My Mother Got Married (2 page)

“I don’t want you to go out with him anymore,” I announced simply. “He’s not Dad and it makes me queasy.”

My mother jumped a foot. She scares easier than she used to.

I sat down on the couch and continued. “He doesn’t fit in with us like Dad did. He’s too different.”

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Different?”

I nodded. “Just look at him. He’s
nothing
like Dad. He probably goes out to the forest every morning and eats a bowl of fiber cereal.”

I’m not sure how long my mother stood there staring. But finally she turned off the news and moved onto the couch next to me. Her expression had turned to puzzlement.

“You don’t like Ben? Is that what you’re saying?”

I shrugged. Liking him had nothing to do with it. I just didn’t want him, that’s all. We didn’t
need
him.

“I don’t understand this at all, Charlie,” Mom continued. “Ben and I hardly know each other. We’re just friends. There’s no reason for you to feel so strongly about him.”

I rolled my eyes. Who did she think she was kidding? Just friends? Ha! Another lie! Another big fat lie!

Parents lie all the time. It comes so easily to them, they hardly even know when they’re doing it. They start you off with the one about the tooth fairy and go from there.

“Put your tooth under your pillow,” they’ll say when you’re too young to know any better. “After you’re asleep, a little fairy will buzz into your room, sneak it out from under you, and leave money.”

A fairy. Yeah, right. Tell me another one.

And how about all those food fibs they tell you when they want you to eat your dinner? Like “Carrots help you see in the dark” or “Bread crusts make your hair curly.”

I’m not kidding. My parents said junk like that so much, I used to think I’d end up with bushy hair and x-ray vision.

Let’s face it, parents don’t exactly build a lot of trust by fibbing all the time. So when my mother sat on the couch that night and told me that she and Ben Russo were just friends, it’s no wonder I didn’t believe her.

“The two of you were holding hands when you left tonight,” I informed her cleverly. “That is
not
being friends. That’s being something else.”

She frowned. “Sometimes friends hold hands.”

I shook my head. “No, they don’t. Not after you get out of preschool. Martin Oates is my best friend and I’ve never held his hand once. Not even when crossing a busy street.”

Mom paused a second and gave me a funny look. “Wait a minute. How did you see us holding hands, anyway? You weren’t on the roof spying again, were you?”

Geez, why can’t she ever get this straight? Just because a guy likes to sit up on the roof and be alone sometimes doesn’t mean he’s spying.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t spy,” I explained. “I just happened to be climbing around up there and you just happened to be down on the ground holding hands and I just happened to see you.”

My mother made sort of a hissing sound. She’s never been very understanding about the time I spend on the roof. Ever since I spotted her dancing with our neighbor’s dog in the back yard, she’s been pretty unreasonable about it.

“Remember Santa Claus, Charlie?” she asked then. “Remember the year you thought he was spying on you from the North Pole with high-powered binoculars?”

I felt my face getting red. Why did she have to bring that up again?

“It wasn’t my fault,” I explained for the millionth time. “It was the stupid song. The one about how he knows when you’re sleeping and when you’re awake and if you’ve been bad or good. Doesn’t that sound like spying to you?”

Mom wasn’t listening. “Remember how you kept turning toward the North Pole and waving? And how you spent the entire week before Christmas searching the house for hidden microphones? You thought the star on top of our tree was taking pictures.”

“It blinked funny,” I muttered quietly.

“Well, you didn’t like it
then
, and I don’t like it
now.
I’m an adult, Charles. And I deserve to have friends, just like you do. And I ought to be able to go out once in a while and get in someone’s car without wondering if my son is up on the roof doing a routine stakeout.”

She was making me sound ridiculous. Like a little secret agent or something. I circled my arms around my knees and hid my head.

For the next minute or two, both of us sat there not saying a word. Then finally Mom drew a deep breath and let her cheeks fill up with air. She let it out slowly. When it was all gone, she seemed a little calmer.

“Look,” she said softly. “We’ve both had a tough year and things still haven’t completely settled down yet. But friends can help. You have yours and I have mine. And I hope that both of us keep making new ones.”

