at me like I’ve gone off the deep end. Ma walks around the kitchen slamming pots and pans. Finally, Pa’s car pulls into the driveway. I hide in my room, chewing my nails.

After twenty minutes of talking with Ma in the kitchen, Papa calls me downstairs. “Get into the car,” he says quietly.

I look at Ma, terrified. She looks at Papa, confused. She says, “Tony, where are you taking her?”

“We’re going for a little drive,” he says sternly. He buttons his coat, puts on his hat and gestures with his chin to the front door. Ma twists her hands nervously.

“Can’t we talk here?” I ask.

“In the car,” Pa growls. I’m not about to argue with him.

Buzz and Ma watch from the window as Pa and I drive off. I start to explain, but Pa silences me. We head south, across town. I think about all the Italian movies I’ve seen, the mob movies where someone gets driven out to a field and shot in the head, or tossed into the river with cement shoes. My cousin Frank told me that his dad and my dad were tough guys when they were younger. But isn’t the mob supposed to look after their own? And anyway, Papa isn’t a mobster. So what’s the point of terrorizing me like this?

Pa parks on St. Clair just past Dufferin and leads me into a small Italian restaurant with steamed-up windows and rickety wooden tables. A mob hangout, for sure. The place smells like Nonna Cabrielli’s kitchen when she has the entire family over for dinner. The waiters greet Pa with hugs and slaps on the back. Pa and I sit at a table in the corner. He looks at me with his dark, beady eyes and says, “Answer me honestly, Carla, and no bullshit. Did you really slug that boyfriend of yours in the nose?”

“Yes, Pa.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Did you break it?”

I swallow. “I’m not sure. Maybe. There was a lot of blood.”

Pa nods. He bites his lip. His shoulders start to shake. And then he laughs so hard that tears spill down his face and he can hardly breathe. Every time he tries to talk, he sputters, and wheezes, and starts laughing again. He slaps his thigh and shakes his head back and forth. Finally, he waves over the waiter and asks for a bottle of Chianti and plates of gnocchi and veal. “My daughter and I are very hungry,” he says, tearing into a roll, “and if she doesn’t like her food, I don’t know what will happen.” Pa laughs at his own bad joke. Then he makes me tell him, over and over, how I punched Ian in the nose.

He says, “You know, Carla, it isn’t right, what you did.” He pours us both glasses of wine. “Fists don’t solve problems. On the other hand, when it comes to men, I’m glad to see you can take care of yourself.” He raises his glass to me and smiles proudly. “Here’s to my beautiful daughter, who doesn’t take shit from anybody.
Cin-cin
.” He chuckles, and we clink glasses. The food arrives and it’s fantastic. All through dinner, we talk and laugh and Papa tells stories about the trouble he got into when he was a young immigrant. The people around us smile and nod. I know I should be feeling shitty about Ian and my suspension, but Papa feels like celebrating, and in a way, I do too.

After dinner, in the car, Papa passes me a mint to disguise the smell of food on my breath. He says, “Not a word about this when we get home. I’m sending you straight upstairs to your room.
Capisci?
”

I nod my head. “What about Ma?”

“Cane che abbaia non morde,”
he says. The dog that barks doesn’t bite. “Don’t worry about it. Just be a good girl.” Papa reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And about that boy, you forget about him. Remember,
tesorina
, you’re the prize.”

I tell myself that Papa’s right. We smile at each other in the dark.

“See Me, Feel Me”

Geoff is in my kitchen holding a bottle of green and red sugar sprinkles in one hand and a cookie cutter shaped liked a Christmas tree in the other. “Today, we are making Christmas cookies,” he announces to Buzz and Bobby.

“Cool,” Bobby says.

“Can we eat the dough?” Buzz asks.

“Of course. Why else would we make cookies?” Geoff replies.

“Aren’t you jumping the season?” I ask.

“It’s December 1st,” Geoff says. “In my calendar, Christmas lasts for an entire month. Lights, presents, fa-la-la-la-la … You should sign up to sell Christmas trees at the school. It’s a fundraiser. I do it every year.”

“No, thanks. I have a serious objection to killing trees for two weeks of decorative pleasure,” I say.

“But it’s tradition,” Geoff says.

“Not my tradition,” I reply.

“You have Hanukkah,” Geoff says.

“Yes,” I say, “but Hanukkah has nothing to do with
Christmas. Christmas is about the birth of Jesus. Hanukkah is a holiday about guerilla warfare, political oppression and the right to freedom of religion.”

“That’s not how I heard it,” Geoff says.

I sigh. “The point is, Hanukkah and Christmas have nothing in common.”

“But you light candles and we light Christmas lights.”

“So?”

“So, we both light up the darkness.”

I smile at Geoff. “If being an actor doesn’t work out for you,” I say, “you can always get a job as peace ambassador in the Middle East.”

When Geoff hears that I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree, he insists that I come over and help him and Clarissa do theirs. So, on a cold Saturday afternoon, I arrive at the apartment expecting to find Geoff gushing nostalgically over tree ornaments and popping minced tarts into his mouth, but that’s not how it plays out. Geoff opens the door wearing his red Christmas hat, but he looks like an elf who’s had a bad day at the workbench. “What’s up?” I ask.

Geoff grimaces and leads me into the living room. There, standing next to Clarissa, is a short man with John Lennon glasses, blue eyes and a ponytail. Clarissa says, “Jules, I’d like you to meet Michael van Meers.”

“A pleasure,” Michael says, shaking my hand. He gives me a toothy alligator grin. He’s plump and rumpled in his old woolen sweater—not the type of guy I’d expect Clarissa to go for, but I can tell by the way they look at each other that they’re hopelessly in love.

I smile at Geoff. He looks away. Clarissa passes me a glass of eggnog. I’ve never tried eggnog before. It’s thick and frothy and tastes slightly medicinal, like something you’d take for an upset stomach.

“Shall we start on the tree?” Clarissa asks brightly.

We stare at the fir tree squished in beside the divan. Somehow, four people decorating this tiny tree feels like overkill, but Michael grins and says, “Put me to work.” He unwinds a string of lights, and I open a bag of tinsel. Geoff plucks ornaments from a box and hooks them onto the tree, like someone clipping laundry to a line. He’s behaving like a sullen child. Clarissa flashes me a desperate look.