How to Read an Unwritten Language (5 page)

*

Arguing over whether to eat the cantaloupe or the grapefruit—all that was left in the kitchen that might make a breakfast—Dan and Laurie rolled them back and forth at each other across the table. A ripe scent, hinting at decay, filled the room. Mother stood by the sink, feigning indifference, though when she scratched at her elbow I realized she was Patricia, the woman who suffered violent fits of itching. Before I could hush Dan and Laurie, Patricia grabbed an unwashed glass. With one deft swing she broke it in half against the faucet and glass shards scattered across the counter.

We stared, unable to move, to protest, as she approached our table with the jagged bottom. She stuck it into the cantaloupe, where it sat firmly like a horrid hat.

We decided on grapefruit and ate dutifully, listening to one mower after another start up down the block. Patricia scratched at her arms, the back of her neck and then, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, she smoked—a habit Mother had quit over two years ago.

“It's hot in here,” she murmured, as if to herself. “Where's the fan?”

She left the kitchen and rummaged in the hall closet, where Father had stored our old fans after installing the air conditioner. When she returned, none of us dared ask Patricia how she knew our house so well. Our mouths were full, or if they weren't we pretended they were. Even Dan chewed silently.

She placed a fan on the counter, close to the screen door, and punched the switch. The metal blades spun to life, the circular cage rotating back and forth. Patricia blew smoke out through her nose, the light-blue wisps curling in the direction of the fan's luxurious whir. Those delicate smoky trails sped through the grillwork and past the blade, rushing out as an indistinct cloud that vanished through the screen door.

“Do that again,” Dan said in awe, actually daring to speak up, but Patricia had already exhaled, as though anticipating the request. Again the smoke spread out in intricate, sinuous lines, then curved through the blades and came out a gray stain.

Patricia turned to us. “Here,” she said, holding out her cigarette, “any of you want to try?”

None of us did, but none of us wanted to say so. We waited for each other to speak.

“Don't worry,” she said, her outstretched hand still offering the cigarette. “It's filter tipped. It's
low tar.”

“Sure,” I piped up, the grapefruit still bitter and raw in my mouth. “Pass the damn thing over.”

Patricia stepped back against the counter, a knowing look in her narrowed eyes. Did she suspect that I too had a secret life? She laughed, flipped the cigarette into the sink, and then turned on the faucet and the disposal. After unplugging the fan she hurried out of the kitchen, the thin cord trailing behind her, away from the mashing whine that seemed to surround us.

My search through the park had been a success: two ancient bottle caps, their fluted edges rusted; a few sharp brown shards of a broken beer bottle; and a dark iridescent crow feather. After stowing them in a backpack, I simply had to return to a special corner of the park that I'd discovered: a little circle of trees that offered a green tunnel to the sky, its borders subtly altered by swaying branches. I stretched out on the grass and watched bits of cloud pass by, wispy expressions that dissolved into a sheer blue so calming that I felt ready for whatever new characters Mother might be concocting back home, even if I didn't know why she might be concocting them.

At the time I hadn't heard of anything called a multiple personality disorder and so couldn't consider this possibility, yet even now I doubt that term could ever explain my mother. She'd simply started a game, a silly game out of boredom or sadness, and too soon that game's logic led her away from where she'd started, led her away from us.

If only I'd known how far, that day when I returned home and stood before the open side door, listening to Laurie and Dan in the backyard arguing some variation of It's My Turn. Their dispute wasn't very serious—the squeaks of two swings punctuated a lazy sparring that seemed mostly designed to trigger Mother's intervention, though she didn't seem to be taking the bait. Where was she?

I ventured into the quiet house. “Hello?”

“Is that you?” I heard her call from upstairs. “Finally! I've been waiting for hours.” She barged out onto the landing, an exasperated smile on her face. “There you are. What kind of a repair service do you run, anyway?”

She waited for me to explain myself and enter whatever drama she was plotting, and her toe tapped away at the banister like an improvised, impatient timepiece.

