The Belief in Angels (45 page)

She’s just been waiting for a ride out of Withensea on some guy’s white horse. But she pulls up my anchor and drags it along when she rides away. I can’t hold it. Eventually the line snaps.

Timothy and I were calling one another occasionally at first, but he’s grown busy with college life, classes, and meeting new people. I’m the dull hick from back home he’s outgrown. I stopped returning his phone calls to avoid talking to him. Eventually, he stopped trying.

My life has grown unbearably small.

My social life, outside of school, is nonexistent. It seems like there’s an emotional chasm between me and most of the kids I know. Over the years I’ve occasionally found small connections, but no one besides Leigh or Timothy has ever seemed capable of unconditionally accepting my life experience. The truth is, I’m too tired to start unfolding myself again. It’s exhausting to think about.

Folding in and guarding what is left feels better, so I spend my time after school either in the art room at school or in my room, painting and drawing. Alone.

High school becomes a dance I watch without hearing the music the dancers move to.

On the weekends I work at the town newspaper. They’ve promoted me to a position they call Junior Copy Editor. Complete gopher job. When I’m not fetching things I make up inane advertising slogans for the local businesses and try not to lose my mind.

In October, Wendy and Jack are arrested again for being drunk and starting a fight at the bar. They’re held for the night then released. When they come back to the house they have another fight about a chick Jack slept with. Jack tears the house apart again, grabs his things, and moves out. He takes another job sailing a boat and leaves the state.

Wendy responds by sleeping with so many different men I stop paying attention to their names and faces as they drift in and out. As far as I can tell, they’re the same man in different sneakers. I figure she has sex with these guys because Jack’s been having affairs on her and she’s pissed. I ask her if it makes her feel better to have sex with all these men.

“Absolutely.”

“Why? How?” I ask. “Don’t you feel used all over again?”

She laughs. “I’m using them!”

Life is just a long series of rationalizations for Wendy.

IT’S TUESDAY, THE week of Thanksgiving.

Timothy called last night to say he’s coming back from school for the holiday and that he’d like to spend time with me over the weekend. I’m surprised by the call and I’m doubtful if we’ll really see one another.

I know I’ll be spending our Turkey Day at Pier 4, where my grandfather takes us every year to celebrate this American tradition. We order stuffed lobsters. I wish we celebrated like normal families with turkeys and green bean casseroles and
passing out in front of the TV, but we don’t. Wendy usually dresses up like she’s going to a rock concert.

Jack is in Mexico or the Bahamas or somewhere sailing boats and having affairs.

This year, David isn’t going to join us. His Thanksgiving will be with somebody from his fraternity. He’s become President of his fraternity, and I know he’s having fun. I don’t blame him for not wanting to come back.

So the group will be Wendy and me, my grandfather, Ruth, and Bethyl.

My grandfather doesn’t go to restaurants often. Maybe twice a year. But there’s something about this restaurant, on this day, with a branch of the Kennedy clan celebrating in a private space somewhere in the same restaurant. He’s proud to be able to do this once a year and it gives him pleasure.

But today is Tuesday. Two days before Thanksgiving at Pier 4.

I walk into Shakespeare with Ms. Epstein. I love this class like no other, mostly because I love Shakespeare and Ms. Epstein reads it superbly to us.

As class starts, Marcy Drake, a cheerleader, calls me over to her seat. I’m curious and a bit nervous because although Marcy and I were friendly once, back in the days when I twirled my baton for the football team, she treats me like I’m invisible now. She asks me why I didn’t go out painting the seawall with the rest of the senior class the night before.

“I had no idea the seniors were painting the seawall last night.”

The painting of the seawall is an old Withensea High senior year tradition.

“Well, we were—and your mother was there too.”

“My mother?” I’m startled to hear this.

“Yeah, I saw your mother parked at the seawall with a guy. When we were done painting we went back to our cars. I needed a light and I walked over to their car, and …” Marcy pauses dramatically and a small, nasty smile spreads across her face.