I wanted to mention that none of mine would be holding my hand, but I didn’t.

“Ben and I have had four dates. Four dates as friends. He’s a nice man. And I like him. But most of the time he’s busy with his own kids and his business. And there’s simply no need for you to worry about whether he fits in here or what kind of cereal he eats.”

She tousled my hair. “Come on. What d’you say?”

I looked up. What
could
I say? My whole argument had turned out stupid.

I shrugged my shoulders.

After that we hugged for a minute, then I went upstairs. I can’t really say I felt much better. But I didn’t feel any worse either. At least now my feelings were out in the open. At least now I wouldn’t explode.

Not for a while, anyway.

(two)

I

T WAS nine o’clock on Saturday morning. I had just gotten up. I’d been awake since eight, but when you’re eleven, it’s not really cool to bail out early and watch
The Smurfs.
Not even if you still want to.

When I finally made it down to the kitchen, my mother was already outside hanging sheets on the clothesline. We have a dryer but she says that sheets smell fresher if they’re hung outside. It also makes them stiff as a board.

I was just about to pour some milk on my bowl of cereal when I heard a truck pull up in the driveway. I couldn’t see it, but I looked out the window and saw my mother fluffing her hair, so I figured it must be Ben. A second later, she dropped the clothespins out of her mouth and ran around to the front of the house to greet him.

I wondered why he was here. To plant another tree, maybe? Or spread some fertilizer? But that wouldn’t make sense. He’d already done those things the week before.

I put down the milk. If I wanted to know what Ben Russo was up to, I’d simply have to interrupt my breakfast and sneak a peek at him through the dining room window.

I was just heading into the hallway when I heard the front door slam. It was them! My mother was bringing Ben inside and I wasn’t even dressed yet! I still had on my Superman pajamas! The old, faded ones that say
MAN OF STEEL
across the front.

I have a rule. No one except my family gets to see me in my Man of Steel pajamas. I made the rule last year after I accidentally wore them into the kitchen one Saturday morning and found this strange guy fixing the drain. His name was stitched across his shirt pocket.
MAURICE
. He was from France.

“Hey, Superman,” he said when he saw my pj’s (only with his French accent, it sounded more like “Supairman”). “Eef you’ve got some free time, ’ow about looking tru teese pipes and finding hair clogs for me.” Then he roared for about fifteen minutes. He roared in English.

That’s when I made my pajama rule. Until someone makes a dignified pair of pajamas for kids my age, no one outside the family will ever get a chance to laugh at me again.

Their voices were getting louder and louder. Oh geez, they were coming into the kitchen! I had to hide! There was no time to lose!

Quickly I shoved the milk back into the refrigerator and grabbed the box of Fruity Flakes. I learned this from watching TV. It’s called removing the evidence. If I could make it to the broom closet, they would never even suspect I was up yet.

Hurry! Hurry! I screamed silently. They’re almost here! Quick! My heart was pounding like crazy as I lunged for the closet door.

I made it! Just in the nick of time I was able to wedge myself in between the sponge mops and pull the door closed behind me. My foot was in the bucket, but if no one noticed my fingertips holding the door shut, I would be safe.

They entered the kitchen talking and laughing. Ben and my mother and … wait a second. There were other voices too. The two of them weren’t alone.

“Hey! What’s that?” asked a small voice. It sounded like Beaver Cleaver. But that was impossible. Beaver Cleaver was just a TV character. And besides, he usually hung around with Larry Mondello on Saturdays.

Suddenly I felt a slight tug on the broom closet door. It caught me by surprise. I tightened my grip and tried to hold on. Outside the door I felt someone touch each of my fingers. One by one—like they were being counted.

“What are you doing over there, Thomas?” I heard Ben ask.

Whoever Thomas was, he didn’t answer. Instead, he got a better grasp on the door handle and yanked with all his might. I lost my hold. And the door came swinging wide open.

A small boy stood in front of the open closet door and stared at me in wonder. His face was covered with freckles and his ears stuck out. Also, his mouth was agape. Agape means “hanging open.”