So I once again entered into another game with the simple phrase, “Excuse me, ma'am?” though I also couldn't help wishing that I could take back my words.

“You should've been here hours ago.”

I sighed. “I had a big job over at the Carleton place. If I were you, I wouldn't complain. You're lucky I showed up,” I groused, exhilarated that I could reprimand her. Was this the sort of freedom adults enjoyed every day?

She chuckled bitterly. “Oh, do I feel lucky.” Setting off down the second floor hall, she called back, “At least don't take your time now that you're here.”

I hurried after her and she led me to the one room in the house I never felt comfortable entering, even on Christmas mornings when Laurie, Dan and I dragged our parents from bed as early as we dared. Hesitating at the doorway, I surveyed the night tables and their mysterious drawers that none of us could ever bring ourselves to open, the large bed and its plush covers, and a seascape painting on the wall with waves always about to crash down on the headboard.

“Excuse me,” Mother said, “but you
can
come into the room; we don't have problems with the door hinges. Actually, the problem's right over here,” she said, struggling to open a screen window. She peered outside and then she pushed halfway through, her legs dangling in the air for a brief awkward moment as she scrambled out onto the roof.

“Wait!” I shouted in my own voice.

She peered back inside, her face framed by the window, both hands clutching the sill. “You're wearing work boots, aren't you?”

I glanced down at my sneakers—they'd certainly keep a good grip. “Sure,” I repeated, trying to recover my confident repairman's tone. “But ma'am, why don't you let
me
see what the trouble is?”

“How are you going to find it unless I show you?” she said, and scrabbled away on the roof.

I stood before this window that was now much more than a window: if I crawled through I'd have to become the workman in my mother's story. Except she wasn't my mother, I reminded myself, she was just a very odd woman who was going to give me a rough time on this job.

“I know you get paid by the hour,” I heard her say, “but as far as I'm concerned the clock doesn't start until you're out on the roof.”

I clenched my teeth. The customer's always right. I eased myself out feet first, testing the shingles' gritty surface on this roof that tilted like the deck of a dangerously listing ship. Only when sure of a steady grip did I turn around.

The front yard seemed miles away, unaware of me and yet at the same time waiting for my feet to slip. Queasy at the first hint of the shingles' faintly tar-ish aroma, I was ready to scramble back inside. But Mother had clambered to the peak of one of the dormers, and I fought my fear and followed. Using a bird's nest in a nearby shade tree as a guide, I kept my eyes from the shifting clouds and the patient ground below. Finally I reached her, unable to hide my nervous little gasps.

“How long have you been in this business?” she asked quietly.

“Longer than you'd think, ma'am. Now what's the problem?”

Tapping the angled shingles with her feet, she said, “Just look at this roof. It
leaks
. It started in the bedroom—there's a terrible stain on the ceiling. That's not all, of course—you can't imagine what else's been ruined inside. And it's spreading everywhere.”

With a slow sweep of my head I regarded every shingle: each as ordinary as the other. “The roof appears all right to me. Are you—”

“Oh you, where are your eyes? Look at
this.”
She stamped her feet. “And this
here.”

“Well, maybe I was a bit hasty—”

“And this, and
this
…” Mother pounded at the shingles with her fists, working her way up to the crest of the roof.

“Wait,” I said, climbing after her, “I see what you mean—”

“Mommy!” I heard Laurie cry out. “Mommy come down!”

I reached the top and there were my brother and sister below, rushing to the edge of the house. Laurie began weeping. “Please, please,” was all she could manage, staring up at us.

“It's just the brats,” Mother said. “Ignore them, they're always crying about something.”

I sucked in my breath at her words. Was Mother playing a mother who didn't love her children, or had she confessed something? Her steady gaze waited for a reaction. Was I still a workman in her eyes, or merely a child who impersonated one? Once again the awkward angle of the roof pulled at me. I knelt down, my eyes squeezed shut, and decided I'd lost my patience with this woman—it was time to wrap up the job.

