I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (7 page)

It seems it will help if we change the subject. “Please, let's talk about science.” It's not a smooth transition, but what do I know about social skills?

She tells me science is her favorite subject. After high school, she plans to go to the University of Illinois and then become a science teacher. I can see that she is in control; she will become what she wants to become.

I tell her that science has never been my best subject, but I like Miss Braverman. She likes Miss Braverman too.

“Do you have any special interest or do you just like science in general?” I ask.

“I like botany the best,” says DeeDee. “I grow some shrubs and trees at home.”

“I'm sure you must be very good at it.” I'm not sure what I mean by that remark, but at least I'm not getting scrambled.

“Sometimes I think I'd like to have my own nursery,” DeeDee says. “I like to dig in the dirt. It would be fun to grow ornamental trees and shrubs, then sell them for outrageous prices.” She laughs.

I try to laugh too, but I'm too nervous. My deep breathing causes me to miss some of the conversation; all I know is, she's talking about the science fair and suitable projects.

When she has to leave, she says, “Would you like to walk to school together sometime?”

“I don't know if I could do that.”

“Why not? You have to pass my house on your way.”

“Please, I just wouldn't know. I'll give it some serious thought, I really will.”

I watch her down the street through our kitchen window. My mother is cutting blue construction paper letters for her bulletin board at school.

I watch DeeDee all the way to MacArthur Street. Mr. Stereo has his loud friend and his loud stereo on his patio. His noise is annoying and confusing; I'm trying to think about DeeDee.

“It was nice of her to visit you,” says my mother.

“When she graduates from college, she's going to be a science teacher.”

“And what about you, Grace? What are you going to do?”

“I can't think about that. I don't dare. I have to think about surviving.”

“Nonsense. You're not going to be sick forever. If you had a good friend, I doubt if things would seem so bad. Maybe you and DeeDee will become friends.”

“I doubt that, Mother. She knows I'm wacko; I told her. She has such poise and her life is so sound.”

“No one is perfect, Grace. I'm sure she has problems, like anyone else.”

“The truth is, it wasn't even her idea to come here. It was Miss Shapiro's.”

“What do you mean?”

I tell her the story and she says she's sorry. “I'm sure that's disappointing,” she says.

“It's more than disappointing,” I tell her. “Now she'll try to spend time with me, but it will be artificial. It will be just another source of discomfort.”

“It doesn't have to be; the two of you might still be friends.”

She doesn't understand. How could she? “DeeDee doesn't need friends,” I tell her. “I'm a mission. I'm a project.”

“Don't overreact. So she didn't come to visit you spontaneously. That doesn't mean the two of you can't enjoy each other.”

I can't understand any of this. My mother is so supportive but the stereo is too loud. I'm going flat out again and I'm tired of talking. Why did DeeDee have to come?

“Does he have to play that stereo so loud? Can't we do something?”

“It's not as bad as it usually is,” she says. “I could call the landlord, maybe.”

“Please let's don't talk about it, Mother. Can I help you cut out letters?”

“Sure, if you want. The other scissors are on the telephone stand.”

9/12

Dear Diary:

From my balcony I can see the beer bottles on the ground and in the street. Some of them are broken. There was a party last night in the neighborhood, except I couldn't really call it a party and I couldn't really call this a neighborhood. It was more like roving gangs. I watched it all from my niche. There were crowds of college students in the parking lot across the street, playing loud stereos and pouring beer. The Surly People threw beer bottles and firecrackers at them. At two in the morning, my mom called the police. The police came and directed a long line of traffic out onto MacArthur. It reminded me of parking lot traffic at the county fair
.

I put the diary away and go into the bathroom. The next time I see Dr. Rowe, she will ask me about what I've written. I don't know if she wants to know about the Surly People; I could tell her things, but I'm not sure she would want to hear them. The cracked mirror splices my face; I can see my left eye twice and the tip of my nose twice. I need to hurry now; Mother is gone to school and I'm running late.

I lock the apartment and walk fast. I can't get to MacArthur Street without passing the IGA parking lot. Lots of Surly People are congregated there, near the curb. They are leaning on their cars, smoking cigarettes, drinking Pepsis, and eating candy bars. They hurl their trash around. They are lighting firecrackers and throwing them at each other.

They are the usual ones from our parking lot, and also many others. The one called DeWayne is there, and Brenda, and one called Butch, who has his hair cut very short with arrows shaved in it, right down to the scalp. Is he just bizarre, or is he evil?

I'm very afraid to walk in this place. There must be another route I could take to school, but 14th Street is a dead end. I walk faster; I try to go past the lot without looking to the right or to the left. I hope and pray that they will ignore me, but sometimes they don't.

“Woof woof. Hey, woof woof.”

“Bow wow. Bow wow wow.”

I can't look at them. I
mustn't
look. There is a burst of laughter, but I walk straight ahead. My heart is pounding wild in my chest and my legs are starting to shake. I shouldn't have written in the diary; writing in the diary made me late.

“Hey bow wow, here boy.”

“Woof woof.”

They are whistling as if to call a dog. There are more bursts of laughter. I make it to the corner but I have to wait for traffic; there are tears stinging my eyes and I'm starting to shake. I can still hear the loud whistles and the loud laughter. Why do they do this to me? What kind of cruelty is it?

I make it across the street, choking back my tears. All the way to school, I've still got the shakes; my brain is a chain of flashbulbs. Inside the school, I don't stop at my homeroom, I go straight to the bathroom. I have to pee so bad I'm afraid I'm going to wet my pants.

I get relief and wash my face in front of the mirror and the mist is coming: I'm going to get scrambled. Somehow, I make it to the library and sit among the stacks. Libraries are such safe places; I am scrambled in the mist but I am safe here. Anyway the aftermath will come and the world will have the aura of a dream.