His wasn’t the only one, either. My mother’s mouth and Ben’s mouth were agape too. So was the mouth of the teenage girl standing next to them.

I’m not sure how long we stood there like that. All I know is that the boy was in serious danger of drooling, when the pressure of all that silence finally got to me.

“Boo,” I muttered stupidly.

My mother’s eyes widened. “Charles?” she asked, as if she had been hoping it wasn’t really me.

I forced an embarrassed grin. Yup, it was me all right. It was Charles. Charles W. Hickle—Man of Steel.

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Er … exactly what are you doing in the closet?”

Dying
, I wanted to say. Can’t you see I’m dying? But instead I looked around and shrugged. “Nothin’.”

Ben looked worried. “Charlie,” he said calmly and slowly. It was the kind of voice that doctors use in the movies when they talk to insane people in a mental ward. “I’d, uh, like you to meet my children. This is Lydia, and that’s my son, Thomas.”

Cautiously Lydia raised her hand and waved a few of her fingers.

I waved my box of Fruity Flakes. It’s all I could think of.

“Hey, Dad, look!” exclaimed Thomas, pointing excitedly. “He’s got jammies just like mine!”

I tried to cover up, but Lydia had already started to laugh.

At last it finally dawned on my mother why I was there.

“Ohhhh,” she said as the light bulb went off in her head. “I get it. You’re not dressed yet, are you?”

Good, Mom. Very good.

“Listen,” she said, turning to the others. “Why don’t the four of us go outside and unload the plants you brought over. That’ll give Charles a chance to run upstairs and get his clothes on.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she ushered Ben and his kids outside.

I have never been so humiliated in my entire life. I’m serious. Even the time I was singing in the school chorus and a big wad of underwear was hanging out of my zipper, it wasn’t as bad as this.

I checked the kitchen carefully before making a mad dash for my room. When I finally got there, I shut the door, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and threw myself on the bed.

Why in the world had Ben brought his stupid kids over anyway? Didn’t they have anything better to do on a Saturday morning? Hadn’t they ever heard of TV?

And why didn’t my mother warn me they were out there? Was that too much to ask? A little warning that there were strangers lurking around? Hadn’t I explained the pajama situation to her after the problem with Maurice? What did I have to do? Sleep in my clothes? Or maybe I should just lock myself in my room and never come out. That’d teach her. I could do it, too. All I needed was something to block the door, a little food, and a porta-potty.

I hadn’t been brooding very long when a quiet knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.

“Dressed yet, Charlie? Can I come in?”

I couldn’t believe it! She was actually at my door! What was wrong? Hadn’t she humiliated me enough?

I buried my head in my pillow. “No!” I answered. “No to the first question. No to the second question. The answers are no and no.”

Ignoring me, my mother took a quick peek into my room. She does this sort of thing all the time. Like a quick peek is not an invasion of privacy.

When she saw I was dressed, she opened it all the way and hurried in. Thomas was beside her. He was covering his face with his hands and peeking through the cracks. Don’t ask me why, but I think he was hiding.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully, pretending that nothing was wrong. “Guess who I brought with me?”

I rolled my eyes. Gee. This was going to be a tough one.

“It’s Thomas!” she announced. And as she did he uncovered his face.

Golly. What d’ya know. It was Thomas.

“Thomas wanted to know if he could see your room,” she explained. “So I told him, ‘Why, sure you can, Thomas. Charlie would love to show you his room.’ ”

I frowned.

“
Wouldn’t
you, Charlie,” she added, more sternly this time.

Then she stood across from me and silently mouthed, “Come on. He’s only five.” I was still trying to figure out what his age had to do with anything when she made a break for the door.

“The rest of us will be in the backyard. Holler if you need us,” she called, hurrying down the stairs.

I couldn’t believe she’d done this to me! Sticking me with Thomas, of all people! The kid who exposed my pajamas to the world! What was I supposed to do with him, anyway?

He was standing in the middle of the room rocking back and forth on his heels. I looked at him, but I didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to mind. He just kept rocking back and forth, quietly looking the place over. Then, when he was finished, he walked calmly over to my desk, held out his finger, and started touching stuff.