“Ma'am?” I ventured, “I've seen this sort of thing before. So I've just applied … Protecto-Guard … on all the problem areas.”

She didn't move, she just kept watching those poor wailing kids, not a touch of concern on her face, and I tried again. “Excuse me—”

“Protecto what?” she replied, her voice husky, barely audible.

“Guard. So if you'll just follow me,” I said, assuming a tone of professional impatience. “I can get to my next job down on Sycamore Street.”

I tugged at her resisting elbow until she nodded and let me lead her carefully down the roof. Emboldened, I kept up a distracting patter: “As you can see, Protecto-Guard dries quickly, and gives off no unpleasant odor. And it's inexpensive too.”

The woman didn't say a word, though I could tell from the amused line of her mouth that she was listening. I decided to charge her extra just for being such a pain in the ass. But first I had to get her off the damn roof, so when we reached the window I shuffled to the side and motioned for her to climb back in.

She grabbed the sill with both hands, then closed her eyes and leaned back.

“I'm in a
hurry,”
I grumbled, alarmed that she might let go and fall.
“Please
, after you.”

With a sharp grunt she pulled through the window, as if returning inside were painful. Following too quickly, I scraped my shin but kept quiet—I was a grown-up, after all, with no mother nearby to offer any sympathy.

I could hear the woman's two kids running up the stairs, bawling. She turned to me and looked as if she might start complaining again, so I pointed to the ceiling. “See? No unsightly stain. I've fixed everything. Protecto-Guard really works wonders, and you'll find that the ceilings everywhere in the house are just as stain free.”

“It'll come back,” she murmured, and then took my brother and sister into her waiting arms.

*

Pretending that what had just occurred could somehow be forgotten, we settled once again into our unspoken pact of normalcy: Mother set to work in the kitchen, while we took our places on the living room rug before the television. But I found no delight in the transformations of Felix the Cat's magic bag, even when it unfurled into a tank and routed his enemies.

Dinner that evening at first maintained its usual dreariness, with Mother matching Father's silence, but after a few minutes Laurie set her head on the table and wept, her shoulders shaking. When Mother leaned over, cooing comfort, Laurie shivered away from any touch and slunk down in her seat.

“Gladys?” Father asked. “What's the matter with Laurie?”

Before Mother could reply Laurie wailed, “Mommy climbed up on the roof today!”

“The roof?” Father repeated, and with those words he unknowingly entered our secret life.

Mother said nothing, her face strained with surprise. She turned to Dan and me, the two other witnesses to today's extravaganza. What she saw in our faces couldn't have reassured her.

“I want an answer,” Father said, glancing around the table.

“It was nothing at all … Mother began uncertainly. “I thought there was a, a squirrel in the attic, and I wanted to check to see how it maybe, might have gotten in—”

“Michael was up there too,” Laurie said to her plate in a small, sniffly voice.

“Yes, I forgot,” Mother replied, eyes wary. “Michael helped me look, didn't you honey?”

I couldn't take part in another of Mother's stories. “We were up there because you said the roof was leaking.”

“I said?” was all she could manage, open-mouthed at my desertion.

“Well?” Father asked, an edge in his voice. “Squirrel or leak?”

“Squirrel,” Mother said.

“Leak,” I repeated less confidently.

Mother attempted a breezy laugh. “Really, it's plain to see that the roof doesn't leak.”

“We don't have a squirrel in the attic, either,” I forced myself to say, “but you said there was a leak.”

“I don't know what's come over your son,” Mother announced, turning to Father.

Your
son. Was she once again looking out at us from behind another character? “You're lying,” I squeaked out, amazed at my daring.

“What did you say?” Father hissed. Mother's thin smile made me realize my misstep—with no one else on the roof, it was my word against hers.

“I asked you a
question,”
Father barked.

Laurie hiccupped with teary misery, but I wouldn't allow myself to cry. “I, I said—”

“Michael's telling the truth,” Dan said, breaking his silence.