When lunchtime comes, DeeDee sits with me. It is the first time I have eaten in the cafeteria instead of the homeroom. Does she sit with me because it's an assignment, or does she do it of her own free will? It seems demeaning but also comforting not to be alone. Maybe I've had so much institutional support I expect to be sponsored everywhere I go.

My head hurts but I tell DeeDee about the Surly People and the IGA parking lot.

“That's just Brenda Chitwood and the hoods that hang around her. Don't pay any attention to them, they're not worth it.”

She has minor static. It's easy for her to say, her life is so sound she probably has no cavities when she goes to the dentist.

Two other girls join us, named Maureen and Diane. They start talking about cheerleader tryouts, and it will make me very happy if they simply ignore me altogether. For a while they do, but then Maureen wants to know why I'm spooning gazpacho from a mason jar instead of eating school lunch.

“I'm vegetarian,” I say quietly. I don't look up. I really hope the conversation will go back to cheerleading or some other subject.

“You mean you never eat any meat?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

There is a little static in her voice but I answer the best I can, “I believe in animal rights. I don't think we have the right to butcher animals just because we have the power.”

Diane says, “But you have to have protein. Meat is one of the basic food groups.”

“There are better sources of protein, sources that don't include animal fats.” I sound like such a prude. A prune, I mean. I don't mean to, but I'm so afraid when I talk to strangers. How can you hope to make friends if you behave like a prune? My dad was so good at this sort of thing—he could speak his mind and be warm and natural at the same time.

Maureen says, “You mean you never eat a Big Mac or anything?”

I don't have an answer. Mercifully, a cafeteria monitor asks us to move to make room for other people.

It is the next day, I think. I'm getting pretty sound on my days, maybe the medicine is helping me establish basic orientation. I lock the apartment and walk to the curb but there are beer bottles on the ground. I face the end of the street, clear to MacArthur. There is the IGA lot and I freeze; my heart starts to pound and my eyes are popping like flashbulbs. I need to get more sleep at night.

I look again to MacArthur Street. The clouds have swirled a deadly canopy over 14th Street. A tunnel. I can't walk that way. I just can't, I just can't.

I walk up the parking lot past the dumpster, where I find a break in the chain link fence I can squeeze through. On the other side of the fence is a huge field of overgrown weeds and trash. With deep, deep breathing I start walking across the field, in the direction of the tract houses on the far side.

The clouds are flung around and I hear the noisy sky chatter. Sometimes words come and sometimes sentences. I have found an alternate route; it will take me at least three blocks out of my way, but there will be no Surly People.

This doesn't change a thing. The Surly People will not go away
.

But I will go away from them; I won't have to endure their cruelty.

It is a mistake to think so. There are legions of them. The forces of darkness are everywhere
.

The sky persists; it follows me on my walk across the field. The sun is the eye in the sky; it sees into every corner. I feel like a character in a Greek tragedy, and the sky is the chorus. But my life is too pitiful to be tragic. DeeDee will wait for me in front of her house, but I won't come.

“What do you want from me?” I ask the sky.

The forces of darkness are everywhere. Someone has to stand with the forces of light
.

It is my father's voice the sky is using. I'm positive that he died. But other people don't hear it. It only shows how crazy wild I truly am. I would hate for people to see me talking to the sky.

“I could do a project for the science fair. I could make a display on animal rights.”

It's a small gesture, but it's a beginning
.

“I could do it on cruelty and animal rights. I have so much material.”

Start small and then expand your range until you stand with the forces of light
.

“DeeDee thinks I should do a science project. She may even want me for a friend, although I don't know why. She may feel that I have redeeming qualities.”

There is no answer. The sky is gone. I'm glad I found this route; I will walk this way from now on. The sky may come again, but there are no Surly People.

After school, I walk home with DeeDee. She says she missed me this morning and I apologize. She wants to know if I've given any thought to a project for the science fair.

“I have thought about it,” I admit. Of course I would never mention my conversation with the sky.

“Well, think about it some more,” she says with a laugh.

“Okay, I will. I'll think about it some more.”

When we get to her house, she unlocks the door and says, “Can you stay for a little while? As soon as I change, I'll get us some Seven-Up.”

She wants me to stay; she wants to spend time with me. We walk through the kitchen and out into the double garage. She is showing me a two-door maroon Camaro with a sparkly, metallic finish.

“This is my car,” she says. “At least it's
going
to be, as soon as my dad finishes some brake work on it.”

“It's very nice, DeeDee. It looks like a sports car.”

“It used to belong to my brother, but he bought this four-door, cream-colored Volvo. My dad bought the Camaro from him and gave it to me for my birthday.”

I don't know how to talk about cars. “Where's your brother?” I ask.

“He's a senior in college. He thinks a Volvo is more
him
.”

It makes me so nervous to try and hold up my end of a conversation. The garage is still and hot. I look around at all the tools which are hung with so much care and the ten-speed bicycles suspended from the ceiling. I love the familiar, musty smell of stale grease and oil; the garden shop at Allerton smelled this way. I would like to tell DeeDee how comforting the smell is, but that's the kind of remark which makes people nervous.

“Do you have a driver's license, DeeDee?”

“Sure, don't you?”

Her eyes are so clear and blue. I look away quickly. “I never took behind-the-wheel. I missed out on it when I was in the hospital.”

“So? Just take it this year then.”

“I'm not sure I could, it would frighten me to drive a car. There's so much data I'm afraid I would get scrambled.”

“You can get a license, just like anybody else. There's nothing to it, really. C'mon, let's go upstairs.”

“I think your car is real nice, DeeDee.”

I sit on the edge of DeeDee's bed while she changes. Her room is very large and very nice. There is thick carpeting and she has a poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov on her wall. “You have a nice house,” I say.