Something Invisible (11 page)

Jake said nothing. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was that he didn't trust himself not to cry if he opened his mouth.

“She wants you to come to the funeral,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “That is to say, she needs you there.”

Jake said, “Did she tell you that?” His voice was cracked, and it hurt to talk.

“Not in so many words, but I know she does. It's tomorrow, eleven o'clock. Can you come?”

Jake shook his head. He couldn't possibly go. He couldn't bear to see the little coffin, the weeping family, Stella distraught. What could he say to her? He couldn't tell her he was sorry for saying … what had he said, anyway? He hadn't said he didn't like her sisters being around, he was sure he hadn't. He definitely hadn't said she had too many sisters. She'd just chosen to interpret it that way.

“Jake, you've had a dreadful shock.”

Jake nodded.

“But it wasn't your fault.”

“It was,” he said listlessly. “Partly.”

“Do you remember the first card I sent you?”

Jake nodded again. His mouth felt dry. He took a sip of his tea.

“That was because you had saved a child's life. Remember?”

He nodded miserably.

“So, would you think that a boy who did that would have let another child get killed if he could help it?”

“No,” said Jake. “But…”

If he'd run faster, Jake knew, he just
knew,
he could have scooped Joanne up and twirled them all three out of danger. If only he could have run a little faster! If only he hadn't stopped to think! If only he'd done as he did that day at the pier, and acted on instinct! He could have stood out of the path of the car and pulled her toward him. He could have pounded on the roof of the car and forced the driver to stop.

“But me no buts,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “It's as plain as the nose on your face.”

“It
was
my fault,” he said. “I called to her. I waved to her. She didn't see the car because she was running to
me.
”

“Jake, listen. You are just not that important, you know.”

Jake stared at her.

“But it was my fault,” he whispered. She didn't understand.

“You are not important, at all.”

Jake had no idea what she meant. He put his head in his hands.

“Listen,” she said. “A little girl has died in a tragic accident. As if that is not bad enough, her poor mother was driving the car that killed her.”

Jake gasped, as if someone had hit him with a fistful of nettles.

“But it was…”

“Stop! And think. Who is important, here, Jake? A boy who happened, by chance, to be on the street and by coincidence was the unwitting cause of the little girl's distraction? A boy who could not prevent the accident because, if he tried, his own baby sister might have been killed also, not to mention himself. Is the boy the important one, or is it the mother of the dead child, who killed her little daughter by accident?”

“The mother,” whispered Jake.

“And how important is the boy?”

“Not important.”

“Even if he thinks it's his fault, does that matter? Even if he drowns himself in remorse, does it change anything for that mother?”

“No,” said Jake.

“It was the car's fault, if anything. Apparently those little cars are notorious for having the pedals too close together. I think they should take them off the market. If you wanted to be really cruel, you could say it was the mother's fault, for not checking—but she was in a rush, she didn't check, it was a new car, she wasn't used to driving it and the pedals were placed very close together. That's why the accident happened, not because of you.”

“But…” said Jake.

“And, Jake,” Mrs. Kennedy went on, ignoring him, “a young girl has lost her baby sister. She has a friend whom she would like to see, because she thinks that friend might be able to be of some comfort to her. Who is more important here, Jake, the young girl or the friend?”

“The young girl,” Jake said, still whispering. But Mrs. Kennedy didn't know what Stella had said to him the last time they'd met. Nobody knew about that, except him and Stella. She didn't like him anymore, and because of that, he hadn't been around lately, and because of that, Joanne had been extra excited to see him, and because of that …

“You might as well say it was the
baby's
fault, Jake,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “for being there.”

“That's not fair!” said Jake. Something was sitting heavily on the back of his neck, between his shoulders.

“Exactly. And it's not fair to blame yourself either.”

“But…” Jake started again.

Mrs. Kennedy held her hand up, palm outward. She said nothing, but she shook her head.

“Goodbye, Jake,” she said, after a moment.

And she shuffle-stomped, shuffle-stomped across Jake's living room carpet to the door.

