The Falls (13 page)

I looked at the containers again, but with a different eye. Whatever was in there belonged to
me
.

“I've just started to scratch the surface,” she said. “It's mainly household stuff, like dishes and pots, some books and old records. I suspect it won't be of much value.”

“Why not?”

“Valuable things you take with you when you go, or at least arrange to get after you've moved. They didn't do either . . . so . . .”

I guessed that made sense. My fantasies of buried treasure faded.

“But that doesn't mean that there aren't things in there that are really important, though,” she said. “I mean, important to you. Things that belonged to your father, to his family, things that might help you to understand your past. I guess you'll find out when you start digging in.”

“Me?”

“I think you should be the one to do it. I'll help if you want, but it's your stuff and your history. I'm surprised you aren't more interested.”

“I'm interested,” I said. “I just don't know if I have the time right now.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot about your very busy schedule,” she said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. She paused. “Actually, I've always been surprised that you never asked about your father.” She paused again. “Was it because you didn't want to know, or because it hurt too much to ask?”

“Guess it just never came up,” I said.

“And now that it has come up, is there anything you want to ask me?” she offered.

I shrugged.

“There has to be something.”

“Well . . . I was wondering . . . how did he die?”

“You don't know?”

“If I did know I wouldn't be asking!” I snapped.

“Oh, of course. I know I told you, but it was a long time ago, and you were pretty young, so I guess you don't remember. Your father was hit by a car and killed. The driver didn't stop and they never found him.”

“Was he walking or on his motorcycle?” I asked.

“His motorcycle . . . say . . . it sounds like you do remember.”

“I guess maybe I remember something,” I lied. All I remembered was what Candice's father had said about him racing around on his motorcycle.

“Your father didn't fear speed any more than he feared heights. He used to race around town. The first time I rode on the back of that bike I was so scared, I held on to him so tight that I swear he must have been able to feel my fingernails right through his jacket. Then, when I realized just how good a driver he was, I relaxed a bit.”

“Apparently he wasn't good enough,” I said, “or he wouldn't have got hit.”

“It wasn't his fault. I'm sure of that. Any more questions?”

“Yeah . . . one. Was he a loser?”

She laughed. It was a nervous, surprised laugh. “Why would you ask that?”

“I just want to know,” I said.

“Do you think he was a loser?” she asked.

“I didn't know him. Besides, I'm the one asking the questions.”

“What do you mean by a loser?”

“You're asking me questions again,” I said. “You know what a loser is.” I thought maybe she was trying to buy some time, to figure out what she should say. I didn't want her to figure anything out. I just wanted the truth.

“Some people might say he was a loser.”

“I don't care about what
some people
think. I want to know what
you
think.”

She didn't answer right away. She was gathering her thoughts. “You know, your father never finished high school. He was smart, but he just didn't have any use for some subjects, and he thought a lot of the teachers were just jerks.”

“I know that feeling,” I said.

“And he had more than his share of fights, and a couple of brushes with the law, although he was never charged with anything. He drank a lot. And of course he got me in trouble, and you were born before I turned seventeen.”

“So you're saying he
was
a loser.”

“No, I'm telling you why people might think that. But I thought they were wrong.”

“Doesn't seem too wrong to me,” I said.

“It is. He was a kind man who always treated me well, who was good to his friends, who never hurt anybody, who loved his son.”

Loved his son . . . those words hit me in the head and heart and the pit of my stomach all at once.

“So I don't think he was a loser,” she said. “He was no angel, but I think if he'd had more time he would have turned it all around. The good would have overcome the bad.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“What about you?”

“Am I a loser?”

“You?” She sounded shocked by my question.

I nodded. I didn't even know why I'd asked, because I knew the answer she was going to give. Maybe that was why I'd asked it.

“It's really too early to tell,” she said.

“What?” That wasn't the answer I'd expected.

“It's still too soon to tell,” she repeated.

“So you think I
could
be a loser?”

“You might.”

“But . . . but . . . you don't think my father was a loser,” I stammered.

“When he was your age I was positive he was just about the biggest loser I'd ever met. But then I got to know him and saw him start to grow and change.”

“And you don't know if I will . . . is that what you're saying? That I'm a loser now who might grow out of it?”

“Of course not . . . well, not exactly. I'm just saying that things could still go either way, and there are lots of things that could make it hard for you.”

“Things like what?” I demanded.

“Like not having your father around, like being raised by a drunk.”

“You're not a drunk!”

“I was for the first ten years of your life. I still shudder when I think of all the things I did, and the things I didn't do for you.”

“You did the best you could,” I protested.

“I did the best I knew how, but it could have been a whole lot better. Even without the alcohol, I was still just a kid myself. I don't know any real good seventeen-year-old mothers.”

Sometimes it was nice having a mother who was young. She understood things that other people's mothers didn't. Sometimes, though, it was just embarrassing. There were times when I wished she dressed like the other
mothers and baked cookies and didn't listen to the same music as me.

“And you know I worry about you and alcohol,” she continued.

“There's nothing to worry about.”

She gave me a look.

“I don't have a problem!” I snapped. “I also worry about the people you hang around with,” she continued.

“What's wrong with my friends?”

“Can you honestly say that any of them are going somewhere? That they're people who will push you to reach your goals? Is Timmy going someplace in the future other than the unemployment office or the welfare office or jail?”

“Timmy's going to do okay,” I said. He'd actually do real okay if he did manage to stay out of jail. “He's a good guy.”

