The Vast Fields of Ordinary (18 page)

“Did you join the swim team?”

“No, but you know, this is what they do. They shave their heads.”

She squinted at me like I was insane. “Then what are you talking about? What’s gotten into you? Where’s my son?”

“I wanted a change,” I said. I got up and put the strawberries back in the refrigerator. “Can’t things change? Do they have to stay the same all the time?”

I started upstairs and she followed.

“No. They don’t. But when changes are made in my household, I would like to be made aware of them.”

“Well, you’re aware,” I said.

I went up to my room and shut the door behind me, but she came in after me not two beats later. I pretended to occupy myself with the little things that littered my desk. Papers, pencils, a plastic toy robot I purchased from one of the little machines at Food World.

“Where were you last night?” she asked. “I heard you get home at five in the morning. That is unacceptable.
Unacceptable
. And this. Your hair. Did this happen last night? What were you doing last night that got you to do this? Was it that Lucy girl?”

“Lucy’s my friend, Mom.”

“Well, she’s ruining your life. And friends don’t ruin each other’s lives.”

“What are you talking about? How is shaving my head ruining my life?”

“If Lucy jumped off a bridge, would you?”

“I guess that depends on what was at the bottom.”

“Har, har, Dade. Hardy frickin’ har. You know, I smell the pot. Every now and then was fine. I could deal with that. But your room smells like a drug den.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand. “Give me the marijuana. Now.”

“It’s gone,” I lied. “I smoked it all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, believe me. It’s gone.”

“What about the pipe or the joint or the bong or whatever it is you smoke it out of?”

“I don’t have a bong, Mom. And besides, I’ll be gone in two months and then I can do whatever the hell I want. I’ll buy a hundred bongs if I want, and there’s nothing that you or Dad will be able to say or do.”

She gave me that wilting look, the look of death that she could sometimes whip out of her back pocket. She left the bedroom without even bothering to slam the door shut for punctuation. A minute later I heard her scream. It was different from the one that she’d let out when she walked into the kitchen. This was one of frustration, an animal sound shooting through the halls and rooms of the house. Then I heard glass breaking. I sat on the edge of my bed and shut my eyes.

I found her leaning against the kitchen counter and vigorously massaging her eyes with the palms of her hand. She’d thrown the bottle of tequila that Lucy and I had nearly finished against the refrigerator. What was left of the liquor had run down the surface of the fridge and pooled on the floor with the broken glass.

“Mom?”

She looked up. Her eyes were red. I couldn’t tell if it was from crying or the rubbing. She gave me a defeated little smile, one that reduced everything to a petty, insignificant level.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”

She reached into the drawer for her Marlboro Lights and lighter. She didn’t even bother opening the window. She just lit up.

“I was driving home and I kept thinking about when your father and I first got married and when we had you. The farmhouse. I don’t know why I wanted to live in a farmhouse so badly, but I did. Remember the chickens?”

“I remember.”

“You were really young then. And your father was teaching high school PE courses, and he hated it, but he would come home and play his guitar on the porch and I’d be in the kitchen screwing up dinner. And you’d be there, all happy because you were a happy kid. And nothing made you happier than sitting there while your father played the guitar. Your father and I were young and in love and poor. We didn’t have anything. We used to say that all the time, that we didn’t have anything. Just you. And now look at us. I was thinking about that when I was in line at the grocery store the other day. I kept wondering what changed.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I pulled out an unused pair of yellow rubber gloves and a plastic Food World bag from under the sink. I put on the gloves and carefully picked up each shard of glass and placed them in the plastic bag. My mom presided silently over everything from the side. I used paper towels to wipe the tequila off the floor and the refrigerator, the fancy quadruple-ply kind that sucked up lots of moisture, and I thought of how this would make one screwed-up paper towel commercial. I took the bag out to the curb and threw it in one of our big rubber garbage cans. I tossed the gloves in as an afterthought. It felt like using them again would be bad luck.

When I went back inside, my mother was gone. Her unfinished cigarette was crushed out in one of the dirty bowls in the sink. The odor of the tequila, the cigarette, and the dirty dishes conspired to make the room smell like Cherry’s. From above my head came the sound of my mother shuffling down the second-floor hallway. She moved with slow, sliding steps, the kind I made when I was an overtired four-year-old being dragged back to bed for the fifth time by my father. On the refrigerator television there were models strutting down a runway, flashes all around them as they walked with dramatic assurance. They had peacock feathers in their hair and wore neon makeup in tribal smudges across their eyes and mouths. Their faces gave away nothing. They knew exactly where they were going.

Alex arrived at eight thirty the next night, half an hour after he said he was going to be there. I spent the extra time waiting on the couch, staring at the same patch of neighborhood through the picture window and just waiting for his car to roll into the picture.

“Who are you waiting for?” my mother asked. She’d been gardening and popping pills all day. They were lime green ones, ones I hadn’t seen before. They must have been something new, something stronger and speedier.

“I’m going out with my friend Alex.”

She stood silent in the living room for a few moments, eyeing me. Her mind was probably making connections between recent events and this name she’d never heard before.

“A new friend?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Does he shave his head too? Is that why you shaved yours?”

It was the first time she’d mentioned it all day. I didn’t answer. I just kept staring, waiting.

“So you’re taking his car? Not yours?”

“That’s correct.”