She turned then and said, with a hint of a smile, “Life is not a bowl of cherries, Jake, as we know. But a bowl of cherries is still a bowl of cherries.”

Jake had no idea what that meant.

He sat there, listening to her shuffle-stomping through the hall, and then the door closed, and he could see her wobbling down the garden path, and still he sat with the fish card in his hand.

CHAPTER

39

As the car that had been waiting for Mrs. Kennedy drove off, Jake's mother put her head around the living room door. Jake still sat completely immobile.

She came in and sat beside him.

“Who exactly is that old lady?” she asked. “She is the one who sent the card before, isn't she?”

“Yes. She's Stella's next-door neighbor's mother. She's a friend of ours. Her name is Mrs. Kennedy. She likes fish paintings.”

“I see,” his mother said. “She seems nice. But she didn't eat any Swiss roll, and neither did you.”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Jake. “She's not supposed to eat cake. But she does, sometimes.”

“I see,” said his mother. “Listen, Jake,” she went on. “You know the poem about Daisy?”

“‘The Daisy follows soft the Sun,'” said Jake in a listless voice.

“Yes,” said his mother. “I want to tell you the rest of the verse. Listen: ‘The Daisy follows soft the Sun—/ And when his golden walk is done—/ Sits shyly at his feet.' You know that bit, now listen to the rest: ‘He' (that's the Sun, Jake), ‘He—waking—finds the flower there— / Wherefore—Marauder—art thou here? / Because, Sir, love is sweet!'”

Jake looked at her uncomprehendingly. Everyone was speaking in riddles, and his head was too addled to decode them. The thing sitting on the back of his neck was still there. It had knotted all the muscles across his shoulders.

“The marauder is the daisy,” his mother explained. “Isn't that an interesting word to choose? The sun is talking to the daisy, asking her why she is there, and she says, ‘Because, Sir, love is sweet!'”

“I don't see…” said Jake.

“No,” said his mother. “But you might later. Just remember it. ‘Wherefore—Marauder—art thou here?'”

Jake looked at her blankly.

“Well?” she said.

“‘Because, love … something…'”

“Yes,” said his mother. “‘Because, Sir, love is sweet!'”

Jake stared at her. He wished his mother were an air hostess or a weather forecaster or a super market checkout person or an engineer—anything but a poet. Poets are daft, he thought. Maybe Stella should be a lexithingy after all.

“Now, help me to bring those tea dishes into the kitchen, and we'll make some lunch,” she said. “I know a small marauder who is longing to see you.”

“I can't eat,” Jake said miserably.

“You will,” his mother said. “You need to.”

CHAPTER

40

Daisy wasn't the least bit pleased to see Jake. She started to whimper as soon as he came into the kitchen.

“There!” said Jake. “See?”

“I don't see anything,” said his mother, “except that Daisy's a bit fractious.”

“She doesn't like me anymore,” said Jake.

“Will you stop feeling so
sorry
for yourself, Jake?” snapped his mother. “Go and talk to your father while I get the lunch ready. He's in the garden. Weeding, I think. No, first have a glass of milk or you'll keel over.”

“He's not my father,” said Jake.

“He's the best father you've got, Jake,” said his mother stiffly, and she poured him a glass of milk.

“Yeah,” said Jake. “Can we have tomato sandwiches for lunch?”

She nodded and Jake drank the milk, while she stood and watched, and then he went out into the garden. His dad was kneeling by a flowerbed, not weeding, just thinking.

“Hi,” said Jake morosely. “I'm supposed to keep out of the way till lunch. Then I'm supposed to eat lunch.”

“Wow, that's tough, Jake,” said his dad. “Does this mean the hunger strike is over? Were your demands met?”

Jake couldn't raise a smile, but he hunkered down beside his dad.

“No,” he said. “I wanted everyone to ignore me, but they wouldn't. I thought if I ignored them, they'd ignore me.”