“Your mother was busy in the guy’s lap.” She smiles at me like I should know what she means. I don’t.

She realizes this and decides to educate me.

“She was, you know … busy?”

I still don’t understand.

“Your mother was giving the guy a blow job,” she says loudly enough for several students nearby to hear.

Marcy starts laughing like a hyena. The other kids laugh as well. I turn and walk to my seat. I am embarrassed. Mortified.

And the next thing I remember is standing in front of my locker, staring at my coat, at the end of the day.

Big deal, Wendy gave a guy a blow job in a car down by the seawall. I’m sure it’s something lots of girls do. Marcy probably gives her boyfriend blow jobs.

But I know it must have been surprising for Marcy to discover Wendy like that. Wendy’s behavior stopped shocking
me
a long time ago. This will become another story in an already long list of bizarre behaviors. I wish, though, she’d chosen a less public place to have sex, like anywhere other than a place where school kids could see her.

But Wendy lives by her credo: “Who cares what the neighbors think?”

The next day, our last day of class before Thanksgiving break, I rock back and forth in front of my locker deciding whether to leave my books or take them for the break. I don’t have any assignments and I probably won’t read anything. I close the locker and this guy Nick, whom I know from peer counseling class, is standing there.

“Hey Jules.”

“Hi Nick.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

I haven’t spoken directly with him in probably a year, although he lives in my neighborhood. He’s a football player, and since I quit the majorettes, kids avoid me. It’s like throwing away your popularity ticket in Withensea.

I have no identity beyond the art room.

Anyway, I’m wondering why he’s asking me this, and I study him closely. “Why? What’s tonight?” I’m thinking there must be a senior activity again.

“Nothing going on. I thought you might want to get together, you know, drive around or something?”

This sounds fishy. I ask, “What’s up Nick? What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something …”

He seems uncomfortable and like he’s sincerely trying to make a connection, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

“All right.”

“Okay?” He acts like I told him he won the lottery.

“Yeah, all right.”

“Okay. I don’t have a car. Can you pick me up?”

I like the role reversal. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you around six.”

He’s still standing by my locker as I walk away.

In retrospect, I suppose I should have known that something was up. During our sophomore year, Nick and I were peer counselors for a local birth control clinic a volunteer school program encouraging responsible teen sex. A few of the kids from the church group Leigh and I were part of had been recruited.

Nick acts like a nice guy, one of those guys who doesn’t say much in a crowd but acts decent when you talk one on one with him. He’s been on a football team all his life. He’s big and built. David played on the team with him before he left for college.

I trusted Nick, even though I hadn’t been around him in a while.

This turned out to be a big mistake.

From the moment he enters the car, he acts abnormal. He doesn’t seem to want to talk. I ask him where we’re headed and he gives me a vague answer.

“Let me drive.”

“No way. I’ll drive my car. No offense, but I don’t let anyone else drive my car.”

He’s sullen. This seems more than abnormal. It’s creepy.

“Drive around. It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you paying for the gas?” I joke.

“Yeah, I’ll pay for gas.”

“All right, I’ll drive around.”

I head down to the library. I like the historic, gray stone building and the old homes that surround it. Lots of them have been restored since the big blizzard, and at night they have a particular, eerie beauty.

The first big snow hit a few weeks ago, but bits of shriveled leaves still cling to bare branches. Past dusk, the sky reflects a deep periwinkle blue, lit by the old arcing streetlights.

We drive for a while, up and down the avenues and surrounding streets, not saying much.

“Let’s go up to the Forts. I want to talk to you.”

“We can park somewhere around here and talk.” “No, I wanna go up there and maybe walk around.”

I’m unsure about this. The old Revolutionary War Forts are a great spot to walk around during the day because they have a spectacular view. They sit on one of the highest ocean cliffs in Withensea. But at night, they become a spot for teenagers to make out or go drinking.