“He is that. The kid's got a heart of gold, I'll give him that much. Unfortunately, there's not much going on between those ears. I know you could do more, and he's only going to hold you back. And of course there's his father and his drinking . . . but you don't want to hear what I have to say about that.”

“You're right. I don't want to hear. Besides, you think everybody has a drinking problem.”

“Not everybody.”

“Sometimes it seems like it.”

“Sometimes it
feels
like it.”

It looked as though we were just headed for another argument. I guess neither of us had any fight left in us. My mother changed the subject.

“So, Jay, are you hungry?”

“I'm always hungry,” I said.

“I've got to go out and run some errands. How about if I bring back something to eat?”

“Sounds good.”

“Anything in particular you want?”

“Anything from anyplace that has a drive-through window. Surprise me.”

“I thought you might have had enough surprises for one day already. Here,” she said, as she handed me the envelope. “You hold on to it. These pictures belong to you.”

My mother turned and walked away, disappearing up the stairs, leaving me alone, envelope in my hand, heart stuck firmly in my throat.

 

 

 

 

I
HEARD THE BACK DOOR CLOSE
as I reached the top of the stairs. I was alone in the house. I knew my mother leaving had less to do with her needing to run some errands and more to do with her needing to get away for a while. Maybe it would be better if we just put the whole thing off, put it away again until later, when we'd both be older and better able to handle things. Maybe in a year or so when— There was a loud knocking on the back door. Before I could do anything more than turn around the door popped open and Timmy appeared.

“How's it going?” he asked as he walked in.

“Good. You?”

“It's going good since I found out what I'm having for dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?”

“Yeah. It's going to be KFC. You like KFC, don't you?” he asked.

“Who doesn't? But I can't . . . my mother just went out to get—”

“KFC,” Timmy said, cutting me off. “I just ran into her and she asked me to join you guys for dinner. She even let me choose the food. That's why it's going to be KFC.”

My mother inviting Timmy to dinner—even if she wasn't happy about me hanging out with him—didn't surprise me. She would never have turned anybody away. Or given up on them. It was partly all that AA stuff, but more just who she was. Maybe when you'd been at the bottom yourself, you knew what it's like and were more willing to offer a hand to somebody who was still down there.

“What's in the envelope?” Timmy asked.

I'd forgotten I was even holding it. “Pictures mostly.”

“I love pictures, let me see,” Timmy said, and he reached out to grab the envelope.

“No!” I snapped and pulled it back. I suddenly felt embarrassed. “I mean . . . they're old pictures, boring pictures. Let's go and watch some TV instead.”

I walked over and opened the cupboard above the fridge. I wanted to put the pictures away, and for some reason I wanted them tucked in right beside my mother's secret.

“Hold on a second!” Timmy exclaimed. He reached up and grabbed the bottle of vodka!

“What are you doing?” I tried to grab it back but Timmy pulled it farther away.

“I'm just examining the merchandise. Did you know that was up there?”

“I know it's going
back
up there,” I said as I snatched the bottle back from him.

“Hey, no need to get greedy,” Timmy said. “I wasn't going to take all of it.”

“You're not going to take
any
of it!” I put it back up in the cupboard, tucked the envelope in beside it, and closed the door.

“Didn't anybody ever tell you that sharing is a good thing? I've always shared with you. Or don't you remember last night? Oh, that's right, you
can't
remember last night,” Timmy said, and started chuckling.

“I remember all of last night,” I protested. “At least since you explained to me what happened. And I would share that if it were mine to share.”

“I know it can't be your mother's, so if it isn't yours, who does it belong to?”

“All you got to know is that it's not yours. Besides, don't you think you drink enough already?”

Timmy chuckled. “Oh, I get it. Are you still hungover?”

“No,” I answered. “It isn't that. It's just that . . . maybe we should both slow it down. My mother's an alcoholic, and so is your father.”

“My father is not an alcoholic. He's a drunk. A falling-down, stinking, stupid drunk.”

“I guess that is different,” I said.

“Way different. If you ever want to trade your mother for my father, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I think I'll hang on to the parent I've got. Doesn't change what I said, though. We both have to think about alcohol.”

“I think about alcohol all the time,” Timmy said with a laugh.

“I mean about it being a problem. My mother says that stuff runs in families. Don't know if I believe that, though.”

“Oh,
I
believe it,” Timmy said. “And that's why I drink.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. If it's going to happen anyway, why fight it?”

“What?”

“If I'm going to end up like him anyway, what's the point? I might as well enjoy myself while I can.”

“Like I enjoyed myself last night?”

“You
did
enjoy yourself.”

“I blacked out!” I exclaimed.

Timmy shrugged. “If I'm going to end up like my old man, then blacking out doesn't seem like the worst thing that could happen.”

“Timmy, you are so . . . so . . .”

“Adorable? Smart? Fun at parties?”

“Yeah, right,” I snarled.

“Man, you are in one bad mood. Maybe you should go back to bed . . . you did get some sleep this afternoon, didn't you?”

“No.”

“Well, that explains it. You're cranky because you didn't get enough beauty sleep. You should have slept it off today.”

“I was busy . . . in the basement . . . looking at stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Stuff that belonged to my father's family. There's tons of it, old stuff, nothing but junk.”

“Hold on,” Timmy said. “Just because something is old doesn't mean it's junk. What sort of things?”

“I haven't looked through much of it. Pots, dishes, old books. Like I said, it's just a bunch of old junk. Nothing valuable.”