“It doesn't work like that,” said his dad, starting to weed now that he had some supervision. “Here, are you up to a bit of weeding, Jake? I could do with a hand.”

Jake started to pull at a scrawny-looking weed. It resisted at first, but then he pulled nearer to the ground, a sharp tug, and the root came out of the dry earth with a satisfying squeak.

“The best way to be ignored,” his dad continued, “is to get on with your life exactly as always. It's when you crawl into bed and face the wall that people start to take notice.”

“It's funny, that, isn't it, Dad?”

“Um,” said his dad. “Yeah. Funny.”

“That's groundsel,” Jake said after a while, pointing to a yellow-flowered weed.

“Is it?” said his dad. “Horrible yoke.”

They went on weeding. Jake shifted along the garden path a little in one direction and his father shifted along in the opposite direction, but they were still within chatting distance.

“I hope she doesn't put any lettuce in the tomato sandwiches,” Jake said. “That's what we're having for lunch. I like them soggy.”

They weeded a bit more.

Then Jake's dad said, “Jake…”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Jake said.

“I wasn't going to talk about it.”

“Oh?” said Jake. “Sorry. What, then?”

“You know how we haven't been able to have a holiday this year?” his dad said. “Because of Daisy.”

“Oh, is that why?” said Jake.

“Well, yes, we don't want to be carting a small baby around airports and train stations, do we? With prams and nappies and all the gear.”

“No,” said Jake. “We don't.”

“And, of course, if Daisy stays at home, your mother has to stay at home too.”

“I suppose,” said Jake. “The milk supply.”

“But, hey, Jake, that leaves us men free, doesn't it?”

“How?” asked Jake suspiciously. He'd never thought of himself as part of “us men” before. He thought it sounded a bit pally. He could sense another fish tank coming on.

“Well, we could go off on our own, couldn't we?”

“You mean, like, camping? Fishing? Sort of father-son stuff?”

“Well, no,” said Jake's dad. “I thought more like Old Trafford.”

“What!”

“You know, it's a football stadium, in…”

“I know what it is! Do you mean … oh,
Dad!
”

“Well,” said Jake's dad, “I got a couple of tickets for the opening game of the season, and I thought maybe you'd … you know … What do you think, Jake?”

“I think…” Jake hesitated. “Why are you being so nice to me? Is this because of…”

“Jake, are you never happy?”

“No,” said Jake.

“So you don't want to come?”

“I
do
want to come. Thanks, Dad. Oh, yes!” Jake punched the air.

“You're welcome.”

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Do they have any art galleries over there?” asked Jake. “With seventeenth- and eighteenth-century paintings in them?”

“You're pulling my leg, Jake.” Dad sat back on his heels and stared at Jake. His eyebrows had practically climbed up onto the top of his head.

“No, I'm not. That's when they painted fish paintings. I need to look at some of those.”

“How do you know when they painted fish paintings?” Dad asked.

“Mrs. Kennedy told me. And then I looked it up, and she was right. I knew she would be.” He hadn't had to look very far. The dates had been right there, on the backs of the postcards.

“Mrs. Kennedy is the old lady who was here just now?”

“Yes,” said Jake, and he went back to his weeding. “She's got arthritis.”

“Why did she come, Jake?”

“She wants me to go to the funeral.”

“And you said…?” his dad asked.

“Nothing,” said Jake. “I didn't say yes and I didn't say no.”

“Hmm,” said his dad. “Can you not make up your mind?”

“No,” said Jake.

“Is it too sad for you?”

“No,” said Jake.

“So tell me, Jake,” Dad said. He sat back on his heels again and put on a listening face.

Jake couldn't look at him. He went on weeding, ferociously.

“You said we wouldn't talk about it,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah,” said his dad. “I forgot.”

“We had a row,” Jake said suddenly. “
She
said, Stella, I mean, that I didn't like all her sisters and I wished she didn't have so many … and now there's one less, so she'll think I'm glad.” A tear plopped onto the back of his hand. He stared at it. He hadn't felt it creeping down his face.