“Is he a good driver?” she asked.

“Very,” I lied.

“Well, I think one of the many lessons I’ve learned over the last few weeks is that you’re beyond coming home at a decent hour, so at least keep me updated. Send me a text message that says you’re not dead or something. That’ll make me feel better.”

Alex’s Citation pulled up just then and I hurried out the front door without saying anything. His windows were rolled down and he was blaring some wild speed metal. He waved at me when he saw me coming and I waved back.

“Get me the hell out of here,” I said when I climbed into the car.

My mother was watching on the porch with her arms crossed. She was squinting intently toward the car like she was trying to see if she recognized my new friend from a wanted poster.

“Is that your mom?” he asked. He waved at her. She didn’t wave back. Instead she just jutted out her chin and stared harder.

“Dude, c’mon. Let’s go.”

It was the time of the day where the sun was giving off its last brightness, one that seemed greater than anything all day. The rays came from low on the horizon, blinding us in some stretches and burning behind us on others. He was driving over the speed limit as usual. I was turned toward him in my seat, in love with the way the wind felt on my shaved head and the song on the radio, all buzz saw guitars and a guy growling in German.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He was sprawled out low in his seat, super relaxed and probably high. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Somewhere new?”

“I’ve been everywhere. Take me somewhere I’ve never been.”

“Oh, so he’s been everywhere,” Alex said to himself. He shot me a charming grin. For a moment I thought I might be too sullen to let it affect me, but before I knew it my scowl had melted away and I was smiling like a fool. He rubbed his hand over my shaved head. We drove out of the city in the opposite direction of Dingo’s place. Before long, the sun had been reduced to a little glow far off to the west and Alex had to turn his lights on. We’d stayed quiet for most of the drive, and it took me some time to realize that’s what I needed. I was glad he was able to recognize that, and impressed that he knew before I did.

“Bad mom business?” he finally asked.

“Sort of. It’s always bad nowadays.”

“That sucks. But I hear ya. I have those days. Or had them. Before my mom left.”

“It’s not exactly the same. I mean, I guess it is. But it’s not. My mom’s sick.”

I’d never said it before, but suddenly it almost felt like I’d solved something. I’d put a word to it. She was
sick
. But the moment I’d picked that answer, a hundred questions grew in its place.

“We’re all sick,” Alex said. “I was thinking that the other night at Dingo’s place when everyone was there going crazy and shaving their heads. I mean, I remember in high school seeing people who seemed like they had it all together. People like Jessica Montana or Judy Lockhart. Everyone thinks girls like them have a perfect life and that they fall asleep every night without any thoughts or fears or whatever. But it’s not true. Everyone’s got that thing in them that keeps them awake.”

I sat there for a while thinking about what he’d said. I thought of how many nights I’d stayed up late wondering what the world had in store for me, if I’d ever find someone that I could fall in love with. I wondered if all gay boys had nights like these, if there was a time when even someone like Alex stared up at his ceiling and wondered the same thing.

“So where are you taking me?” I finally asked.

“Someplace you’ve never been.” He looked at me and smiled. “Since you seem to think you’ve been everywhere. But don’t worry. You’ll be gone soon enough. Me, on the other hand. I don’t know when I’m going to get out of here.”

“What’s keeping you around?”

“I tell myself it’s my grandmother, but I know that’s just an excuse.”

“So what’s the real reason?” I asked.

He tilted his head, pursed his lower lip, and made a little face. “I’m not exactly sure.”

“You could make it somewhere else,” I said. “It can’t be that hard to leave. People do it all the time. Your sister did it. Plus, you seem like one of those people who could do anything if you put your mind to it.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He smiled a little. “Sometimes I fantasize about New York. Chicago even. The idea of New York terrifies me, but I feel like maybe that means I should try it out. Go to where the fear is, right? Learn something new.”

He drove me out past the towns that scattered the countryside beyond the Cedarville city limits, towns that consisted of little more than a post office, a gas station, and a bar. They all seemed abandoned, like the people living there had picked up and left. We were a mile outside the toy-like town of Whitfield (pop. 509) when Alex turned off the highway and onto a tiny road of packed gravel and weeds. In the headlights of the car I saw a rusted fence and beyond that were headstones. He’d taken me to a small rural graveyard.

“Are we supposed to be out here?”

“Probably not.”

He navigated the road toward the back of the cemetery, where a fence divided it from a sprawling soybean crop, and shut off the car. There was just the buggy soundtrack of the countryside split with the distant rush of a semi on some unseen highway. Every sound he made—clearing his throat, removing the keys from the ignition, opening the glove compartment for a fresh pack of cigarettes—seemed huge. We got out of the car.

“Check out the stars,” he said. They were abundant and bright.

“I forget how many there are sometimes,” I said.

“Yeah. They’re something. That’s one of the reasons I come out here. It’s like being at Dingo’s house except the vibe out here is a little less intense, if you can imagine that.” He was walking in front of me, determined on leading the way toward something.

I leaned in and checked the dates on some of the gravestones. They went so far back. 1932. 1920. 1899. I became humbly aware of my position in the void of time.

“Here it is,” he said.

He was standing by a cross-shaped headstone. He leaned in and flicked his lighter to illuminate the date.

“John Arthur Ellis,” he said. “Born 1880, died 1923. It’s my grandmother’s father, my great-grandfather.”